"Come in, Mac," Hector welcomed him. "Guard mounted?"
"Yes," said MacFarlane.
He plumped down in his ponderous way upon his comrade's cot.
"There's an In'jun outside, Hec'—wants to see you."
"An Indian?"
"Yes. Funniest thing," he chuckled. "Won't see anyone else. 'Sergeant Adair'—those were exactly the words. The nerve of these confounded In'juns! What d'you think? There's the small-pox in camp and they want you there, to save someone or other. As if your life didn't count a damn! I'd have thrown the creature out, but she's so thin and drawn and came so far. You'll have to go and say 'No' yourself," he roared again, slapping his big thigh. "That comes o' making yourself too nice to 'em, Hec'! That comes of your trip to Milk River!"
"Eh?"
Hector had risen. His face reflected none of his comrade's mirth.
"Why, didn't I say? It's that little squaw, Hec'——"
"Where did you leave her?"