“No, no, it was his. See, he is returning to consciousness.”
The wounded man's eyes opened slowly, and closed again. He heaved a great sigh and stretched out his arms as if about to awaken from a deep slumber. The doctor sprang to his feet.
“We must have ice, Phil—finely chopped ice from the creek down there. Will you take the ax and those two pails and bring back both pails full? No hurry, but we'll need it within an hour.”
Philip bundled himself in his coat and went out with the ax and pails.
“Ice!” he muttered to himself. “Now what can he want of ice?”
He dug down through three feet of snow and chopped for half an hour. When he returned to the cabin the wounded man was bolstered up in bed, and the doctor was pacing back and forth across the room, evidently worked to a high pitch of excitement.
“Murder—robbery—outrage! Right under our noses, that's what it was!” he cried. “Pierre Thoreau is dead—killed by the scoundrels who left this man for dead beside him! They set upon them late yesterday afternoon as Pierre and his partner were coming home, intending to kill them for their outfit. The murderers, who are a breed and a white trapper, have probably gone to their shack half a dozen miles up the creek. Now, Mr. Philip Steele, here's a little work for you!”
MacGregor himself had never stirred Philip Steele's blood as did the doctor's unexpected wards, but the two men watching him saw nothing unusual in their effect. He set down his ice and coolly took off his coat, then advanced to the side of the wounded man.
“I'm glad you're better,” he said, looking down into the other's strong, pale face. “It was a pretty close shave. Guess you were a little out of your head, weren't you?”
For an instant the man's eyes shifted past Philip to where the doctor was standing.