They halted for the night at one of the Flagg store depots and were lodged in the office camp, reserved sacred to the master and his boss. Latisan slept in the bunk above the master. Flagg had been silent all the evening, poring over the accounts that the storekeeper had turned over. He sighed frequently; he seemed to be weary. After a time he kicked off his larrigans and rolled into his bunk, ready dressed as he had stood. He seemed to lack the volition to remove his clothing. He was snoring calmly when Latisan went to sleep. Sometime in the night the young man awoke. The sounds which he heard below him were not the snores of a man who was sleeping peacefully. There was something ominous about the spasmodic and stertorous breathing. Latisan slipped to the floor and lighted a lamp. He found the wide eyes of Flagg staring from the gloom of the bunk. "What is it, Mr. Flagg? What is the matter?" he asked, with solicitude. Flagg slowly reached with his left hand, picked up his right hand, and when he released it the hand fell as helplessly as so much dead flesh. "That's it," he said, without apparent emotion. "It's a shock." He employed the colloquial name for a stroke of paralysis. "My mother was that way. I've been afraid of it--have expected it, as you might say. Mother lived ten years after her shock. I hope to God I won't. For it has taken me just when I'm ready to put up my best fight--and it's my good right hand, Latisan, my right hand!" CHAPTER EIGHT That was Flagg's reiterated lament on the journey back to Adonia. "It's my right hand, Latisan!" Ward had insisted on being the charioteer for the stricken master, promising to rush back to headwaters and take charge of the crew. He tried to console the old man by urging that getting in touch as soon as possible with capable doctors might restore his strength. "It may be only a clot in the brain, sir. Such cases have been helped." "It's my right hand. It's like my mother's. She never could lift it again." They had started before dawn; a gibbous moon shed enough light on the tote road to serve Latisan. Flagg was couched on a sled, his blanket propped up by hay. His scepter, the curiously marked cant dog, lay beside him. He had made sure of that before he allowed the team to start. "I propose to be your right hand in so far as I'm able, Mr. Flagg," declared Latisan, at last, pricked by the repeatedly iterated plaint. "You can depend on me just as far as I can stretch my ability." "But you told me you didn't like me for myself. You said you were joining drives with me because I was proposing to fight. Now I can't fight. No man will do my fighting for me unless he likes me for myself." "I'll do it for you, sir," insisted Ward, determinedly. "It's right in line with my plans. I'll take your orders. I'll come to you regularly at Adonia. You shall know every move. I'll be merely your right hand to do what you want done."