The cowboy was formulating new and unspellable blasphemies. The
Easterner was startled to find that they were out in a wind that
seemed to come direct from the shadowed arctic floes. He heard again
the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave in the south. He
knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him
deeper and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. He felt
indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man.
"Johnnie, can you walk?" asked Scully.
"Did I hurt- hurt him any?" asked the son.
"Can you walk, boy? Can you walk?"
Johnnie's voice was suddenly strong. There was a robust impatience
in it. "I asked you whether I hurt him any!"
"Yes, yes, Johnnie," answered the cowboy consolingly; "he's hurt a
good deal."
They raised him from the ground, and as soon as he was on his feet
he went tottering off, rebuffing all attempts at assistance. When
the party rounded the corner they were fairly blinded by the pelting
of the snow. It burned their faces like fire. The cowboy carried
Johnnie through the drift to the door. As they entered some cards
again rose from the floor and beat against the wall.
The Easterner rushed to the stove. He was so profoundly chilled that
he almost dared to embrace the glowing iron. The Swede was not in
the room. Johnnie sank into a chair, and folding his arms on his
knees, buried his face in them.
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