“The Crees are wailing their death dirges as they seek the bones of their dead from beneath the charred cabins, for the white men are burning all cabins wherein the pest has been. Our dogs are howling mournfully for masters whose voices are still.
“I passed many trap-houses. They were unbaited; in some, the traps were sprung, yet the trappers came not to gather their catch. The snowshoe trails were many suns old.”
“Where do you come from? Have you passed Nichikun Lake post?”
“I came through there—”
“Are there many sick?” Morely interrupted quickly.
“Many are sick. The factor, his squaw and his clerk have answered the call of the Great Spirit.”
Morely’s face was white. “Who cares for the sick?”
“The priest whose hair is white as the new snow and whose step is slow with the weight of many suns.” He glanced at the motionless white man. “I have spoken.” His voice fell low, grave. The long line of dogs moved slowly down the trail.
“This is the worst epidemic the North has known,” Morely thought.
It was the year in which the north fought grimly the great cataclysm. The scourge took a thousand lives before it finally surrendered to the heroic efforts of a handful of white men and women.