Hoarse though the voice was, Morely recognized it. He froze in his tracks, motionless, scarcely breathing, cold with astonishment.
Screened behind a great tree, Morely watched Hardy take hesitating steps forward, saw him crash into a tree. Amazement held the watching man.
It was growing dark, but there was still light enough to see the trees and brush.
“Blind! Left the cabin too soon. And what a bloodhound he is! He’s trailed me almost to the Post!”
Rapidly Morely thought, planned. He webbed to the officer.
“Ha, here you are,” the blind man cried. “Thought you had gone on. I need help. Snowblind.”
Morely gazed at the swollen lids, glued together over the sightless eyes. He grasped Hardy’s arm. In a hoarse, guttural voice he spoke a few words of Cree.
“You’re an Indian? Then take me to your cabin. The blindness of the sun-on-the-snow has fallen on me.”
“I take you to my lodge,” he grunted in Cree. Hardy heaved a sigh of relief.
Morely, who was known and admired as a great medicine man among the Crees of Northern Quebec, knew he could depend on Migisi.