Morse brought the train up and the hungry man was fed. They treated his eyes with the simple remedies the North knows and bound them with a handkerchief to keep out the fierce light reflected from the snow.
Afterward, they attached him by a line to the driver. He stumbled along behind. Sometimes he caught his foot or slipped and plunged down into the snow. Nobody had ever called him a patient man. Whenever any mishap occurred, he polluted the air with his vile speech.
They made slow progress, for the pace had to be regulated to suit the prisoner.
Day succeeded day, each with its routine much the same as the one before. They made breakfast, broke camp, packed, and mushed. The swish of the runners sounded from morning till night fell. Food began to run scarce. Once they left the blind man at the camp while they hunted wood buffalo. It was a long, hard business. They came back empty-handed after a two-day chase, but less than a mile from camp they sighted a half-grown polar bear and dropped it before the animal had a chance to move.
One happy hour they got through the Land of Little Sticks and struck the forests again.
They had a blazing fire again for the first time in six weeks. Brush and sticks and logs went into it till it roared furiously.
Morse turned from replenishing it to notice that West had removed the bandage from his eyes.
"Better keep it on," the young man advised.
"I was changin' it. Too tight. Gives me a headache," the convict answered sulkily.
"Can you see anything at all yet?"