“What’s the matter with Steve?” he asked.

“Pneumonia.  Two of my people who passed the shack in the daytime saw a light burning.  They went in and found him unconscious, an empty whisky bottle on the floor, and the stove burned out.  They made a fire and then came for me.”

“That’s something of a compliment,” Thirlwell remarked.  “If it had happened before you came, they’d probably have cleaned out the shack and left Steve to freeze.  I don’t know that he’d have been regretted, and if the rumors about his selling the Indians liquor are true, imagine he’s your worst enemy.”

“He’s a sick man.  Besides, have you often seen my people drunk?”

“No,” said Thirlwell thoughtfully; “I believe only once.  But Steve didn’t deny the thing when one of the boys at the mine called him a whisky runner, and I thought it curious, because there’s a heavy penalty.  I suppose he can’t hear what we say?”

“He’s unconscious, but has fits of weak delirium.  Three or four o’clock may mark the turning, and if he lives until daybreak I’ll feel hopeful.  But do you imagine he didn’t deny your workman’s charge because it was true?”

“I’d have expected him to deny it whether it was true or not.  That’s what puzzled me.  It looked as if he was willing to be suspected.”

“Driscoll,” said Father Lucien, “is a strange, dark man, but he needs our help and one of us must watch.”

“I’m fresh and will take the first turn,” Thirlwell offered, and pulled his chair to the stove when Father Lucien, wrapping himself in a blanket, lay down on the floor.

He found watching dreary and got very cold.  The pines roared about the shack and the lamp flickered in the draughts, but the wind was falling and between the gusts one could hear the river.  Drift-ice churned in the rapid and broke with jarring crashes upon the rocks.  Once or twice Thirlwell thought the sound disturbed Driscoll, because he moved and muttered brokenly.  Thirlwell, however, could not hear what he said, and getting drowsy with the dry warmth of the stove, struggled to keep awake.  He was not sure that he altogether succeeded, for now and then his head fell forward and he roused himself with a jerk, but did not think he really went to sleep.  For all that, some hours had passed when he moved his chair and looked at his watch.  It was quieter outside and the roar of the river had got distinct.  Then Thirlwell heard a blanket thrown back and glanced at the bunk.

Driscoll had turned his head and the light touched his face, which glistened with sweat.  His eyes were wide open, his lips moved as if he tried to speak, and Thirlwell thought his brain was clear, but saw next moment that Driscoll was not watching him.  He had a curious, strained look and gazed at the door, as if somebody had come in.  The strange thing was that he looked afraid.

“I couldn’t stop her with the back-stroke,” he said hoarsely.  “She rolled over as she swung across the stream.”