The Colonel interrupted him, “That’s right!”

“Only if I do, you’ve got to know—­what I’d never have guessed myself, but for the Trail.  After I’ve told you, if you can bear to see me round——­” He hesitated and suddenly stood up, his eyes still wet, but his head so high an onlooker who did not understand English would have called the governing impulse pride, defiance even.  “It seems I’m the kind of man, Colonel—­the kind of man who could leave his pardner to die like a dog in the snow.”

“If any other fella said so, I’d knock him down.”

“That night before we got to Snow Camp, when you wouldn’t—­couldn’t go any farther, I meant to go and leave you—­take the sled, and take—­I guess I meant to take everything and leave you to starve.”

They looked into each other’s faces, and years seemed to go by.  The Colonel was the first to drop his eyes; but the other, pitilessly, like a judge arraigning a felon, his steady scrutiny never flinching:  “Do you want that kind of a man round, Colonel?”

The Kentuckian turned quickly as if to avoid the stab of the other’s eye, and sat hunched together, elbows on knees, head in hands.

“I knew you didn’t.”  The Boy answered his own question.  He limped over to his side of the tent, picked up some clothes, his blanket and few belongings, and made a pack.  Not a word, not a sound, but some birds twittering outside in the sun and a locust making that frying sound in the fire-weed.  The pack was slung on the Boy’s back, and he was throwing the diamond hitch to fasten it when the Colonel at last looked round.

“Lord, what you doin’?”

“Guess I’m goin’ on.”

“Where?”

“I’ll write you when I know; maybe I’ll even send you what I owe you, but I don’t feel like boastin’ at the moment.  Nig!”

“You can’t walk.”

“Did you never happen to notice that one-legged fella pluggin’ about Dawson?”

He had gone down on his hands and knees to see if Nig was asleep under the camp-bed.  The Colonel got up, went to the door, and let down the flap.  When he turned, the traveller and the dog were at his elbow.  He squared his big frame at the entrance, looking down at the two, tried to speak, but the Boy broke in:  “Don’t let’s get sentimental, Colonel; just stand aside.”

Never stirring, he found a voice to say, “I’m not askin’ you to stay”—­the other turned and whistled, for Nig had retired again to the seclusion of the gray blanket screen—­“I only want to tell you something before you go.”

The Boy frowned a little, but rested his pack against the table in that way in which the Klondyker learns to make a chair-back of his burden.

“You seem to think you’ve been tellin’ me news,” said the Colonel.  “When you said that about goin’ on, the night before we got to Snow Camp, I knew you simply meant you still intended to come out alive.  I had thrown up my hands—­at least, I thought I had.  The only difference between us—­I had given in and you hadn’t.”