“That’s good hearing. I don’t want him to die on our hands, at least not until I have had a little more conversation with him.”
The man Joe gave a careless reply, and moved away. Corporal Bracknell craned his neck a little and looked round.
The slush lamp was still burning, but through the parchment window the grey light of the Northland day penetrated, from which fact he deduced that he had lain where he was many hours. In front of the stove, the man of the evil face, whom he had seen on opening his eyes, was busy preparing a meal, and the odour of frying moose-steak and bacon filled the cabin. In the bunk, propped up among the furs, with his left arm in an improvised sling, he descried his cousin, puffing at a pipe, and regarding him with thoughtful gaze. Their eyes met, and Dick Bracknell smiled.
“Morning, Cousin Roger. I hope that head of yours is not very bad.”
“It is only middling,” answered the corporal truthfully.
“Um! I suspected so! Joe there,” he indicated the Indian bending over the stove, “doesn’t know his strength, and he’s a holy terror with a whipstock. You should see him tackle a big wolf dog that’s turned savage. It’s a sight for gods and men!”
Roger Bracknell did not reply. He had not been aware of the Indian’s entrance on the previous night, but in a flash he divined what had happened to him, and why his head ached so intolerably. His cousin continued with mocking affability.
“He hit you rather hard, I am afraid, but we Bracknells are all a little thick in the skull, and I hope no real harm will follow on Joe’s forceful intervention. In any case you must own that his arrival was a most opportune one.”
“I can well believe you found it so,” answered the corporal.