of the
range, and Bassett from the west, hunted at first with furious energy,
then spasmodically, then not at all, while Dick lay in a mountain cabin,
on the bed made of young trees, and for the second time in his life
watched a woman moving in a lean-to kitchen, and was fed by a woman's
hand.

He forced himself to think of this small panorama of life that moved
before him, rather than of himself. The woman was young, and pretty in a
slovenly way. The man was much older, and silent. He was of better class
than the woman, and underlying his assumption of crudity there were
occasional outcroppings of some cultural background. Not then, nor at
any subsequent time, did he learn the story, if story there was. He
began to see them, however, not so much pioneers as refugees. The cabin
was, he thought, a haven to the man and a prison to the woman.

But they were uniformly kind to him, and for weeks he stayed there,
slowly readjusting. In his early convalescence he would sit paring
potatoes or watching a cooking pot for her. As he gained in strength
he cut a little firewood. Always he sought something to keep him from
thinking.

Two incidents always stood out afterwards in his memory of the cabin.
One was the first time he saw himself in a mirror. He knew by that time
that Bassett's story had been true, and that he was ten years older than
he remembered himself to be. He thought he was in a measure prepared.
But he saw in the glass a man whose face was lined and whose hair was
streaked with gray. The fact that his beard had grown added to the
terrible maturity of the reflection he saw, and he sent the mirror
clattering to the ground.

The other incident was later, and when he was fairly strong again. The
man was caught under a tree he was felling, and badly hurt. During the
hour or so that followed, getting the tree cut away, and moving the
injured man to the cabin on a wood sledge, Dick had the feeling of
helplessness of any layman in an accident. He was solicitous but clumsy.
But when they had got the patient into his bed, quite automatically he
found himself making an investigation and pronouncing a verdict.

Later he was to realize that this was the first peak of submerged
memory, rising above the flood. At the time all he felt was a great
certainty. He must act quickly or the man would not live. And that
night, with such instruments as he could extemporize, he operated. There
was no time to send to a town.

All nigh