CHAPTER XII
THE FEVER PATIENT
When Harding scrambled to his feet, with his pistol still aimed, Clarke laughed.
"You're not only very rash—and very clumsy—but you're lucky. That's the only vacant tepee in the whole village. And my friends don't seem to have heard you."
They moved on very quickly and cautiously, and when they reached the thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, Harding felt easier.
It was noon when they stumbled into camp, Harding ragged and exhausted, and Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The doctor had suffered badly from the hurried march; but his conductor would brook no delay, and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to put forth his utmost exertion.
Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick, strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding.
"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once."
Then his face grew troubled as he turned to Benson.
"How long has he been like that?" he asked.
"The last two days. I'm afraid he's very bad."
Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache; he could scarcely hold himself upright; and his heart was very heavy. He would miss Blake terribly. It was hard to think of going on without him; but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man; but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him.
"Did you have much trouble?" Benson asked, as he laid out a meal.
"No; I suppose I was fortunate, because the thing was surprisingly easy. Of course, Clarke did not want to come."
"I don't see how you overcame his objections."
Harding broke into a dry smile.
"In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends on how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."
"You mean your life? Of course, I know you were in some danger; but was it so serious?"
"It would have been if I'd shot him; and I think he saw I meant that.
What's more, I may have to do so yet."
Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced grave risks, but he was inclined to think that, even before he had weakened it by excess, his nerve had never been so good as this young American's.
"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake, and I recognize my debt to him; we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than this; but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you. In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a trap for us. But if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."
He called Clarke to join them by the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face, and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his look. He ate greedily, without speaking, and then glanced up at the others.
"Well," Benson asked, "what's your opinion?"
"Your friend's state is dangerous. How he came to suffer from a severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate, I can't determine; and, after all, it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at his present temperature."
"And the remedy?"
"One of two is indicated, and the choice is difficult, because both are risky."
"Then they're risky to you as well as to your patient," Harding grimly reminded him.
Clarke made a contemptuous gesture, which was not without a touch of dignity. His manner now was severely professional.
"One course would be to put him into the coldest water we can find; it's drastic treatment, and sometimes effective, but there's a strong probability of its killing him."
"You had better mention the other."
"The administration of a remedy of my own, which I'll admit few doctors would venture to use. It's almost as dangerous as the first course, and in case of success recovery is slower."
Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man, and believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the contrary.
"I must leave you to decide; but I warn you that I'll hold you responsible if the result's unfortunate."
"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith, why do you put your partner in my charge?"
"I have some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding answered. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."
Clarke gave him a curious glance.
"I'll try the draught, and it had better be done now," he said. "There is no time to lose."
He moved toward Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping beside him, he took out a very small bottle and carefully let a few drops fall into a spoon. With some trouble, he got the sick man to swallow them; and then he sat down and turned to Harding.
"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able to form some opinion."
Harding lighted his pipe, and, though he found it strangely hard to sit still, he smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied, and bit savagely on its stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humor had lightened the toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out be had banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would hear his cheerful laugh no more; and Harding felt that, if the worst came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.
Benson seemed to find the suspense equally trying, but he made no remark, and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impassive face. Harding could only wait with all the fortitude he could muster; but he long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still; there was no wind, a heavy gray sky overhung them, and the smoke of the fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through the silence.
At last, when Harding felt the tension becoming unendurable, Clarke glanced at his watch and reopened the small bottle.
"We'll try again," he said gravely; and Harding thought he detected anxiety in his tone.
The dose was given; and Harding, feeling the urgent need of action if he were to continue calm, got up and wandered about the muskeg. Coming back after a while, he looked at Clarke. The doctor merely shook his head, though his face now showed signs of uneasiness. Harding sat down again and refilled his pipe, noticing that the stem was nearly bitten through. He gathered from Clarke's expression that they would soon know what to expect, and he feared the worst. Now, however, he was growing cool; his eyes were very stern, and his lips had set in an ominously determined fashion. Benson, glancing at him once or twice, thought it boded trouble for the doctor if things went badly. The American had a ruthless air.
At last Clarke, moving silently but quickly, bent over his patient, felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing. Harding leaned forward eagerly. Blake seemed less restless; his face, which had been furrowed, was relaxing; there was a faint damp on it. He moved and sighed; and then, turning his head weakly, he closed his eyes.
A few moments later Clarke stood up, stretching out his arms with a gesture of deep weariness.
"I believe your partner has turned the corner," he said, "He must sleep as long as he is able."
Harding crept away, conscious of a relief so overpowering that he was afraid he might do something foolish and disturb his comrade if he remained. Scarcely noticing where he was going, he plunged into the swamp and plowed through it, smashing down the reeds and splashing in the pools. Quick movement was balm to his raw-edged nerves, for the suspense of the last two hours had tried him very hard.
When he returned to camp, rather wet and muddy, Clarke was sitting by his patient's side, and Harding saw that Blake was sleeping soundly. With a sense of thankfulness too deep for expression, he set about preparing the evening meal. Now he could eat with appetite.
Before he and Benson had finished their supper, Clarke joined them.
"I believe the worst danger's over," he said; "though there's a possibility of a relapse. He'll need careful attention for several days."
"Longer, I think," said Harding. "Anyhow, you'll have to make up your mind to stay while it strikes us as necessary."
"My time's valuable, and you run some risk in keeping me. You must recognize that there's a strong likelihood that the Stonies will pick up my trail."
"If they get here, they'll run up against all the trouble they'll have any use for," Harding replied. "However, I told our guide, who seems pretty smart at such matters, to take precautions; and I understand that he fixed things so it would be hard to follow our tracks. You may remember that he took us across all the bare rocks he could find, and made us wade up a creek. Besides, as you seem to have played on your friends' superstitions, they may not find anything remarkable in your disappearing mysteriously."
"You're a capable man," Clarke laughed. "Anyway, I find this case appeals to my professional interest. For one thing, it's curious that the malaria should attack him in a severe form after a lengthy absence from the tropical jungles where he caught it. By the way, how long is it since he left India?"
Harding shrewdly returned an evasive answer. He did not think it desirable that Clarke should learn too much about his comrade's connection with India.
"I can't fix the date, but it's some time. However, I understand he was afterward in an unhealthy part of Africa, which may account for it. I don't think he's been in this country more than a year or two."
"Did he ever speak of having malaria here? It is apt to return within a rather elastic period."
"Not so far as I can recollect," said Harding.
Seeing that he could extract no useful information from him, Clarke abandoned the attempt and discussed the case from a medical point of view. Then he rose, wearily.
"As we're not out of the wood yet, and I don't expect I'll be needed for a while, I'd better get some sleep," he said. "You must waken me if there's any sign of a change."
Drawing his blanket round him, he lay down on a bed of branches and reeds, and his deep, regular breathing soon indicated that he was asleep.
Harding looked at Benson.
"I guess he'll do all that's possible, for his own sake. It strikes me he's a pretty good doctor."
"I understand that he once promised to become a famous one," Benson replied. "Though I left you to deal with the matter, I kept my eye on him; and my idea is that, while he wouldn't have scrupled much about letting Blake die if it had suited his purpose, as soon as you showed him the danger of that course, his professional feelings came uppermost. In fact, I believe Blake couldn't have got better treatment in Montreal or London. Now that the fellow has taken his case up, he'll effect a cure. But I'll keep the first watch—you need a rest."
In a few minutes Harding was fast asleep; and when he relieved Benson late at night, he found Clarke at his post. Shortly afterward Blake opened his eyes and asked a few intelligent questions in a weak voice before he went to sleep again; and the next morning he was obviously improving. Although a strong man often recovers rapidly from an attack of malarial fever, Clarke stayed several days, and gave Harding a number of careful instructions on parting.
"I don't think that can do much harm," said Harding, looking him in the face.
"Your suspicions die hard," Clarke laughed.
"That's so," returned Harding coolly. "As soon as you leave this camp, I lose my hold on you. However, I've given you the Indian for a guide, and he'll see you safe to about a day's march from your friends' village; and I've put up food enough for the journey. Considering everything, that's all the fee I need offer you."
"There wouldn't be much use in urging my claim," Clarke acquiesced.
"What about Benson? I noticed you didn't seem particularly anxious to renew your acquaintance. Are you willing to leave him with us?"
Clarke smiled in an ironical manner.
"Why do you ask, when you mean to keep him? So far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to the man; I make you a present of him. Have you had enough of this trip yet, or are you going on?"
"We're going ahead; you can do what you like about it. And now, while I admire the way you pulled my partner through, there's not much more to say. I wish you a safe journey. Good-morning."
He turned back toward the fire, while Clarke stood a moment with clenched hand and a malignant look creeping into his eyes; then, following the Indian, the doctor silently moved forward across the muskeg.