But Jim, if he heard
them, did not guess the all they meant to him.
For an hour he had only moved his hands to take the pitcher, or to put
it down, or to feed the drink to the tiny foundling, still so
motionless and dull with the fever.
One o'clock was finally gone, and two, and three. Jim and the yearning
Miss Doc still battled on, like two united parents.
Then at last the miner made a half-stifled sound in his throat.
"You--can go and git a rest," he said, brokenly. "The sweat has come."
All night the wind and the storm continued. All through the long, long
darkness, the bitter cold and snow were searching through the hills.
But when, at last, the morning broke, there on the slope, where old
Jim's claim was staked, stood ten grim figures, white with snow, and
scattered here and there around the ledge of gold. They were Bone and
Webber, Keno and Field, Doc Dennihan, the carpenter, the teamster, and
other rough but faithful men who had guarded the claim against invasion
in the night.
CHAPTER XVI
ARRIVALS IN CAMP
There is something fine in a party of men when no one brags of a fight
brought sternly to victory.
Parky, the gambler, was badly shot through the arm; Bone, the bar-keep,
had a long, straight track through his hair, cleaned by a ball of lead.
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