CHAPTER XX
THE WOLF AT THE DOOR
Ruth had the old coat folded and under the sick man's head again when Jib returned with a rusty old bucket filled with water. He set it down just outside the open door of the cabin—and he did not come in.
"What d'ye's'pose he's got in the pocket of that coat that he's so choice of, Miss?" he asked, curiously.
"Why! I don't know," returned Ruth, wetting her cleanest handkerchief and folding it to press upon the patient's brow.
"He hollered like a loon and grabbed at it when I tried to straighten it out," the Indian said, thoughtfully. "And so he did when you touched it."
"Yes."
"He's got something hid there. It bothers him even if he is delirious."
"Perhaps," admitted Ruth.
But she was not interested in this suspicion. The condition of the poor fellow was uppermost in her mind.
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