Their meager provisions grew smaller by the next day and the snow came and was permanent, yet they had not found the cave.
"Why not go back now, Little Captain?" asked Turner late one night.
"We shall, we shall, only a few days more," replied George happily.
The very next morning George arose with an enthusiasm and was stirring the fire. To his surprise, Turner, who was usually up before him, was perfectly still that morning.
As Turner was very deaf, George made a great deal of noise about the tent, hoping the sound would wake his companion. Yet the old man didn't budge.
After moments of indecision, George approached the silent shape. He knelt near the bedrolls and felt one of Turner's limp hands.
The skin was cold.
And Turner's eyes stared at the glowing tent wall.
George drew in a shocked breath. The cold air cut his lungs.
Oh, God! What had he done!
Delaying and delaying leaving the Rim, now he had killed his only friend on earth, a man who had remembered him and helped him!
George had killed the grand old man, his only faithful friend.
His brain was reeling. He stood in complete confusion above the cold body of his companion. His only thought was of retreating to Tishba, his cave ruin, and he trudged toward it, tears running down his face.
The pines sparkled with snow that morning. The clouds over Gray Canyon had cleared and left a beautiful turquoise patch above. On the way George saw a place where an animal had rolled in the snow.