“We want to see you,” Smoke answered.

“Who are you?”

“Two doctors from Dawson,” Shorty blurted in, with a levity that brought a punch in the short ribs from Smoke’s elbow.

“Don’t want to see any doctors,” the woman said, in tones crisp and staccato with pain and irritation.  “Go away.  Good night.  We don’t believe in doctors.”

Smoke pulled the latch, shoved the door open, and entered, turning up the low-flamed kerosene-lamp so that he could see.  In four bunks four women ceased from groaning and sighing to stare at the intruders.  Two were young, thin-faced creatures, the third was an elderly and very stout woman, and the fourth, the one whom Smoke identified by her voice, was the thinnest, frailest specimen of the human race he had ever seen.  As he quickly learned, she was Laura Sibley, the seeress and professional clairvoyant who had organized the expedition in Los Angeles and led it to this death-camp on the Nordbeska.  The conversation that ensued was acrimonious.  Laura Sibley did not believe in doctors.  Also, to add to her purgatory, she had wellnigh ceased to believe in herself.

“Why didn’t you send out for help?” Smoke asked, when she paused, breathless and exhausted, from her initial tirade.  “There’s a camp at Stewart River, and eighteen days’ travel would fetch Dawson from here.”

“Why didn’t Amos Wentworth go?” she demanded, with a wrath that bordered on hysteria.

“Don’t know the gentleman,” Smoke countered.  “What’s he been doing?”

“Nothing.  Except that he’s the only one that hasn’t caught the scurvy.  And why hasn’t he caught the scurvy?  I’ll tell you.  No, I won’t.”  The thin lips compressed so tightly that through the emaciated transparency of them Smoke was almost convinced he could see the teeth and the roots of the teeth.  “And what would have been the use?  Don’t I know?  I’m not a fool.  Our caches are filled with every kind of fruit juice and preserved vegetables.  We are better situated than any other camp in Alaska to fight scurvy.  There is no prepared vegetable, fruit, and nut food we haven’t, and in plenty.”

“She’s got you there, Smoke,” Shorty exulted.  “And it’s a condition, not a theory.  You say vegetables cures.  Here’s the vegetables, and where’s the cure?”

“There’s no explanation I can see,” Smoke acknowledged.  “Yet there is no camp in Alaska like this.  I’ve seen scurvy—­a sprinkling of cases here and there; but I never saw a whole camp with it, nor did I ever see such terrible cases.  Which is neither here nor there, Shorty.  We’ve got to do what we can for these people, but first we’ve got to make camp and take care of the dogs.  We’ll see you in the morning, er—­Mrs. Sibley.”

“Miss Sibley,” she bridled.  “And now, young man, if you come fooling around this cabin with any doctor stuff I’ll fill you full of birdshot.”

“This divine seeress is a sweet one,” Smoke chuckled, as he and Shorty felt their way back through the darkness to the empty cabin next to the one they had first entered.