“Only a common man, Uncle Duncan,” repeated the girl steadfastly, “and I’ve a bone to pick with him when he’s on his feet, no longer helpless and pitiable as he is now.” Again Reivers laughed through the haze of fever. He did not have the strength to hold his eyes open, but his mind worked on. “Helpless! Did you notice the incident of the rock?” he babbled. “Bare, primitive, two-handed man against a man with a gun. Who won?” “Aye,” said the man seriously, “we owe you thanks for that. For a helpless man, you deal stout knocks.” “And speak big words,” snapped the girl. “Now, around with the teams, Uncle Duncan, and back to camp. There’s been talk enough. We must take him in and shelter and care for him, since he has fallen helpless and pitiable on our hands. We owe him no thanks. Can you not lay his head easier—the boasting fool! There; that’s better. Now, all that the dogs can stand, Uncle, for I misdoubt we’ll be hard-pressed to keep the life in him till we get him back to camp.” Reivers heard and strove to reply. But the paralysis of fever and weakness was upon him, and all that came from his lips was an incoherent babbling. In the last vapoury stages of consciousness he realised that he was being placed more comfortably upon the sledge, that his head was being lifted and that blankets were being strapped about him. He felt the sledge being turned, heard the runners grate on the snow; then ensued an easy, sliding movement through space, as the rested dogs started their lope back through the valley. The movement soothed him. It lulled him to a sensation of safety and comfort. The phantasmagoria of fever pounded at his brain, his eyes and ears, but the steady, swishing rush of the sleigh drove them away. He slept, and awoke when a halt was called and more whisky forced down his throat. Then he slept again. There were several halts. Once he realised that he was being fed thin soup, made from cooked venison and snow-water. That was the last impression made on remaining consciousness. After that the thread snapped. The sledges went on. They left the valley. Through the jumbled ridges of the Dead Lands they hurried. They reached a stretch of stunted fir, and still they continued to go. At length they pulled up before a solid little cabin built in a cleft of rocks. The Snow Burner was carried in and put to bed. After a rest Duncan Roy and the fresher of the dogteams took the trail again. They came, back after a day and a night, bringing with them a certain Père Batiste, skilled in treating fevers and wounds of the body as well as of the soul. The good curé gasped at the torso which revealed itself to his gaze as he stripped off the clothes to work at the wound. “If le bon Dieu made him as well inside as outside, this is a very good man,” he said simply; and Duncan MacGregor smiled grimly. “God—or the de’il—made him to deal stout knocks, that’s sure,” he grunted. “’Tis a rare animal we have stripped before us.”