well was nearly exhausted, another sound
mingled with the scream of the gale, and he knew it was the turmoil of
the Grand Rapid, where the furious current did not freeze. They were
getting near the end of the journey, and he braced himself for an effort
to reach Driscoll's shack. By and by a ray of light pierced the snow,
surprisingly close, and a few moments later he reached the shelter of a
wall.

A door opened, somebody seized his arm, and he stumbled into a lighted
room. Throwing off his snow-clogged coat, he sat down in a rude chair
and blinked stupidly as he looked about. His head swam, the warmth made
him dizzy, and the tingling of his frozen skin was horribly painful.
Then he began to recover and saw that the Indian had gone and Father
Lucien sat by a bunk fixed to the wall. The priest wore an old buckskin
jacket with a tasseled fringe, and long, soft moccasins, and looked like
an Indian until one studied his thin face. His forehead was lined, as if
by thought or suffering, and his skin was darkened by wind and frost,
but the Indian's glance is inscrutable and his was calm and frank. One
got a hint of patience and dignity.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I would not have sent for you on such
a night only that I cannot trust myself to keep awake and neglect just
now might cost Driscoll's life. One sleeps soundly after watching for
three nights."

Thirlwell glanced at the figure rudely outlined by the dirty blue
blanket on the bunk. Driscoll's face was turned to the wall, but
Thirlwell saw that his black hair was damp.

"What's the matter with Steve?" he asked.

"Pneumonia. Two of my people who passed the shack in the daytime saw a
light burning. They went in and found him unconscious, an empty whisky
bottle on the floor, and the stove burned out. They made a fire and then
came for me."

"That's something of a compliment," Thirlwell remarked. "If it had
happened before you came, they'd probably have cleaned out the shack and
left Steve to freeze. I don't know that he'd have been regretted, and if
the rumors about his selling the Indians liquor are true, imagine he's
your worst enemy."

"He's a sick man. Besides, have you often seen my people drunk?"

"No," said Thirlwell thoughtfully; "I believe only once. But Steve
didn't deny the thing when one of the boys at the mine called him a
whisky runner, and I thought it curious, because there's a heavy
penalty. I suppose he can't hear what we say?"

"He's