'What?'
'Blood poisoning,' said Rick. 'Who knows what germs that thing had in its mouth.'
'What can we do?'
'Keep him comfortable and let his body fight the infection. That's about all.'
'Will he be all right?'
'I don't know,' said Rick. When he saw Con's reaction, he quickly added, 'Joe's tough. If anyone can beat this, he can.'
Rick spotted the black hulk of a huge toppled tree in the distance and suggested that they erect the tent there. 'We can build our campfire by the tree trunk and use it to reflect heat into the tent opening. It will serve as a windbreak,' too.'
As Rick dragged the travois to the tree, Con led Joe to the site. He no longer pretended that he was not ill, but passively let her support him as he shuffled through the snow. His mind was succumbing to the fever, and he scarcely knew what was happening. Rick and Con quickly erected the tent and made it as comfortable as possible, though they had little to work with. The travois's small platform of woven sticks was cov-ered with the hide poncho to serve as a bed. Con cradled Joe's head on her lap and patted the perspiration from his brow with her sleeve. Rick used the remaining wood to build a fire just a few feet from the tent opening. Only the kindling was left.
'I've got to find some driftwood,' he said, handing Joe's spear to Con before grabbing his own. 'I'll be back as soon as possible.'
'Okay,' said Con distantly.
Rick did not reflect on the irony of looking for driftwood in the middle of a forest. The only unburnt fuel was wood that had been in the river before the fire struck. Every dirt-caked branch he found on the riverbank was a rare find. He walked half a mile before he accumulated a small armload. He returned, added wood to the blaze, then cradled Joe while Con went to the river and tended to her needs. After Con left, Rick gently shook Joe until he opened his eyes. 'Joe, I need to ask you something.'
'What?' asked Joe faintly.
'Is there something about the island I should know? Some-thing you haven't told me?'
'The island?'
'Why didn't you want to go there?'
'Don't,' whispered Joe.
'Don't what?'
'Don't let Con ...' Joe furrowed his brow in puzzlement and confusion.
'What about Con?'
Joe stared at Rick without comprehension. 'You're not Con.' After a minute, he closed his eyes and returned to a fitful sleep.
Con returned with washed rags and a few sticks of drift-wood. 'There's not much wood out there,' she said. 'How are we going to keep him warm?'
'Look for driftwood farther downriver and hope we get lucky,' replied Rick. 'I was stupid to leave the bedding. He would have been much warmer with it.'
'That bedding filled an entire travois!' said Con. 'I'll tell you the same thing you told me—stop blaming yourself. You made the best decision for the situation. You didn't know Joe would get hurt.'
'I'm the guide,' said Rick.
'That doesn't make you omniscient,' retorted Con. 'So, are you going to look for more wood, or am I?'
'I'll go.'
Rick hurried to gather as much driftwood as he could be-fore it grew dark. While he searched, he racked his brain trying to think of ways to improve the bedding. The stark reality was that the fire had consumed everything that was soft and insulating.
