The change came an hour or two before dawn and the three men watched it with their hearts in their throats.  Mutely they questioned one another, deriving deep comfort from each confirmatory nod and gesture, but for some time they dared not voice their growing hope.  Rouletta’s fever was breaking, they felt sure; she breathed more deeply, more easily, and she coughed less.  Her discomfort lessened, too, and finally, when the candle-light grew feeble before the signs of coming day, she fell asleep.  Later the men rose and stole out of the tent into the cold.

Doret was broken.  He was limp, almost lifeless; there were deep lines about his eyes, but, nevertheless, they sparkled.

“She’s goin’ get well,” he said, uncertainly.  “I’m goin’ teach dat li’l bird to fly again.”

The partners nodded.

“Sure as shootin’,” Jerry declared.

“Right-o!” Linton agreed.  “Now then”—­he spoke in an energetic, purposeful tone—­“I’m going to put Jerry to bed while I nail that infernal boat together again.”

“Not much, you ain’t!” Jerry exclaimed.  “You know I couldn’t sleep a wink without you, Tom.  What’s more, I’ll never try.”

Arm in arm the two partners set off down the river-bank.  ’Poleon smiled after them.  When they were out of sight he turned his face up to the brightening sky and said, aloud: 

“Bon Dieu, I t’ank you for my sister’s life.”

Pierce Phillips awoke from a cramped and troubled slumber to find himself lying upon a pile of baggage in the stern of a skiff.  For a moment he remained dazed; then he was surprised to hear the monotonous creak of oars and to feel that he was in motion.  A fur robe had been thrown over him; it was powdered with snowflakes, but it had kept him warm.  He sat up to discover Laure facing him.

“Hello!” said he.  “You here?”

The girl smiled wearily.  “Where did you think I’d be?  Have a good sleep?”

He shrugged and nodded, and, turning his eyes shoreward, saw that the forest was flowing slowly past.  The boat in which he found himself was stowed full of impedimenta; forward of Laure a man was rowing listlessly, and on the seat beyond him were two female figures bundled to the ears in heavy wraps.  They were the ’coon-shouting sisters whose song had drawn Pierce into the Gold Belt Saloon the evening before.  In the distance were several other boats.

“You feel tough, I’ll bet.”  Laure’s voice was sympathetic.

After a moment of consideration Pierce shook his head.  “No,” said he.  “I feel fine—­except that I’m hungry.  I could eat a log-chain.”

“No headache?”

“None.  Why?”

Laure’s brown eyes widened in admiration and astonishment.  “Jimminy!  You’re a hound for punishment.  You must have oak ribs.  Were you weaned on rum?”

“I never took a drink until last night.  I’m a rank amateur.”

“Really!” The girl studied him with renewed interest.  “What set you off?”