“He’s got no grub!”

“We’ll divvy up, Jack,” came a weak voice.  It was from the thin, white-faced man who had sat corpse-like on the edge of his bunk the night before.

“Divvy h—­l!” growled the bearded man.  “It’s up to you—­you and Scotty.  You’re to blame!”

You’re to blame!

The words struck upon Roscoe’s ears with a chill of horror.  He recalled the voice that had suggested throwing him back into the snow.  Starvation was in the cabin.  He had fallen among animals instead of men, and his body grew cold with a chill that was more horrible than that of the snow and the wind.  He saw the thin-faced man who had spoken for him sitting again on the edge of his bunk.  Mutely he looked to the others to see which was Scotty.  He was the young man who had clutched the can of beans.  It was he who was frying bacon over the sheet iron stove.

“We’ll divvy—­Henry and I,” he said.  “I told you that last night.”  He looked over at Roscoe.  “Glad you’re better,” he greeted.  “You see—­you’ve struck us at a bad time.  We’re on our last legs for grub.  Our two Indians went out to hunt a week ago and never came back.  They’re dead—­or gone, and we’re as good as dead if the storm doesn’t let up pretty soon.  You can have some of our grub—­Henry’s and mine.”

It was a cold invitation, lacking warmth or sympathy, and Roscoe felt that even this man wished that he had died before he reached the cabin.  But the man was human; he at least had not cast his voice with those who had wanted to throw him back into the snow, and Roscoe tried to voice his gratitude, and at the same time to hide his hunger.  He saw that there were three thin slices of bacon in the frying pan, and it struck him that it would be bad taste to reveal a starvation appetite in the face of such famine.  He came up, limping, and stood on the other side of the stove from Scotty.

“You saved my life,” he said, holding out a hand.  “Will you shake?”

Scotty shook hands limply.

“It’s h—­l,” he said in a low voice.  “We’d have had beans this morning if I hadn’t shook dice with him last night.”  He nodded toward the bearded man, who was cutting open the top of a can.  “He won!”

“My God!” began Roscoe.

He didn’t finish.  Scotty turned the meat, and added: 

“He won a square meal off me yesterday—­a quarter of a pound of bacon.  Day before that he won Henry’s last can of beans.  He’s got his share under his blanket over there, and swears he’ll shoot any one who goes to monkeying with his bed—­so you’d better fight shy of it.  Thompson—­he isn’t up yet—­chose the whisky for his share, so you’d better fight shy of him, too.  Henry and I’ll divvy up with you.”

“Thanks,” said Roscoe, the one word choking him.