Hurriedly Tom flung aside his wraps.  He leaped to his feet, a new man, his confidence and vitality all restored.

The fire had died to ashes.  He could hear the yelping of the dogs in the distance.  They were on a private rabbit hunt of their own, all of them but Cuffy.  The St. Bernard still lay in the snow watching West.

Beresford’s delirium was gone and his fever was less.  He was very weak, but Tom thought he saw a ghost of the old boyish grin flicker indomitably into his eyes.  As Tom looked at the swathed and bandaged head, for the first time since the murderous attack he allowed himself to hope.  The never-say-die spirit of the man and the splendid constitution built up by a clean outdoor life might pull him through yet.

“West was afraid you never were going to wake up, Tom.  It worried him.  You know how fond of you he is,” the constable said weakly.

Morse was penitent.  “Why didn’t you wake me, Win?  You must be dying of thirst.”

“I could do with a drink,” he admitted.  “But you needed that sleep.  Every minute of it.”

Tom built up the fire and thawed snow.  He gave Beresford a drink and then fed more of the broth to him.  He made breakfast for the prisoner and himself.

Afterward, he took stock of their larder.  It was almost empty.  “Enough flour and pemmican for another mess of rubaboo.  Got to restock right away or our stomachs will be flat as a buffalo bull’s after a long stampede.”

He spoke cheerfully, yet he and Beresford both knew a hunt for game might be unsuccessful.  Rabbits would not do.  He had to provide enough to feed the dogs as well as themselves.  If he did not get a moose, a bear, or caribou, they would face starvation.

Tom redressed the wounds of the trooper and examined the splints on the arm to make sure they had not become disarranged during the night in the delirium of the sick man.

“Got to leave you, Win.  Maybe for a day or more.  I’ll have plenty of wood piled handy for the fire—­and broth all ready to heat.  Think you can make out?”

The prospect could not have been an inviting one for the wounded man, but he nodded quite as a matter of course.

“I’ll be all right.  Take your time.  Don’t spoil your hunt worrying about me.”

Yet it was with extreme reluctance Tom had made up his mind to go.  He would take the dog-train with him—­and West, unarmed, of course.  He had to take him on Beresford’s account, because he dared not leave him.  But as he looked at his friend, all the supple strength stricken out of him, weak and helpless as a sick child, he felt a queer tug at the heart.  What assurance had he that he would find him still alive on his return?

Beresford knew what he was thinking.  He smiled, the gentle, affectionate smile of the very ill.  “It’s all right, old fellow.  Got to buck up and carry on, you know.  Look out—­for West.  Don’t give him any show at you.  Never trust him—­not for a minute.  Remember he’s—­a wolf.”  His weak hand gripped Tom’s in farewell.