“She ess seek, ver’ seek. An’ she grow more seek each day until— mon Dieu!— my wife, she ess scare!”
He cut a few balsam boughs and spread out his blankets, but did not trouble to build a fire. When the half-breed returned to say that supper was waiting he told him that he was not hungry, and that he was going to sleep. He doubled himself up under his blankets, silent and staring, even neglecting to feed the dogs. He was awake when the stars appeared. He was awake when the moon rose. He was still awake when the light went out in Pierre Couchée’s cabin. The snow-man was gone from his vision— home and hope. He had never been hurt as he was hurt now. He was yet awake when the moon passed far over his head, sank behind the wilderness to the west, and blackness came. Toward dawn he fell into an uneasy slumber, and from that sleep he was awakened by Pierre Couchée’s voice.
When he opened his eyes it was day, and the half-breed stood at the opening of the tent. His face was filled with horror. His voice was almost a scream when he saw that MacVeigh was awake and sitting up.
“The great God in heaven!” he cried. “It is the plague, m’sieur— le mort rouge— the small pox! She is dying—”
MacVeigh was on his feet, gripping him by the arms.
He turned and ran toward the cabin, and Billy saw that the half-breed’s team was harnessed, and that Pierre’s wife was bringing forth blankets and bundles. He did not wait to question them, but hurried into the plague-stricken cabin. From the woman’s room came a low moaning, and he rushed in and fell upon his knees at her side. Her face was flushed with the fever, half hidden in the disheveled masses of her hair. She recognized him, and her dark eyes burned madly.
“Take— the baby!” she panted. “My God— go— go with her!”
Tenderly he put out a hand and stroked back her hair from her face.
“You are sick— sick with the bad fever,” he said, gently.
“Yes— yes, it is that. I did not think— until last night— what it might be. You— you love me! Then take her— take the baby and go— go— go!”