“That’s all right,” the doctor placated sharply and authoritatively.  “How do you feel?  Better, eh?  Of course.  Next time you can do it yourself—­Go on and deal, Strothers.  I think we’ve got you.”

Slow and ox-like, on the face of the Swede dawned relief and comprehension.  The pang over, the finger felt better.  The pain was gone.  He examined the finger curiously, with wondering eyes, slowly crooking it back and forth.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-sack.

“How much?”

The doctor shook his head impatiently.  “Nothing.  I’m not practising—­Your play, Bob.”

The Swede moved heavily on his feet, re-examined the finger, then turned an admiring gaze on the doctor.

“You are good man.  What your name?”

“Linday, Doctor Linday,” Strothers answered, as if solicitous to save his opponent from further irritation.

“The day’s half done,” Linday said to the Swede, at the end of the hand, while he shuffled.  “Better rest over to-night.  It’s too cold for travelling.  There’s a spare bunk.”

He was a slender brunette of a man, lean-cheeked, thin-lipped, and strong.  The smooth-shaven face was a healthy sallow.  All his movements were quick and precise.  He did not fumble his cards.  The eyes were black, direct, and piercing, with the trick of seeming to look beneath the surfaces of things.  His hands, slender, fine and nervous, appeared made for delicate work, and to the most casual eye they conveyed an impression of strength.

“Our game,” he announced, drawing in the last trick.  “Now for the rub and who digs the fishing hole.”

A knock at the door brought a quick exclamation from him.

“Seems we just can’t finish this rubber,” he complained, as the door opened.  “What’s the matter with you?”—­this last to the stranger who entered.

The newcomer vainly strove to move his icebound jaws and jowls.  That he had been on trail for long hours and days was patent.  The skin across the cheekbones was black with repeated frost-bite.  From nose to chin was a mass of solid ice perforated by the hole through which he breathed.  Through this he had also spat tobacco juice, which had frozen, as it trickled, into an amber-coloured icicle, pointed like a Van Dyke beard.

He shook his head dumbly, grinned with his eyes, and drew near to the stove to thaw his mouth to speech.  He assisted the process with his fingers, clawing off fragments of melting ice which rattled and sizzled on the stove.

“Nothing the matter with me,” he finally announced.  “But if they’s a doctor in the outfit he’s sure needed.  They’s a man up the Little Peco that’s had a ruction with a panther, an’ the way he’s clawed is something scand’lous.”

“How far up?” Doctor Linday demanded.

“A matter of a hundred miles.”

“How long since?”

“I’ve ben three days comin’ down.”