“Yes, sir,” the corporal saluted. “Just south of the barren lands. What’s the trouble up there?”
“I’m coming to that. Natives causing no end of trouble at the Keechewan mission. It’s an outgrowth of this smallpox trouble. The Indians seem to think that the plague has been sent among them by the gods of the white man. The missionaries have warded off two attacks by the infuriated inhabitants of the Indian village, just south of Keechewan. Your duty, corporal, will be to straighten this thing up. Endeavor to instil a friendly feeling among the Indians. If any lives have been taken, bring in the murderers.”
If Corporal Rand manifested any sign of the fear that was in his heart, it was not noticeable to his chief. He merely saluted and inquired:
“Any further instructions, sir?”
Cameron rose to his feet, strode around his desk, and, to the corporal’s surprise, placed a trembling hand upon his arm.
“You don’t know how I hate to do this, Rand. I don’t want to send you up there without first having you inoculated. You may be going to your death—I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I wish there was some other way. I’ve thought long and carefully over this matter and I’ve come to the conclusion that unless we send help to the mission at once, it may be too late. All of them may be murdered.”
“It’s all right, sir. I’ll go.”
Cameron seized the other’s hand and held it during an interval of oppressive silence. There was no thought now of the inequality of rank. Man to man, brothers in a common cause—each understood and appreciated the other’s attitude and feelings.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rand, “for letting me go, permitting me to do this thing.”
He walked out of the post with a queer smile on his lips. He hurried away in the direction of the stables, his heart beating exultantly. His hand still tingled from Cameron’s steel-like yet affectionate clasp. Dazedly, he groomed and saddled his horse and was in the very act of leading it outside, when Whitehall appeared at the stable door.