"Divvy h--l!" growled the bearded man. "It's up to you--you and Scotty.
You're to blame!"
You're to blame!
The words struck upon Roscoe's ears with a chill of horror. He recalled the
voice that had suggested throwing him back into the snow. Starvation was in
the cabin. He had fallen among animals instead of men, and his body grew
cold with a chill that was more horrible than that of the snow and the
wind. He saw the thin-faced man who had spoken for him sitting again on the
edge of his bunk. Mutely he looked to the others to see which was Scotty.
He was the young man who had clutched the can of beans. It was he who was
frying bacon over the sheet iron stove.
"We'll divvy--Henry and I," he said. "I told you that last night." He
looked over at Roscoe. "Glad you're better," he greeted. "You see--you've
struck us at a bad time. We're on our last legs for grub. Our two Indians
went out to hunt a week ago and never came back. They're dead--or gone, and
we're as good as dead if the storm doesn't let up pretty soon. You can have
some of our grub--Henry's and mine."
It was a cold invitation, lacking warmth or sympathy, and Roscoe felt that
even this man wished that he had died before he reached the cabin. But the
man was human; he at least had not cast his voice with those who had wanted
to throw him back into the snow, and Roscoe tried to voice his gratitude,
and at the same time to hide his hunger.
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