"Won't you-all come in?" Ma Snow, recovering a little from her surprise, asked hospitably.
He pitched forward and would again have gone down but that he threw out his hand and caught the door-jamb.
"Bruce Burt! Hell's catoots! Bruce Burt!" Uncle Bill was on his knees outside in an instant, jerking and tugging at the snow-clogged buckles.
Chairs came down on their forelegs with a thump and Ore City shambled forward in curiosity and awkward congratulation. Mr. Dill did not move. He was gazing at the scene in mingled resentment and consternation. Was this the Bruce Burt whose claims he was sent to survey? It was plain enough that Bruce Burt "now deceased" was very much alive, and he, Dill, had crossed three summits on a wild goose chase, since it was obvious he could not relocate a man's ground while he was actually living upon it. Why didn't Sprudell find out that he was deceased before he sent a busy engineer on such a trip in winter? Mr. Dill sat frowning at Bruce, while willing hands helped him out of the coat his fingers were too stiff to unbutton.
"I've been coming since daylight." He spoke thickly, as though even his tongue were cold. "I played out on the last big hill and sat so long I chilled."
"And I guess you're hungry," Uncle Bill suggested.
Hungry! The word stabbed Ma Snow to the heart and her heels went clickity-click as she flew for the kitchen.
Divested of his coat Bruce looked a big, starved skeleton. The cords of his neck were visible when he turned his head, his cheeks were hollow, his wrist-bones were prominent like those of a fever convalescent.
"You're some ga'nted up," Uncle Bill commented as he eyed him critically. "Don't hardly look as though you'd winter."
The shadow of a smile crossed Bruce's dark face.
"Toy and I proved just about the length of time a man can go without eating, and live."
"You made it then? You got to Toy--he's all right?"
"Yes," briefly, "but none too soon. The snow had broken the tent down, so we made it over the ridge to an old tunnel . . . I killed a porcupine but we ran out of matches and there was no dry wood or sticks to make a fire."
"I et raw wolf onct in Alasky," Yankee Sam interjected reminiscently. "'Tain't a dish you'd call for in a restauraw, and I reckon procupine's got much the same flavor of damp dog. How did you get the Chinaman down?"
"I rigged up a travois when he could travel and hauled him to the cabin, where's he's waiting now. We are nearly out of grub, so I had to come."