“Well, I must say I’m sorry,” he acknowledged. “Looks to me like he was done for. What are ye goin’ to do for him? We––we didn’t reckon to find nothin’ like this when we come, though Papineau told us he were sick.”
“Mr. Papineau’s errand was to telegraph for the doctor,” she replied, with a hand pressed to her bosom. “At––at first, when I heard you coming, I thought he had perhaps arrived and––and that you were intending 228 to take him away. Do––do you really think he’s going to die?”
“Well, I’m scared it looks a good deal that way. Of course we might be able to take him in the sleigh, but––but he don’t look much as if he could stand the trip––does he?––an’––an’ I don’t reckon we can do much good stayin’ round here either.”
He stepped over to the door and opened it.
“That gal’s right,” he said. “Hugo looks desperate sick.”
“Sure it ain’t nothin’ that’s ketchin’, are ye?” asked his wife, drawing back a little.
“I didn’t never hear that pistol bullets was contagious,” he answered.
“But who did it?” cried McIntosh. “And––and how d’ye know ’twas just an accident. Seems to me we’d ought to find out something more about it. It––it don’t sound just natural.”
“I tell you he was shot by accident. I did it, God forgive me,” faltered Madge.
Sophy McGurn, at this, pushed her way forward until she stood in front of Madge, and pointed an accusing finger at her. Her eyes were flashing. To Maigan her move seemed a threatening one and she recoiled as the animal crouched a little, with fangs bare and lips slavering.