'What sort?' demanded McAuliffe, shading his eyes.
'An Icelander. Ter'ble sick, he is. Can't take him on with me in the boat, for he's turning up fast. You can find some place for him, eh?'
'I reckon Justin can. Wish you wouldn't dump your dying carcases here, Dave. This place isn't a derned cemetery. I allow, if you'd been here t'other day, you might have thought it was.'
'What's that?' asked Dave, eagerly. 'What's been going on here, Alf?'
'Lots of things. We've been fighting worse than wild cats.'
Dave was interested. 'You don't say scrapping?'
'It was a terror,' said the Factor. 'The nitchies were hot after our hides. We had a holy time.'
'What made them rise here, though?'
'Riel sent them up a message; don't know what it was. Anyway, it made them as crazy as bugs on a hot plate. But, Dave, they fixed young Winton.'
The other's dull eyes rounded. 'Well, well, that's a lot too bad,' he exclaimed, hanging on each syllable.