When he looked up, he found Mrs. St. Clair watching him anxiously. He knew from her eyes that she shared his fear--the fear that Barbara might have pneumonia. McGill had helped the doctor fight several cases of the disease in those mountains. They had generally been losing fights, but he set to work.
The big, hobnailed boots of the men fell softly on the rough floors as their wearers slipped in for breakfast. They had prepared it themselves and ate it silently. During the meal McGill came in. He looked worried and did not eat. After they had finished the men waited for him to speak.
That was all. Soon the men slipped off quietly to the mine, and McGill went back to Barbara.
“It looks bad,” McGill admitted to the men. “She is fretting over that cat.”
When Barbara came to the Little Bear Mine, she had brought with her a small Maltese kitten, her dearest possession. The death of the little kitten a week before had been the greatest tragedy in her young life.
After supper the men tried to work on their presents, but somehow the work dragged. The hours passed, but the men did not leave the mess room. Toward midnight McGill came out to them. “Mrs. St. Clair says you had better come in now if you want to see her. She’s--she’s going!”
The whole crew, from mucker to foreman, tiptoed down the hall--all except Gus. He didn’t seem to notice that they went.
Into the sick room they filed and stood in a little embarrassed group by the door. Barbara tossed fretfully on the bed, her eyes glowing with unnatural brightness.
“I want a kitty, Santa Claus! I want my kitty!” she wailed feebly.
The Canadian miner, tears rolling down his cheeks, left the room. The others followed.
Gus was still in his place by the fire when they returned.
“I can’t stand it to see her begging for that kitten,” said the Canadian. “I would risk my life to get one for her. I’d try to get to Telluride, if I thought I could get back in time to do any good.”
A minute afterwards Gus got up slowly and went out to the bunk room.
But Gus did not stop there long. He drew on an extra sweater, rubber coat and furs, snatched his skis and pole, and slipped from the house.
It was after midnight. The thermometer registered way below zero. The wind swirled down from the mountain tops with the lash of a gale. But Gus did not mind the storm; a master of the ski, he swung down the trail with a speed that mocked the wind at his back.