Turning to Rouletta he said, “Mam’selle, you lookin’ for your papa, eh?”

Miss Kirby was clasping and unclasping her fingers, her face was strained, her response came in a mutter so low that ’Poleon barely caught it: 

“Danny’s gone—­gone—­Dad, he’s—­No use fighting it—­It’s the drink—­and there’s nothing I can do.”

It was ’Poleon’s turn to take the girl by the shoulders and wheel her about for a better look at her face.  A moment later he led her back into the saloon.  She was so oddly obedient, so docile, so unquestioning, that he realized something was greatly amiss.  He laid his hand against her flushed cheek and found it to be burning hot, whereupon he hastily consulted the nearest bystanders.  They agreed with him that the girl was indeed ill—­more than that, she was half delirious.

“Sacre!  Wat’s she doin’ roun’ a saloon lak dis?” he indignantly demanded.  “How come she’s gettin’ up biffore daylight, eh?”

It was the bartender who made plain the facts:  “She ’ain’t been to bed at all, Frenchy.  She’s been up all night, ridin’ herd on old Sam Kirby.  He’s drinkin’, understand?  He tried to get some place for her to stay, along about midnight, but there wasn’t any.  She’s been settin’ there alongside of the stove for the last few hours and I been sort of keepin’ an eye on her for Sam’s sake.”

Doret breathed an oath.  “Dat’s nice fader she’s got!  I wish I let ’im drown.”

“Oh, he ain’t exactly to blame.  He’s on a bender—­like to of killed a feller in here.  Somebody’d ought to take care of this girl till he sobers up.”

During this conference Rouletta stood quivering, her face a blank, completely indifferent to her surroundings.  ’Poleon made her sit down, and but for her ceaseless whispering she might have been in a trance.

Doret’s indignation mounted as the situation became plain to him.

“Fine t’ing!” he angrily declared.  “Wat for you fellers leave dis seeck gal settin’ up, eh?  Me, I come jus’ in tam for catch a loafer makin’ off wit’ her.”  Again he swore savagely.  “Dere’s some feller ain’t wort’ killin’.  Wal, I got good warm camp; I tak’ her dere, den I fin’ dis fader.”

“Sam won’t be no good to you.  What she needs is a doctor, and she needs him quick,” the bartender averred.

“Eh bien!  I fin’ him, too!  Mam’selle”—­’Poleon turned to the girl--"you’re bad seeck, dat’s fac’.  You care for stop in my tent?” The girl stared up at him blankly, uncomprehendingly; then, drawn doubtless by the genuine concern in his troubled gaze, she raised her hand and placed it in his.  She left it there, the small fingers curling about his big thumb like those of a child.  “Poor li’l bird!” The woodsman’s brow puckered, a moisture gathered in his eyes.  “Dis is hell, for sure.  Come, den, ma petite, I fin’ a nes’ for you.”  He raised her to her feet; then, removing his heavy woolen coat, he placed it about her frail shoulders.  When she was snugly buttoned inside of it he led her out into the dim gray dawn; she went with him obediently.