“Then I owe—my recovery—to you?”
“You owe your life to me, to put it plainly. No one has been near the cabin, for I tacked a red rag over the door. A few Indians have passed. I hailed them from a distance. Smallpox is raging from the James Bay waters to the lake country of the Athabasca, they said.”
“My God!”
“Yes. And for the service I have rendered you, I am appropriating your uniform,” Morely went on coolly. “When you are well, you can wear my clothes.”
The men looked at each other silently.
He turned, strode to the hearth over which an iron kettle was suspended. Presently he returned.
“A cup of good strong caribou broth.” He tendered the cup, lifted and held Hardy while the officer ate.
“All you need now, is to recover your strength. Within a few days you’ll be able to hobble around, enough to keep up your fire. The wood house is filled. I have repaired my forage on it. There is a quantity of meat, and I’ll leave a big mess cooked, so you won’t have to cook for several days. By that time you’ll be strong enough—”
“You are singularly thoughtful—under the circumstances,” Hardy commented.
“Thoughtfulness be damned. I’m only doing the sporting thing—”