“Quite right,” retorted Hartley, promptly. “They say smallpox has lost its terrors, but when you’re eight hours’ hard trail from a doctor, or a hospital, it’s still what I’d call a formidable enemy. However, Cavanagh’s immune, so he says.”
“We don’t know that,” Lee said, and her hands came together in a spasm of fear. “Are you a doctor?”
“No, I’m only a newspaper man; but I’ve had a lot of experience with plagues of all sorts—had the yellow fever in Porto Rico, and the typhoid in South Africa; that’s why I’m out here richochetting over the hills. But who are you, may I ask? You look like the rose of Sharon.”
“My name is Lee Wetherford,” she answered, with childish directness, for there was something compelling in the man’s voice and eyes. “And this is my mother.” She indicated Lize, who was approaching.
“You are not out here for your health,” he stated, rather thoughtfully. “How happens it you’re here?”
“I was born here—in the Fork.”
His face remained expressionless. “I don’t believe it. Can such maidens come out of Roaring Fork—nit! But I don’t mean that. What are you doing up here in this wilderness?”
Lize took a part in the conversation. “Another inspector?” she asked, as she lumbered up.
“That’s me,” he replied; “Sherlock Holmes, Vidocque, all rolled into one.”
“My mother,” again volunteered Lee.