Hardy raised heavy-lidded eyes and started to rise, but the effort was too much for him. He sank back like a sack of meal.
Keith Morely kicked the door shut.
Hardy’s nerveless hand reached for the gun in his holster, but it was strangely fumbling and uncertain. The two men stared at each other.
“So we both chanced across the same cabin. Put up your hands!” Hardy’s voice was thick. The gun wavered in his hand. It seemed intolerably heavy.
Morely stared curiously at that unsteady hand, at the swollen, flushed face of the officer. Despite a tremendous effort it was impossible for Hardy to hold that gun. It clattered to the floor.
Keith Morely’s increasing amazement turned slowly to conviction. He sprang swiftly to Hardy as the man’s head fell back. The room was filled with his gasping, shallow breathing.
Keith Morely lifted the officer in his powerful arms, carried him to the bunk.
“You’re a sick man,” he exclaimed. “Tell me quick, while you are still able to talk, have you been exposed to any disease?”
The words penetrated Hardy’s fast numbing consciousness.
“A few weeks ago, I laid over a night in an Indian’s cabin.”