Koplock assented with a wink and quickly straightened.
"Him passed out," Seymour heard him call to his employer. "Center shot."
"Not so bad," came the unfeeling response from the factor. "That's what he gets for edging into my affairs. Come here, you."
The sergeant heard the native shoeing back and then came the calloused instructions of a hard-pressed fugitive who could not afford to lose his head in such an emergency.
"I must mush on with my dogs," said Karmack. "Take the girl back to Armistice on her sled. Tell them—oh, make up any story you like; you'll do that anyhow. I'll be where they'll never get me."
"What do with him?" Koplock asked, pointing toward Seymour.
"The cop—let the wolves bury him."
Five minutes or so after Karmack's "Mush—mush on!" had signalled his continuation of flight, Koplock again was at the side of the sergeant.
"Him very bad mans, that Factor Karmack," he said as he began a vigorous massage of Seymour's limbs. For a moment he worked vigorously to restore circulation and the officer was able to reward him by twitching his fingers.
"Big joke, this on Karmack," went on the native, chuckling gutturally.