waked to see himself with the body of the boy beside him in the red light
of the fires.

For a moment his heart stopped beating, he turned sick and faint.
Deserted by those for whom he risked his life! . . . How long had he
lain there? What time was it? When was it that he had fought his way to
the nets and back again-hours maybe? And the dead boy there, Wingo, who
had risked his life, also dead--how long? His heart leaped--ah! not
hours, only minutes maybe. It was sundown as unconsciousness came on
him--Indians would not stay with the dead after sundown. Maybe it was
only ten minutes-five minutes--one minute ago since they left him!. . .

His watch! Shaking fingers drew it out, wild eyes scanned it. It was
not stopped. Then it could have only been minutes ago. Trembling to his
feet, he staggered over to Wingo, he felt the body, he held a mirror to
the lips. Yes, surely there was light moisture on the glass.

Then began another fight with death--William Rufus Holly struggling to
bring to life again Wingo, the waif of the Crees.

The blood came back to his own heart with a rush as the mad desire to
save this life came on him. He talked to the dumb face, he prayed in a
kind of delirium, as he moved the arms up and down, as he tilted the
body, as he rubbed, chafed and strove. He forgot he was a missionary,
he almost cursed himself. "For them--for cowards, I risked his life,
the brave lad with no home. Oh, God! give him back to me!" he sobbed.
"What right had I to risk his life for theirs? I should have shot the
first man that refused to go.... Wingo, speak! Wake up! Come back!"

The sweat poured from him in his desperation and weakness. He said to