“I tell you another thing,” Fontaine took up the thread of his plaint, now speaking triumphantly. “One of these fellows,” he pointed to a half-breed, who stood directly opposite, “think mebbe already he get sick. All afternoon his head hurt. Him feel very hot—deezzy.”
“Faugh!” grunted Dick. “It isn’t the smallpox. He wasn’t within three hundred yards of the cabin. And even if he were exposed, he wouldn’t get sick less than ten hours later.”
But the drivers were obdurate. Sandy, Toma, and later, Dr. Brady himself took turns in pleading and arguing with them, but to no avail. Fontaine insisted that one of their party had already contracted the disease, so the physician examined the man while the rest of the drivers went to their tents. Outside Brady’s tent, Dick, Sandy and Toma waited impatiently.
“Well,” asked Sandy, when the doctor finally appeared, “what is your verdict?”
“I’m not quite sure yet,” answered the physician. “But the symptoms are—smallpox.”
“How can that be? He’s vaccinated,” Dick protested.
“Yes, on several different occasions, but the vaccine took no effect. There are cases like that.”
Dick moved over to one of the sledges, too discouraged and alarmed to trust himself to speak. For several minutes he stood, gazing off across the white bleak waste of snow and wilderness. Back near one of the campfires, the drivers had come together again to discuss the all-important topic.
“You see what we’re up against, doctor,” Dick turned suddenly. “If they won’t listen to reason, we’re beaten.”
“Yes,” echoed Sandy, “we’re beaten. Licked. We can’t go on without drivers.”