“No you wouldn’t,” Daw assured him confidently.  “They ain’t enough grub to turn back, an’ we’ll be there to-morrow.  Just got to cross that last divide an’ drop down to the cabin.  An’ they’s a better reason.  You’re too far from home, an’ I just naturally wouldn’t let you turn back.”

Exhausted as Linday was, the flash in his black eyes warned Daw that he had overreached himself.  His hand went out.

“My mistake, Doc.  Forget it.  I reckon I’m gettin’ some cranky what of losin’ them dawgs.”

III

Not one day, but three days later, the two men, after being snowed in on the summit by a spring blizzard, staggered up to a cabin that stood in a fat bottom beside the roaring Little Peco.  Coming in from the bright sunshine to the dark cabin, Linday observed little of its occupants.  He was no more than aware of two men and a woman.  But he was not interested in them.  He went directly to the bunk where lay the injured man.  The latter was lying on his back, with eyes closed, and Linday noted the slender stencilling of the brows and the kinky silkiness of the brown hair.  Thin and wan, the face seemed too small for the muscular neck, yet the delicate features, despite their waste, were firmly moulded.

“What dressings have you been using?” Linday asked of the woman.

“Corrosive, sublimate, regular solution,” came the answer.

He glanced quickly at her, shot an even quicker glance at the face of the injured man, and stood erect.  She breathed sharply, abruptly biting off the respiration with an effort of will.  Linday turned to the men.

“You clear out—­chop wood or something.  Clear out.”

One of them demurred.

“This is a serious case,” Linday went on.  “I want to talk to his wife.”

“I’m his brother,” said the other.

To him the woman looked, praying him with her eyes.  He nodded reluctantly and turned toward the door.

“Me, too?” Daw queried from the bench where he had flung himself down.

“You, too.”

Linday busied himself with a superficial examination of the patient while the cabin was emptying.

“So?” he said.  “So that’s your Rex Strang.”

She dropped her eyes to the man in the bunk as if to reassure herself of his identity, and then in silence returned Linday’s gaze.

“Why don’t you speak?”

She shrugged her shoulders.  “What is the use?  You know it is Rex Strang.”

“Thank you.  Though I might remind you that it is the first time I have ever seen him.  Sit down.”  He waved her to a stool, himself taking the bench.  “I’m really about all in, you know.  There’s no turnpike from the Yukon here.”

He drew a penknife and began extracting a thorn from his thumb.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, after a minute’s wait.

“Eat and rest up before I start back.”