He ate as ravenously as Henry and Scotty, and drank a cup of
hot tea. In two minutes the meal was over. It was terribly inadequate. The
few mouthfuls of food stirred up all his craving, and he found it
impossible to keep his eyes from the bearded man and his beans. The bearded
man, whom Scotty called Croker, was the only one who seemed well fed, and
his horror increased when Henry bent over and said to him in a low whisper:
"He didn't get my beans fair. I had three aces and a pair of deuces, an' he
took it on three fives and two sixes. When I objected he called me a liar
an' hit me. Them's my beans, or Scotty's!" There was something almost like
murder in the little man's red eyes.
Roscoe remained silent. He did not care to talk, or question. No one had
asked him who he was or whence he came, and he felt no inclination to know
more of the men he had fallen among. Croker finished, wiped his mouth with
his hand, and looked across at Roscoe.
"How about going out with me to get some wood?" he demanded.
"I'm ready," replied Roscoe.
For the first time he took notice of himself. He was lame, and sickeningly
weak, but apparently sound in other ways. The intense cold had not frozen
his ears or feet. He put on his heavy moccasins, his thick coat and fur
cap, and Croker pointed to his rifle.
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