A sound close behind them in the
darkness made all three start. It was old Punk, who had moved up from
his lean-to while they talked and now stood there just beyond the circle
of firelight--listening.
"'Nother time, Doc!" Hank whispered, with a wink, "when the gallery
ain't stepped down into the stalls!" And, springing to his feet, he
slapped the Indian on the back and cried noisily, "Come up t' the fire
an' warm yer dirty red skin a bit." He dragged him towards the blaze and
threw more wood on. "That was a mighty good feed you give us an hour or
two back," he continued heartily, as though to set the man's thoughts on
another scent, "and it ain't Christian to let you stand out there
freezin' yer ole soul to hell while we're gettin' all good an' toasted!"
Punk moved in and warmed his feet, smiling darkly at the other's
volubility which he only half understood, but saying nothing. And
presently Dr. Cathcart, seeing that further conversation was impossible,
followed his nephew's example and moved off to the tent, leaving the
three men smoking over the now blazing fire.
It is not easy to undress in a small tent without waking one's
companion, and Cathcart, hardened and warm-blooded as he was in spite of
his fifty odd years, did what Hank would have described as "considerable
of his twilight" in the open. He noticed, during the process, that Punk
had meanwhile gone back to his lean-to, and that Hank and Defago were
at it hammer and tongs, or, rather, hammer and anvil, the little French
Canadian being the anvil.
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