CHAPTER XII

A chilly twilight had fallen by the time the castaways arrived at the encampment above the rapids.  Kirby and his daughter were shaking from the cold.  The Countess Courteau hurried on ahead to start a fire in her tent, and thither she insisted upon taking Rouletta, while her men attended to the father’s comfort.

On the way up there had been considerable speculation among those who knew Sam Kirby best, for none of them had ever seen the old fellow in quite such a frame of mind as now.  His misfortune had crushed him; he appeared to be numbed by the realization of his overwhelming loss; gone entirely was that gambler’s nonchalance for which he was famous.  The winning or the losing of large sums of money had never deeply stirred the old sporting-man; the turn of a card, the swift tattoo of horses’ hoofs, often had meant far more to him in dollars and cents than the destruction of that barge-load of liquor; he had seen sizable fortunes come and go without a sign of emotion, and yet to-night he was utterly unnerved.

With a man of less physical courage such an ordeal as he had undergone might well have excused a nervous collapse, but Kirby had no nerves; he had, times without number, proved himself to be a man of steel, and so it greatly puzzled his friends to see him shaken and broken.

He referred often to Danny Royal’s fate, speaking in a dazed and disbelieving manner, but through that daze ran lightning-bolts of blind, ferocious rage—­rage at the river, rage at this hostile, sinister country and at the curse it had put upon him.  Over and over, through blue lips and chattering teeth, he reviled the rapids; more than once he lifted the broken-necked bottle to his lips.  Of thanksgiving, of gratitude at his own and his daughter’s deliverance, he appeared to have none, at least for the time being.

Rouletta’s condition was pitiable enough, but she was concerned less with it than with her father’s extraordinary behavior, and when the Countess undertook to procure for her dry clothing she protested: 

“Please don’t trouble.  I’ll warm up a bit; then I must go back to dad.”

“My dear, you’re chilled through—­you’ll die in those wet things,” the older woman told her.

Miss Kirby shook her head and, in a queer, strained, apprehensive voice, said:  “You don’t understand.  He’s had a drink; if he gets started—­” She shivered wretchedly and hid her white face in her hands, then moaned:  “Oh, what a day!  Danny’s gone!  I saw him drown—­”

“There, there!” The Countess comforted her as best she could.  “You’ve had a terrible experience, but you mustn’t think of it just yet.  Now let me help you.”

Finding that the girl’s fingers were stiff and useless, the Countess removed the wet skirt and jacket, wrung them out, and hung them up.  Then she produced some dry undergarments, but Miss Kirby refused to put them on.