The sick man groaned. He flung one hand back against the logs, dislodging
ancient dust that fell upon his corpse-like forehead. It was carefully
wiped away. Helpless tears stole down the rigid face.

"John," said Paul with animation, "your general appearance just now
reminds me of those worked-out placer claims we passed in Ruby Gulch, the
first day out. The fever and my cooking have ground-sluiced you to the
bone."

John smiled faintly. "Don't look very fat yourself. Where'd you git all
that baird on your face?"

"We have been here some time, you know--or you don't know; you have been
living in places far away from here. I used to envy you sometimes. And
other times I didn't."

"You mean I was off my head?"

"At times. But more of the time you were dreaming and talking in your
dreams; seeing things out loud by the flash-light of fever."

"Talking, was I? Guess there wa'n't much sense in any of it?" The hazard
was a question.

"A kind of sense,--out of focus, distorted. Some of it was opium. Didn't
you coax a little of his favorite medicine out of the cook?"

Packer John apologized sheepishly, "I cal'lated I was going to be left.
You put it up on me--making out you were off with the rest. _That_ was all
right. But I wa'n't going to suffer it out; why should I? A gunshot would