“’Course I am. An’ now for those bandages. No sense in sittin’ here yapping like this anyway. We can’t help ourselves by talking, can we? The thing to do is get goin’—quick!”
“You mean follow Scar-Face?”
“Yep. That’s exactly what I do mean. A light snow has fallen an’ he won’t be so hard to track. Corporal Richardson an’ I’ll be on the trail in less than an hour. How does that strike you?”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Dick, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. “Sandy and I will follow along in the morning. We’ll catch up to you, won’t we, Slade?”
The mounted police scout laughed as he strode away. When he had returned a short time later with his first-aid emergency kit tucked under one arm, a basin of water in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, he was still grinning broadly.
For several minutes Slade was too busily occupied with his task of dressing Dick’s wound, to find time to talk. Having finished, however, he sat down on the bed beside his young charge and playfully poked that young man in the ribs.
“So you an’ Sandy are goin’ to catch up to us,” he chuckled. “Son, I like your spirit. It’s boys like you that grow up to be men like—well, say like Corporal Richardson.”
“Or Malemute Slade,” suggested Dick.
A tiny scowl flickered between Slade’s eyes.
“No—not me. I’m nobody. I ain’t ever had a chance. I can’t even read or write. A good mounted policeman has education, brains and nerve. I ain’t got nothin’ except nerve.”