Migisi’s moccasined footfalls were noiseless as he prepared the supper.
“Migisi care for your eyes now,” the Indian grunted. For an hour he watched Morely apply the snow applications on pieces of flour-sacking which he had made sterile by long boiling.
With the dawn Morely left, made his way to the Post.
“He will not leave the cabin until his eyes are thoroughly freed of the inflammation. He realizes it would be too dangerous to his sight, and no matter how impatient he may be, he knows a blind man is out of the Service.” Morely thought.
“I have a week. But I must be gone before then. I’ll take no chances, for he will make for the Post first thing. God!” The bitter exclamation came like a shot. “How different this has turned out from what I planned! And all my own fault. If I had kept hidden, if Hardy had not seen my face when I stopped the mail, all would have been well.
“I would never have been suspected, could have got back to the Post as I planned. Everything gone wrong, because of that one mishap. Also, I did not know a man of the Mounted would be traveling with the carrier.”
There was a continual sound of ax and saw in the air. The men of the Post were busily felling logs, erecting new cabins, making new tables, chairs and bunks. The Post was emerging from her weeks of horror.
The morning of the third day since his finding of Hardy, Migisi came to the Post, sought out Morely.
“The white man’s eyes have been pierced by the light. This morning he could see me.”
Morely turned to his supply shelves, took a tin of tobacco, gave it to the expectant Indian. When the Indian had gone, Morely walked swiftly to the old priest’s cabin.