In the living room, the sergeant bent over this blurred scrawl in pencil:
Sert. Seymour, O.C.
Armistice Detachment.
Sir: I have the honor to report:
Followed fugitive from one camp to another, always a jump or two behind him. Seemed not to know where he was headed. Ate all my own supplies. Took to Eskimo grub. Not so worse after stomach gets used. Three days ago, crossing lake on gladed ice. Think it was Lake Blarney. Dogs sight a stray wolf. Run away. Sled swerves into fishing hole. Me thrown into water. Leg broken. Make edge of ice and crawl out. Can't go farther. Dogs catch, kill and eat wolf. Come back looking for me, but not near enough so I can swing on sled.
Am freezing to death when come Avic over my trail. For why? He makes camp in spruce, builds fire, tries to fix leg best he can. Asks, "Where go?" I say Armistice. We start. Blizzard comes; grub goes. Can't find cache. May be we get through chewing leather,—maybe not.
Can't make Avic as O'Malley's strangler. Gentle as a woman with me. He's not under arrest, but trying his darndest to get me back to post. If blizzard holds, neither of us will. Maybe this reach you some day.
Respect.,
C. LA MARR,
Constable R.C.M.P.
Returning to the improvised hospital to ask a question or two needed to fill in gaps in the report, Seymour found Moira sitting beside the bed, stroking the fevered brow with her strong, white hands. She raised one in caution. The patient was asleep.