He crossed to the hearth, laid kindling, and ignited a fire. This done, he went outside, and returned a moment later with a snow-filled kettle to hang over the flame.
"How do you feel now?" he asked, going back to the bunk.
"I think—a little better," came a weak answer from the pillow. "It's a different kind of hurt."
"If I hadn't come along you would have died—about four days from now," said the policeman lightly. "As it is, you should be able to handle an ax again in about four days."
"I suppose I ought to thank you," said Smith after a little silence.
"I expect you ought to. You'll sleep to-night." Dexter grinned encouragingly. "Hungry?"
"Not very."
"I am." The corporal unslung his pack, and turned to investigate the culinary resources of the shack. His search discovered a well stocked larder, and he calmly helped himself to such things as he required. He kneaded dough for bannock bread and set the loaf baking, started coffee, and sliced a liberal quantity of bacon. By the time these preparations were made, the kettle of snow water was boiling.
He dissolved tablets from his emergency kit in a strong solution, and then swathed the arm of his wincing patient in steaming bandages. "We'll keep that about ten degrees hotter than you think you can stand it," he asserted. "And the first thing you know you'll be off the casualty list."
Dexter returned to his cooking, and when the simple meal was finally ready, he heaped a plate for Smith, and then set a place for himself at a slab table near the bunk.