Each time a man fell it
was with the firm belief that he would rise no more; yet he did
rise, and again and again. The flesh yielded, the will conquered;
but each triumph was a tragedy. The Indian with the frozen foot,
no longer erect, crawled forward on hand and knee. He rarely
rested, for he knew the penalty exacted by the frost.
Even Mrs. Eppingwell's lips were at last set in a stony smile,
and her eyes, seeing, saw not. Often she stopped, pressing a
mittened hand to her heart, gasping and dizzy.
Joe, the white man, had passed beyond the stage of suffering. He
no longer begged to be let alone, prayed to die; but was soothed
and content under the anodyne of delirium. Kah-Chucte and Gowhee
dragged him on roughly, venting upon him many a savage glance or
blow. To them it was the acme of injustice.
Their hearts were bitter with hate, heavy with fear. Why should
they cumber their strength with his weakness? To do so meant
death; not to do so--and they remembered the law of Sitka
Charley, and the rifle.
Joe fell with greater frequency as the daylight waned, and so
hard was he to raise that they dropped farther and farther
behind. Sometimes all three pitched into the snow, so weak had
the Indians become.
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