Then Jim turned and whistled Red Chief off Tim Hood’s chest. The old dog came trotting, waving his red plume. Red Lily continued to stand guard over the rifles. Jim walked over to where Hood lay motionless with closed eyes.
“Get up,” he said. “You ain’t hurt. No one touched you.”
Mr. Hood opened his eyes, sat up and looked around him.
“Lunt has gone south,” said Jim. “I reckon you can overhaul him if you hurry. Beat it!”
The bitter old ferryman got to his feet without a word and headed south at a very creditable rate of speed.
In the city of Quebec, in the midst of excitements and novelties, Deputy Sheriff Brown and young Ben O’Dell went earnestly and successfully about their business. Mr. Brown’s mind and heart were set on catching a murderer; Ben’s thoughts and efforts were all bent upon clearing and saving the innocent. The success of either meant the success of both, so they worked in perfect accord.
Ben was the superior in imagination and intelligence but Brown knew the ways of the police and of cities. Brown obtained audience with the chief of police and Ben’s manner of telling the story of the French River shooting did the fine work. The stranger who had dropped his pen and comb on French River was soon identified as one Norman Havre, alias “Black” McFay, alias Joe Hatte, known to the police. Louis Balenger’s record was also known to them.
CHAPTER IX
THE SICK MAN
Jim McAllister and Noel fed Sherwood with milk, dosed him with quinine, bathed his hand with a hot solution of boric powder and touched it with iodine, placed hot compresses on his arm and bandaged him generously if not scientifically. He responded encouragingly to the treatment. It was easy to see that the pain in his arm had lessened. For a few hours of the afternoon he appeared to be cooler and felt cooler, lay awake without gabbling and slept without muttering and tossing. Once he recognized Noel Sabattis and spoke to him by name; and Noel patted his head and told him not to worry about anything for everything was going fine.