Rickey held in his hand. It was the light camp axe, red to half the depth of its blade with a filming of blood, that had already frozen upon its polished surface. Rickey took one step forward, and the boy was at his side.
"Struck a knot," explained the Corporal between clenched teeth, "an' glanced. Serves me right, I guess. I hadn't ort to had my foot there. I know'd better but—Jimminy—she hurts! Le's get over to the fire an' have a look at her."
Connie helped Corporal Rickey to a blanket spread beside the tiny blaze and hurriedly collected dead branches, while the injured man removed his mukluk and legging and a double thickness of blood-soaked woollen socks. As the flames bit into the dry wood, the boy made a dive for the First-Aid kit. The gash was a nasty one, bone-deep just below the ankle joint; and though they twisted a tourniquet until Rickey growled with pain, it was an hour before the flow of blood was staunched and the wound properly bandaged.
"This is a fine layout," grumbled the officer. "Ten years in the service lackin' two months, an' here I up an' sink an axe in my hoof like the rawest chechako that ever mushed over the Chilkoot."
