The corporal, steeled against prying into personal affairs, asked no further questions. The two spent the day pleasantly by the open fire, which Avic—the prisoner under open arrest—kept replenished, it happening to be his week for headquarters fatigue duty.
At four in the afternoon, Sergeant Seymour mushed in, tired and worn from his long errand of mercy. This he had solved by moving the improvident band to another camp of natives who were well supplied with food, the usual procedure in a country where it is impracticable to move relief supplies in mid-winter.
His first glance at the features of the corporal, who turned out to help him with the dogs, acted as a cocktail that banished all fatigue. A strange Mountie in quarters could mean only excitement of some sort and that was the most joyous tonic the sergeant knew.
Scarcely did he wait to peel off his trail clothes, so eager was he to break the seal of the dispatch bag. It held but a single sheet of orders—a dispatch from the commissioner himself dated at Ottawa more than five weeks before. With the two subordinates looking on in an interest that dared not be put into question form, he read and reread the message. The second scanning thereof snapped him to his feet.
"When did you arrive, corporal?" he asked.
"This morning—early."
"Said nothing about what brought you, I hope?"
A smile flicked the ruddy Canadian face and the French shoulders shrugged. "How could I, when I know not why they sent me on such a mush of the devil?"
"Karmack was here asking for mail—for the loan of papers," added La Marr. "I told him to go to Mission House for his news."
"Good enough," nodded the O.C. and started getting into the uniform which he wore when at the detachment. In his absence the tunic had been made fairly presentable, with few traces of his clash with the factor. "I'm going out for a prisoner," he said at the door. "You boys sit tight."