They would see him
back before the darkness settled on the world, perhaps with something
in his hand by way of a weed, if not precisely the "Injun" thing he
sought.
But the darkness came and Jim was not at hand. The night and the snow
seemed swirling down together in the gorge, from every lofty uprise of
the hills. It was not so cold as the previous storm, yet it stung with
its biting force.
At six o'clock the blacksmith called at the Dennihans', in some
anxiety. Doc himself threw open the door, in response to the knock.
How small and quiet he appeared, here at home!
"No, he 'ain't showed up," he said of Jim. "I don't know when he'll
come."
Webber reported to the boys.
"Well, mebbe he's gone, after all," said Field.
"He looked kind of funny 'round the eyes when he started," Bone
informed them. "I hope he'll git his stuff," and they wandered down
the street again.
At eight o'clock the bar-keep returned once more to Miss Doc's.
No Jim was there. The sick little foundling was feebly calling in his
baby way for "Bruvver Jim."
The fever had him in its furnace. Restlessly, but now more weakly
weaving, the tiny bit of a man continued as ever to cling to his doll,
which he held to his breast with all that remained of his strength.
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