She had always fought back tears unless she was shaken to the
roots of her soul. But it was almost a relief to cry with Bill's arm
holding her close. And it was brief. She sat up beside him presently.
He held her hand tucked in between his own two palms, but he looked
wistfully at the window, as if he were seeing what lay beyond.
"Poor, dumb devils!" he murmured. "I feel like a murderer. But it was
pure mercy to them. They won't suffer the agony of frost, nor the slow
pain of starvation. That's what it amounted to--they'd starve if they
didn't freeze first. I've known men I would rather have shot. I
bucked many a hard old trail with Silk and Satin. Poor, dumb devils!"
"D-don't, Bill!" she cried forlornly. "I know it's my fault. I let
the fire almost go out, and then built it up big without thinking. And
I know being sorry doesn't make any difference. But please--I don't
want to be miserable over it. I'll never be careless again."
"All right; I won't talk about it, hon," he said. "I don't think you
will ever be careless about such things again. The North won't let us
get away with it. The wilderness is bigger than we are, and it's
merciless if we make mistakes.
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