“Hate to see you start out again, Davis, so soon.”
“It can’t be helped. I’ll leave in the morning. But this time, Harbinson, let me warn you. Keep everybody away. Do you hear? Nobody must come here. If necessary, enforce this rule at the point of a gun. But enforce it you must.”
The hands of the old prospector were shaking. He thrust them in his pockets to hide the fact from his partner. But he could not conceal from the other’s inquiring gaze the flush that flooded his cheeks, the unearthly sparkle of his eyes.
“You’re not feeling well,” accused the younger man.
“No! No! I’m all right. Don’t think that,” quavered Harbinson. “It’s not that.”
The young man, apparently, believed him.
“It’s the worry, I suppose. But forget it, Charley. We’ll beat this thing yet. Inspector Cameron will see the necessity of doing something at once. You can always rely on the mounted.”
For the remainder of the day nothing more was said on the subject. Baptiste and the younger man busied themselves about the place, while Harbinson retired to his bunk and slept for several hours. On the following morning, when Davis rose early, neither the old man nor the half-breed were astir. He prepared a hasty breakfast, deciding not to wake either one of them. In another hour he would be on the trail.
But Harbinson, it appeared, had not slept well. He had rolled and tossed in a high fever. He lay now in his bunk, his glassy eyes furtively watching his partner. When chance took Davis close to the bunk, he closed his eyes, feigning sleep. This simulation continued until the younger man had completed his preparations and had departed. An indescribable look flitted over the old prospector’s unutterably weary and fevered face. His lips trembled a phrase:
“Out in time, thank God!—good luck!”