e the load and loosened the straps. Then he lifted a corner of the
rug that protected her face, and at the sight of it, so white, so still,
his heart cried. "Little soldier!" he said over and over and, as though he
hoped to warm them, laid his cheek gently to her blue lips. "You called
me! I heard you. I failed you, too!"

Then a fluttering breath steadied him. Instantly the iron in the man
cropped through. He felt her pulse, her heart, as though she had been some
stranger from the unfortunate train and, moving her to a level place,
fixed her head low and began firmly, with exceeding care, those expedients
to eliminate the frost and start the circulation that Banks had already
hurriedly tried. His great, warm personality enfolded her; he worked
tirelessly, as though he was determined to infuse her numb veins with his
own vigor. When the prospector would have aided him, he wished to do
everything alone, and directed the miner's attention to Frederic
Morganstein, who showed signs of returning consciousness.

But the intrepid little man failed to respond. "I guess likely he will
pull through," he said dryly. "He had a pretty good shaking up coming
down, and I'd better run around to camp and get a bottle of port I cached
this morning. The snipe got away with my flask; used the last drop,
likely, before she needed it." His voice took a higher pitch, and he added
over his shoulder, as he started in the direction of the fire: "He made a
windbreak of her."

When he returned presently with the wine, Frederic was filling the night
with his complaints and groans. But neither of the men gave him any
attention. That was left for Marcia, who had followed the prospector.

Beatriz Weatherbee was still unconscious. She was carried to the camp and
laid in a sheltered place remote from the fire. Then Lucky Banks
volunteered to go to Scenic Springs with the news of the train disaster,
and to bring an extra man with lanterns and a stretcher. He was well on
the way when Morganstein crept in. Marcia found him a seat on the end of a
log and, wrapping the cached rug about him, regaled him with the recovered
portion of the luncheon. But it was long after that when Beatriz
Weatherbee's eyelids fluttered open. Tisdale drew a little more into the
shadows, waiting, and the first to come within her range of vision was the
child. He was sitting on his blanket in the strong glow, and just beyond
him Elizabeth, who had found a tin of cream in the cach