"Evans," called the doctor from the bedroom. As the agent responded,
Ole heard the smothered cry of a woman in pain.

The big boy hesitated, then sat down on the doorstep. There was
nothing now for him to do, and suddenly he felt very tired. His head
dropped listlessly into his hands; like a great dog, he waited,
watching.

Minutes passed. On the table the oil lamp sputtered and burned lower.
Out in the stable the horse repeated its former challenging whinny.
Once again through the partition the listener caught the choking wail
of pain, and the muffled sound of the doctor's voice in answer.

At last Bud Evans came to the door, his face very white. "Water," he
requested, and Ole ran to the well and back. Then, impassive, he sat
down again to wait.

Time passed, so long a time it seemed to the watcher that the riders
must soon be returning. Finally Evans emerged from the side room,
walking absently, his face gray in the lamplight.

The Swede stood up.

"Camilla Maurice, is she hurt?" he asked.

The little agent busied himself making a fire.

"She's dead," he answered slowly.

"Dead, you say?"

"Yes, dead,"--very quietly.

The fire blazed up and lit the room, shining unpityingly upon the face
of the man on the floor.

Evans noticed, and drawing off his own coat spread it over the face
and hands, covering them from sight; then, uncertain, he returned and
sat down, mechanically holding his palms to the blaze.

A moment later Dr. Curtis appeared at the tiny bedroom entrance; and,
emerging as the little man had done before him, he closed the door
softly behind. In his arms he carried a blanket, carefully rolled.
From the depths of its folds, as he slowly crossed the room toward the
stove, there escaped a sudden cry, muffled, unmistakable.

The doctor sank down wearily in a chair. Ole, the boy-faced, without a
question brought in fresh wood, laying it down on the floor very, very
softly.

"Will he--live?" asked Bud Evans, suddenly, with an uncertain glance
at the obscuring blanket; and hearing the query, the Swede paused in
his work to listen.

The big doctor hesitated, and cleared his throat.

"I think so; though--God forgive me--I hope not." And he cleared his
throat again.

JOURNEY'S END

I

"Steve!" It was the girl who spoke, but the man did not seem to hear.
He was staring through the window, unseeingly, into the heart of his
bitter foe, Winter. He sat silent, helpless.

"Steve!"