"That was the only way to keep him awake," interposed Dan Medlicott. "He'd have been dead, sure, if he'd fallen asleep."
Sergeant Silk nodded.
"Why, cert'nly," he agreed. "That Indian knew what to do. But it seemed to Pretty John that all the torture he was enduring—the stinging lash of the icy snow, the choking up of his mouth and nostrils, the numbness of his limbs, and the blows that were showered upon him—were all the malicious work of the criminal savage he had tracked and was taking to prison. He hadn't the sense to realise that Lean Bear was only battling with him to keep him awake—alive.
"How long that battle in the blizzard lasted only the Indian could tell. Corporal Pretty John didn't know. He knew nothing—nothing until he was aware that a thousand needle stabs were stinging his body, and that the slow tingling blood was struggling to circulate in his numbed and frozen limbs.
"There was a burning sensation across his tongue and throat. He opened his snow-blinded eyes. All around him was dark. But snow-blind men can see in the darkness, and he discovered that he was lying on his back in a room where a fire was flickering.
"There was a crowd of men around him—white men. One of them knelt at his side, supporting his head in the crook of an arm that had a red sleeve bearing a sergeant's triple chevron. He was forcing the neck of a flask between the Corporal's teeth.
"'Yes, yes, Lean Bear,' he was saying. 'We know that you're a heathen murderer. You shall be brought to justice, never fear—white man's justice. You shall get your deserts. But there's a little account on the credit side, too, and—say, don't stand there shivering like that! Make yourself comfortable by the fire. Eat, smoke, drink. Do what you jolly well please, you plucky son of a noble savage. And when I've done what I'm doing, blame me if I don't shake you by the hand.'
"'Wough!' grunted Lean Bear, shuffling towards the stove, where he stood for a while warming himself. Then he turned and saw Corporal Pretty John's heavy, bleared eyes fixed upon him. 'How!' he said in greeting as if they hadn't seen each other for months. 'Yes, it is so. Now you sleep—sleep long, sleep well. In the blizzard to sleep is to die. Here, to sleep is to live. It is good. Yes. And Lean Bear is not sorry.'"
Dan Medlicott watched Sergeant Silk striking a match and shielding it with his hand as he held it to his pipe and puffed the ragged smoke into the wintry air.
"Say, Sergeant," he said, "you were sure right when you said that any other trooper would have let Lean Bear escape last week. Any one would, knowing what he'd done for you that time."