“Criminals usually do not consider that,” Hardy interrupted dryly.
Morely raised a startled head. Hardy who was watching him closely, saw the swift dilation of his eyes, noted the sharply drawn breath.
“Now you have talked enough. And by the bye your voice is remarkably strong. You will make a quick mend. No doubt you owe that to the constitution you men of the service have. Now go to sleep again. I want you to get strength quickly, for I’m anxious to be off.”
A few days later he left. The cabin seemed strangely lonely, strangely desolate to Hardy, as he lay on the bunk listening to the retreating crunch, crunch of webs, as Morely headed from the cabin onto the trail.
The following morning, before Morely had emerged from his sleeping bag, he heard the tinkle of bells.
An Indian coming from the opposite direction which he traveled, appeared on the trail. His dogs were lean and traveled slowly.
“How is the pest?” Morely asked in the Cree tongue.
The Indian paused. His figure drooped, his shoulders sagged.
“It spreads as does the bush fire. It has struck the Crees, on Woelaston Lake. It is wiping out the Chippewayans between Albany and the Churchill.”
The Indian spoke with impassive bronze face, but his eyes were deep with melancholy. Morely waited, a great fear in his heart.