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He jumped out of his bunk and ran to the door. Opening it, he looked out. Not a breath of air stirred. In the east, saffron and scarlet, broke the Christmas morning, and blue on the white surface of the world lay the imprints of Sacobie's round snowshoes. For a long time the trapper stood in the doorway in silence, looking out at the stillness and beauty. "Poor Sacobie!" he said, after a while.
He stood still, and turned his head from side to side, questioningly. "Good!" he said. "Big Rattle off there, Archer's camp over there. I go there. Good 'nough!" He hitched his old smooth-bore rifle higher under his arm and continued his journey. Sacobie had tramped many miles all the way from ice-imprisoned Fox Harbor. His papoose was sick. His squaw was hungry. Sacobie's belt was drawn tight.
During all that weary journey his old rifle had not banged once, although few eyes save those of timber-wolf and lynx were sharper in the hunt than Sacobie's. The Indian was reeling with hunger and weakness, but he held bravely on. A white man, no matter how courageous and sinewy, would have been prone in the snow by that time.
Archer lifted the Indian and carried him over to the bunk at the farther end of the room. He filled his iron-pot spoon with brandy, and inserted the point of it between Sacobie's unresisting jaws. Then he loosened the Micmac's coat and shirt and belt. He removed his moccasins and stockings and rubbed the straight thin feet with brandy.
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