The sledges went on. They left the valley. Through the jumbled ridges of the Dead Lands they hurried. They reached a stretch of stunted fir, and still they continued to go. At length they pulled up before a solid little cabin built in a cleft of rocks.
The Snow Burner was carried in and put to bed. After a rest Duncan Roy and the fresher of the dogteams took the trail again. They came, back after a day and a night, bringing with them a certain Père Batiste, skilled in treating fevers and wounds of the body as well as of the soul. The good curé gasped at the torso which revealed itself to his gaze as he stripped off the clothes to work at the wound.
“If le bon Dieu made him as well inside as outside, this is a very good man,” he said simply; and Duncan MacGregor smiled grimly.
“God—or the de’il—made him to deal stout knocks, that’s sure,” he grunted. “’Tis a rare animal we have stripped before us.”
“A rare human being—a soul,” reproved Father Batiste. “And it is le bon Dieu who makes us all.”
“But the de’il gets hold of some very young,” insisted the Scotchman.
Father Batiste stayed in the cabin for two days.
“He was not meant to die this time,” he said later. “It will be long—weeks perhaps—before he will be strong enough to take the trail. He will need care, such care as only a woman can give him. If he does not have this care he will die. If he does have it he will live. Adieu, my children; you have a sacred, human life in your hands.”
And he got the care that only a woman could give him. For the next two weeks Duncan MacGregor watched his niece’s devoted nursing and gnawed his red beard gloomily.
“Trouble—trouble—trouble!” he muttered over and over to himself. “It rides around the man’s head like a storm-cap. Hattie MacGregor, take care. Yon man will be a different creature to handle when he has the strength back in his body.”