CODE OF THE MOUNTED

"Stop!"

The sharp command sliced through the frozen silence. The Northern mail driver froze in place.

He glanced at his partner, Sergeant Hardy, and saw that the officer had drawn his .45 Colt from its holster.

“Fast on the trigger, huh? But I’ve got you both covered. Put that gun back in your holster before I count to three, or this shot will blow your head off.”

The voice came from above. The two men in the narrow passage below carefully looked at the snow-covered rocks looming over them, but they couldn’t see anything.

“One—” The unyielding voice started to count.

"Two—"

Grimly, Sergeant Hardy tucked his gun into its holster. “The person who wins the first hand doesn’t always win the game,” he thought, without any emotion.

“I want the mail bag,” the unseen speaker continued. “Place the bag on that rock shelf to the right, and hurry up.”

Intently, the officer listened to that voice. He memorized every inflection so carefully that he would recognize it immediately, no matter where he heard it.

“Stay calm, King. He has the upper hand right now.” Sergeant Hardy’s voice was quiet and comforting, but his sharp, watchful eyes scanned the rocks above him carefully.

"Do I need to put the mail—"

“Yes, or he'll shoot both of us. He's got you in his sights now.”

“Hurry up there.” The voice rang out impatiently. Eager, the man leaned over the projecting rock on which he lay. In that moment, Hardy got a clear view of the man's face.

It was a young face. No older than thirty, clean-shaven. The features were delicate and even, with a well-shaped chin. The man pulled back quickly as his eyes met the officer's.

Reluctantly, the driver placed the bag of mail on the designated shelf.

“Now, keep going. And remember, the path is right in front of you. I can see you both for a mile. If you try to turn back, I’ll be here waiting for you.”

“Still, I’ll see you—again.” Hardy’s voice remained cool and emotionless. It was as if he were saying, “this is great travel weather.”

“Mush on, King,” Hardy urged quietly.

The path was clear. Not a shadow disturbed its shining surface.

Repeatedly, Hardy glanced back. The man in furs stood still. He had come down from his rocky spot and was now on the trail observing the quickly moving dogs, sled, and men.

Eagerly, he leaned over the mail.

Hardy, with a quick backward glance, spotted that hunched figure. Immediately, he jumped off the dog sled.

“Keep going. Notify the district headquarters. I’m going back for my guy.” The words came with a sharp intensity.

Keith Morely straightened up from the mail bags and looked ahead. There was definitely only one man with the team! Yet the trail remained straight, undisturbed by any dark object, except for that one man, the dogs, and the sled.

Unbelieving, he rubbed his eyes. A man couldn’t just disappear into thin air?

The mail driver cracked the whip, and the dogs sprinted. He would have preferred to stay with the sergeant, fighting it out side by side. But the officer had given the order, and he was the one in charge!

Half submerged in the drifting water he had fallen into, Hardy lay still for a while.

Finally, he carefully lifted his snow-covered hooded head. He saw the man standing still, then watched him turn, climb the rock slabs until he reached the top, and vanish.

Lithe as a cat, Hardy climbed the overhanging rocks. Crouching like a Native American, his soft ankle-high moccasins over his boots as quiet as a cougar's steps, he hurried after Keith Morely.

“Thank the powers for a great day,” Hardy thought. The sun shone brightly. The prisms of a million ice drops on bushes and trees sparkled like jewels, breathtakingly beautiful.

Warily, Hardy followed the moccasin prints left on the hardened snow.

“He's heading straight off the trail, and he knows exactly where he’s going. No hesitation in his step. Ha, he’s stopped here to put on his webs.”

The snow was packed into a round area where the man had sat to put on his snowshoes.

At a short distance ahead, the sharp scolding voices of two chickadees could be heard. Hardy nodded with satisfaction. He knew that some passing creature had startled the birds. It was their habit to sound the alarm like this from their high perches.

The path went from the rocky plateau through a narrow canyon to the open ground ahead. Staying alert, Hardy stopped in this canyon to put on his gear, then continued on the path.

“The man is a bird; he doesn’t walk, he flies!” the officer muttered. “I’m pretty fast myself, but he’s faster.”

For hours he followed. The sun was casting red shadows; the sparse woods grew thicker; the short day turned into a brief twilight.

Hardy felt oddly exhausted, but he wasn’t getting cold, even though the air was becoming brisk. It got too dark to see the faint outline of the webs. Hardy stopped for a moment, considering whether to start a fire, then continued on, looking for a good spot to set up camp for the night.

There seemed to be a clearing up ahead. A dark, snow-covered shape popped into view. “A cabin,” he exclaimed. “I’ll spend the night there.”

For hours, he had been feeling a strange fatigue, a sensation of heat, and a worsening throbbing headache that kept creeping up on him.

“What’s wrong with me?” he thought irritably. “I’m kind of glad to be indoors tonight.”

There was no yellow blinking light in the one window of the small cabin. The officer approached cautiously, staying in the deepest shadows. It seemed like the cabin was empty.

With his finger on the trigger of his gun, he lifted the latch on the heavy log door and kicked it open quickly.

His eyes scanned the dark cabin. A quick look showed the empty interior.

Hardy walked into the cold room and slammed the door shut behind him. He collapsed into a chair, breathing hard. A sudden feeling of suffocation hit him. He pushed the fur hood back from his head and loosened the belt of the parka over his uniform.

“Haven't been feeling very well for the past three days,” he mumbled. Gathering his strength, he stood up, checked out the single room and the attached woodshed. He lit a match to the candle in a bottle since the room was getting dark.

“Well-stocked cabin,” he said as he looked around.

Again, he collapsed heavily into a chair, staring ahead with worried eyes. After a while, he started a fire in the large stone hearth.

Slowly, the weather shifted as the night went on. The north wind arrived with a loud bellow and a roar.

Half dozing, Hardy listened to the combined voices of the wind and fire as he sat in front of a blazing log. His eyes were shining with the fever that coursed through his veins.

“Glad I found this cabin,” he muttered, with a thick tongue and dry, swollen lips. “I must be out of sorts. I’ll be fine tomorrow. I have to!”

The storm picked up intensity. The blizzard howled and battered the small cabin. The snow piled against its log walls as if trying to find warmth inside.

During the night, the sound of crunching webs echoed. A ghostly white figure emerged from the darkness, with eager, expectant eyes peering from frozen eyelashes at the flickering light from the cabin’s firelit, frost-covered window.

Stiff hands struggled with the latch and finally managed to open it. The wind blew the door in with a bang.

Hardy lifted his heavy eyelids and tried to get up, but it was too much effort. He slumped back down like a sack of flour.

Keith Morley kicked the door closed.

Hardy’s steady hand reached for the gun in his holster, but it felt oddly clumsy and unsure. The two men looked at each other.

“So we both ended up at the same cabin. Put your hands up!” Hardy’s voice was heavy. The gun shook in his hand. It felt unbearably heavy.

Morely stared curiously at that shaky hand, at the swollen, flushed face of the officer. Despite a huge effort, it was impossible for Hardy to keep hold of that gun. It dropped to the floor.

Keith Morely's growing astonishment gradually shifted to certainty. He rushed over to Hardy as the man's head tilted back. The room was filled with his sharp, shallow breaths.

Keith Morely picked up the officer in his strong arms and carried him to the bunk.

“You're a sick man,” he said. “Tell me quickly, while you can still talk, have you been exposed to any diseases?”

The words broke through Hardy’s quickly fading awareness.

“A few weeks ago, I spent the night in an Indian's cabin.”

“How long has it been since you were vaccinated?” The question came fast and direct.

Hardy heard the words, but they felt like they were coming from far away. He tried to respond, but he couldn't speak as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Swiftly, Keith Morely undressed the man and looked seriously at the unmistakable outburst on his broad chest and armpits.

“Smallpox!” he exclaimed. “There’s a lot of it in the north this winter.”

Turning to the officer’s pack, he opened it and took out the medical kit. It was a well-stocked case, showcasing the thoroughness of the equipment the northern patrolmen carry.

“One thing is for sure. The officer can't take me prisoner now, and I can’t just leave him here to die from neglect. When the owner of this cabin comes back, I’ll leave. But not before,” Morely said grimly.

With unusual skill, he bathed Hardy's fevered body at regular intervals. He gave him medication from the cabinet and applied an ointment to the quickly growing eruptions.

“What a twist of fate,” he muttered. “The hunter is brought down, and the hunted takes care of him.” The man’s lips curled into a humorless smile, but his eyes were serious, filled with shadows.

Slowly, the days dragged on. The snow pushed back against the sun, and the country was buried under an impenetrable blanket of white.

The owner of the cabin did not come back. “Buried in snow, somewhere,” Morely thought grimly as he fought for the officer's life. No top doctor could have been more invested in the challenge of a tough case than Keith Morely. For hours, he sat by the sick man’s side, listening to the fragmented delirium.

“He’s been through a lot. The guys on the northern patrol have it rough,” the man listening thought.

Sometimes, as the days went by, Morely took his rifle and came back with fresh meat.

The fever went down, and the crisis was over. "Got him through," Morely thought, a spark of professional satisfaction in his eyes.

He closed the blue service book that belonged to Hardy. The book he had been studying and memorizing. While Hardy slept, his first deep, natural sleep since his illness, Morely took off his own clothes.

“Lucky for us that we're the same height and build,” he thought as he put on Hardy’s uniform, which he had cleaned.

Completely dressed in Sergeant Hardy’s uniform, he looked a lot like the officer in build. The only difference was his face, which would be partly covered by the fur parka hood.

“In this uniform, I can get to Montreal without being chased. There, I can get other clothes, withdraw money from the bank, and make it to the border. From now until I reach Montreal, I’m Sergeant Porter Hardy!” The man straightened his shoulders and lifted his head.

“I’m totally safe. It’ll be weeks before the officer can get out and start chasing me again. By then, I’ll be in the States.”

He turned, walked to the bunk, and stood staring down at the quietly sleeping man. “Glad I didn’t leave him to die like a dog,” he murmured. “Don’t have that on my conscience.”

Hardy turned, opened his eyes with a spark of clarity in them. He looked at the uniformed figure next to him. Confusion filled his gaze, and then he gradually looked around the cabin.

“Ha, I remember. I got really sick!” He tried to sit up but collapsed back weakly. “I’ve been through a rough time,” he thought. “Good to see another fellow in the service here. How long have I been sick? And what’s wrong with me?”

Morely looked down at him. Finally:

“You’ve had smallpox. But you’re doing much better now. Recovering.”

Hardy gasped in surprise. That voice! No two voices in the world are the same.

Why was this officer in front of him speaking with the voice of the mail robber he was after? He shut his eyes. It must have been weakness that led to this hallucination.

“You've been sick for three weeks. You've been really unwell, but you're on the road to recovery now,” that annoying voice continued. “I’ll stick with you until you can get out of bed and take care of yourself, then—I’ll move on.”

Hallucination be damned! Hardy’s eyes shot open. He stared for a long time at the uniform. His own, of course—there was that patched-up tear on the tunic sleeve and that smudge of oil on the left trouser leg!

His eyes turned to the man's face.

“I know you. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you leave?” The voice was faint but firm.

“And leave you to die! I’m not that kind of jerk,” Morely said disdainfully.

“Then I owe my recovery to you?”

“You owe your life to me, to put it simply. No one has come near the cabin because I put a red rag over the door. A few Native Americans have passed by. I called out to them from a distance. They said smallpox is spreading from the James Bay waters to the Athabasca lake region.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes. And for the service I’ve provided, I’m taking your uniform,” Morely said casually. “Once you’re better, you can wear my clothes.”

The guys exchanged silent looks.

He turned and walked over to the fireplace where an iron kettle was hanging. Soon, he came back.

“A cup of nice strong caribou broth.” He offered the cup, lifted and supported Hardy while the officer ate.

“All you need to do now is recover your strength. In a few days, you’ll be able to move around a bit to keep your fire going. The wood shed is full. I've fixed up my supplies for it. There's plenty of meat, and I’ll leave a big batch cooked so you won’t have to cook for several days. By then, you’ll be strong enough—”

“You're really thoughtful—given the situation,” Hardy said.

“Forget being considerate. I'm just doing what's sporting—”

“Criminals often don’t think about that,” Hardy interrupted flatly.

Morely lifted his head in surprise. Hardy, who was observing him intently, noticed the quick widening of his eyes and the sharp intake of breath.

“Now you've talked enough. By the way, your voice is really strong. You'll heal quickly. No doubt that's because of the strong bodies you guys in the service have. Now go back to sleep. I want you to regain your strength fast, because I'm eager to leave.”

A few days later, he left. The cabin felt oddly lonely, strangely abandoned to Hardy as he lay on the bunk, listening to the fading crunch, crunch of footsteps as Morely moved from the cabin onto the trail.

The next morning, before Morely had crawled out of his sleeping bag, he heard the ringing of bells.

An Indian coming from the opposite direction he had traveled appeared on the trail. His dogs were thin and moved slowly.

"How is the pest?" Morely asked in Cree.

The Indian stopped for a moment. He slouched, and his shoulders hung low.

“It spreads like a wildfire. It's hit the Crees at Woelaston Lake. It's decimating the Chippewayans between Albany and Churchill.”

The Indian spoke with a calm, expressionless face, but his eyes were full of sadness. Morely waited, a deep fear in his heart.

“The Crees are crying out their death songs as they search for the bones of their loved ones beneath the burned cabins, because the white men are setting fire to all the cabins that have been infected. Our dogs are howling sadly for masters whose voices are silent.”

“I passed many trap houses. They were unbaited; in some, the traps had been sprung, yet the trappers did not come to collect their catch. The snowshoe trails were many days old.”

“Where are you from? Have you gone past Nichikun Lake yet?”

"I came through there—"

"Are there a lot of sick people?" Morely interrupted quickly.

“Many are sick. The factor, his wife, and his clerk have answered the call of the Great Spirit.”

Morely’s face was pale. “Who looks after the sick?”

“The priest with hair as white as fresh snow and a slow step burdened by many years.” He looked at the still, pale man. “I have spoken.” His voice dropped, serious. The long line of dogs trudged slowly down the path.

“This is the worst epidemic the North has ever seen,” Morely thought.

It was the year when the north fiercely battled the great disaster. The plague claimed a thousand lives before it finally gave in to the heroic efforts of a few brave men and women.

“And Father du Bois, that gentle, kind old saint, is fighting alone at his post. Enduring the stench and the horror of it! And he is old and fragile. I am young, strong, with knowledge and skills.” The man stared across the vast wasteland.

“If I go back, it means prison for me, because sooner or later I will get caught. When Hardy gets better, he will pick up the trail. And yet, oh my God, to run like a coward! To leave behind suffering, dying people when I can prevent many deaths, when I can help stop the spread of this epidemic.

“McAndrews, his wife, and the clerk are gone! And Father du Bois, patiently and tirelessly, is fighting his lonely battle. He needs me, the North needs me. What a difference I could make!”

He looked toward Nichikun Post. His internal struggle continued without a sound. Eventually, he turned, packed his things, and skipped making breakfast. The intense message from the Arctic sky had resonated deep within him. With tight lips and determined eyes, he faced Nichikun Post.

“I’m making slow progress on foot. If only I could get a sled and some dogs!” Morely muttered.

With the morning came the snow. After a quick breakfast, he moved on. The wind picked up, blowing the snow like millions of icy needles through the gray sky.

Toward noon, Morley saw a cabin sitting like a squat black bug on a field of white. His heart raced as he noticed the column of black smoke rising from its chimney and a team of five dogs with a sled in front of the place. With his head down against the wind that pushed at him with every step, he made his way there. The dogs started howling as he got closer. A door was thrown open.

“Rough day,” a few words were said as he took off his webs and walked in. The warmth of the room hit him pleasantly. Morely put his arms through the straps and left the pack outside the cabin. His lips were frozen from the cold. For a moment, he couldn't speak or see in the bright firelight.

“Was just about to leave, but I’ll stick around for a bit and hear the news. How’s the troublemaker?”

As the man spoke, another figure came into the small cabin from the wooden house.

“Well, Jacques, do you have more company?” a warm, friendly voice shouted.

“I’m not staying long. I’m in a hurry. I want those dogs of yours. They were sent out on detail, so I need to rush,” Morely said quietly.

He took off his parka, shaking off the snow, and stood there in his uniform.

“Well met. What area are you from and what's your name? I’m Corporal English, from Moose Factory.”

Morely turned around. So blinded had he been by snow and wind, he had not seen the man's uniform when he came in.

“Jacques, he has an honor. Two men of the Mounted under his roof,” the French trapper murmured. His round black eyes looked admirably at the impressive physique of the two men. Both of them stood six feet tall, with deep chests, strong shoulders, and slim waists.

Regretfully, he rubbed his hand over his round belly.

“I’m Hardy, Lake St. John,” Morley said coolly, meeting the other’s steady gaze.

He turned to Jacques. “I need to take over your team.”

“You’re Porter Hardy?” Corporal English asked.

“Yes.” Morely answered without hesitation. He couldn't afford to hesitate!

“What can I do? Mr. English has bought my team and sled before you arrived.” Jacques spread his hand in despair.

“And I’ll keep them. Raise your hands while you tell me why you’re in a service uniform pretending to be Sergeant Hardy! I know Hardy. Explain yourself. Who are you?”

The words struck deep.

Morely looked from a pair of unyielding eyes to the blue barrel of English's gun.

With the quickness of a cougar, Morely ducked and lunged at English. An upward jab sent the gun clattering to the floor.

Jacques, wide-eyed, moved to a corner, watching the two men as they grappled. He had not understood those few quick words of English.

The men, with their arms wrapped around each other, tumbled over and over, each looking for a chance to break free. Finally, English pulled an arm free. His big hand went around Morley’s throat, cutting off his air.

But not for long. As they rolled on the floor, Morley gradually took control of their movements, getting himself closer to the fallen revolver.

Desperately reaching out with his arm and long fingers, he touched the handle of the gun. His chest was rising with shallow breaths as he tried to breathe. There was a roar in his ears, and a drop of blood fell from his nostrils.

With one long finger, he pulled the back of the gun closer. His fingers wrapped around it.

Jacques in his corner watched with captivated eyes. He noticed that English’s face was turned away from that outstretched arm, making him oblivious to Morely’s action.

Suddenly, English felt the barrel pressed against his side. He turned his head and saw the desperation in Morely's eyes.

His grip loosened. Morley took a breath that relieved his strained lungs.

Slowly, English got to his feet. With a graceful leap, Morely faced him, finger poised on the trigger.

Without taking his eyes off the officer’s face, Morely spoke to the intrigued Jacques.

“I have to take your dogs, but don’t worry. They’ll either be brought back to you, or I’ll send you payment. Write your name on a piece of paper. Then step outside. Put my pack in the sled. Do you have any cooked meat available?”

“Yeah, sir” Jacques replied with bright eyes. He had instantly warmed up to this man.

“Put everything you have in the sled. Also, any fish you can spare for the dogs.”

He spoke to English as Jacques eagerly jumped to fulfill his request.

“If you block that doorway until I’m out of range, I’ll take my shot. And there’s no one in the north who shoots better than I do.”

Slowly, he walked back to the door, grabbed his parka, and stepped outside.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He jumped into the sled and lay flat. As his "mush" shout went up, a bullet from English's rifle, with the barrel sticking out from under the window, roared through the storm.

The dogs ran ahead, instinctively moving towards the trail, just a short distance from the cabin.

Morely smiled wryly. “Good thing I stayed down, or he would have got me.”

Again, bullets fired at the running man. The snow and sleet were so heavy, and the wind so strong that visibility was poor even at a short distance.

When they got to that trail, the cabin was out of sight.

Morely jumped off the sled, pulled the fur parka over his head, and guided the dogs toward Nichikun.

He got back into the long light sled, and the sound of a moose-hide whip sliced through the sleet. The dogs, well-fed and in great shape, jumped forward eagerly. They needed speed. They would deliver speed.

Daily, Hardy's strength was increasing.

Longer each day he sat in the big chair in front of the crackling fire; then he took a few more steps until he could reach the door.

Constantly, his thoughts circled around the man who had stayed with him and helped him through this siege.

The weeks dragged on until a month had gone by since Morley's departure.

The weather was nice and clear, with bright sunshine. The white landscape shimmered and sparkled like a sea of flashing jewels.

“I’m strong enough now. If I had dogs, I would have left a week ago.”

Hardy stood in the open door of the cabin, looking out over the landscape. In the distance, he spotted a few dark shapes coming down the trail. Slowly, the shapes became clearer and turned into a team of dogs pulling a sled, with a man at the front.

Opposite the cabin, the team turned and headed towards the small building.

“Keep your distance! Smallpox!” he yelled.

Steadily, the mixed-race individual approached. When he got close to the cabin, he stopped.

“Me, I heard you, mais eet not matter. I’m just over the pest.” The trapper lifted a scarred and pitted face to Hardy.

“Here is my cabin. I was away in a line cabin when the illness struck me. I have been gone for many weeks, but now I, Le Massan, am well and have come home.”

“Well, it’s good to be home.” He released the dogs from their harness, walked into the cabin, and closed the door behind him.

Rapidly, Hardy explained why he was in the man's cabin and talked about the fugitive he was chasing.

“Many strange things happen during the plague. This man saved your life,” Le Massan said thoughtfully, “and now you’re going to catch him and imprison him? That’s strange.” He shrugged.

“Personal obligation has nothing to do with my responsibilities.”

“Yes? I’m glad I’m just a trapper, because the woman who finds me when I’m sick and nurses me back to health, I will marry. So does Le Massan give his thanks. Mr. Officer, isn’t a man’s life worth anything if he doesn’t give thanks?”

Le Massan's voice and attitude were critical. He looked disapprovingly at Hardy.

“It’s not as easy as you think,” he said tiredly. “Now, my friend, I need your dogs and sled, along with some gear. I’ll pay you in cash. I have money in my money belt.”

“Did this man not take your money?”

“No, he’s not that kind of—thief.” Within an hour, Hardy was gone. Le Massan watched with disapproving eyes as Hardy headed down the trail.

“Which way did he go? North or south? I think he headed south, maybe to the nearest train station. But that thought feels too obvious—way too obvious. So, I decide to go north.”

The day was amazing. Clear and bright, with the sun shining brilliantly.

It was that in-between time between the dark of winter and the arrival of spring, when the world looked almost otherworldly. The bright sun shone with an intense light. Trees and bushes sparkled with incredible beauty.

Hardy had been on the trail for several days when he started to notice his blurred vision. “My eyes are weak. Smallpox often leaves your sight in a weakened state,” he reassured himself.

Yet the next morning when he woke up, he found his eyelids stuck together with a thick, sticky substance. Relying solely on touch, he made his fire and melted a small bucket of snow. For an hour, he soaked his swollen eyelids, finally getting them apart. But his vision was blurry, and an unbearable pain stabbed at his eyes.

All day he kept moving, shutting his eyes as much as he could against a world that shimmered like polished steel. His vision grew dimmer. By mid-afternoon, darkness surrounded him.

“Snowblind!” For a moment, panic took hold of him, but his strong will quickly brought it under control.

“Other guys have gone through the same thing and made it out okay,” he told himself grimly.

He sat in the sled as the dogs trotted across the wind-swept ice, his ears straining to hear the sounds of other sleds or the crunch of the runners.

“Must be around sunset,” Hardy said. “Better stop here.”

Suddenly, the lead dog let out a surprised yelp, followed by a rough chorus of howls.

Desperately, Hardy squinted with his blind eyes. A loud bang, a series of ominous cracks, the sound of a fast-moving current beneath the ice told the story. Amid the terrified noise from the struggling dogs, Hardy jumped off the sled. The cracks were spreading, widening like a sunburst. Hardy felt the water under his boots.

Swiftly, he jumped back. “Oh, God, for just a glimpse!” he gasped. Slowly and carefully, he retraced his steps. The ice grew solid beneath his boots. He stopped, listening to the frantic struggles and wild cries of the team, until, one by one, their voices fell silent.

He heard the sound of the sled being pulled into the water.

It’s not unusual in northern waters to find that strange, warm undercurrent where a thin layer of ice develops. The ice looks harmless, but when something heavy is placed on it, it breaks unexpectedly and dangerously.

Hardy kept walking backward, knowing that if he turned around, he wouldn’t be sure which way he was headed.

“Looks bad,” he muttered. “Blankets and supplies are gone with the sled. I’ll have to keep moving to maintain circulation.”

Wearily, he walked through that long night. By morning, his muscles had stiffened like raw cowhide. Weakened by his illness, his strength faded quickly.

Toward morning, he tripped over a low bush covered in snow. Without realizing it, he had almost made a complete circle across the river and arrived at the forested shore.

Eagerly, with heavy breaths, he searched through the brush, gathered a pile, and carried it to the shore ice. There were matches in the waterproof case in his parka pocket. He quickly started a fire, a flickering, smoldering little flame, but its warmth was incredibly comforting to the chilled man.

Many curious and fearful eyes from the culvert and hilltop watched that fire.

Hardy didn't realize it, but death was close, hiding with fangs and claws. If he let that fire go out, the gray horrors of the wild would come after him.

The old priest raised a trembling hand and touched Morely’s face, half in fear. “Is it really you, my son? I’ve dreamed so many times that you came like this, only to wake up. Are you real or is this just another dream?”

His weary, hollow eyes looked anxiously at the man.

Morely threw an arm around the slumped shoulders, pulling the frail body close for a moment. “It’s me, Dad. And the first thing I’m going to do is get you to bed. You’re exhausted. You need to rest. I’ll take care of things here—”

“Good God! How often have I prayed for your return, my son! God is good.”

Morely reached the height of the epidemic and dedicated himself completely to the fight. He worked day and night, taking only short breaks to rest.

“If only I had fresh vaccine!” he groaned. Vigorously, he separated the healthy from the sick; struggled to keep crying mothers away from their dying children, and fought to keep fathers away from their stricken sons.

“My son, you must rest. You work too hard,” the old priest said anxiously.

“Does a soldier take a break during a fight, Dad? When the enemy is falling back, when they’ve been defeated, then I will rest,” Morely said seriously.

For a while, the bell in the chapel rang every day. Then, it started ringing less frequently, until a week went by without any deaths.

“We nailed it, Dad!” An excited light sparkled in Morely’s eyes, but his face was tight, pale from exhaustion.

A week went by without any new cases. The people recovering were getting stronger.

“There’s not much to do at the Post right now, Dad. I have some time to check in on a few cabins in the woods. There might be people who need help there.”

In one cabin, he discovered a dead body. The cabin had been burned.

Toward evening, he noticed the glow from a campfire.

“Some traveler. Better check this out,” he thought.

His webs were almost silent as he approached, yet Hardy’s sharp ears caught the soft crunch.

“Help!” he shouted.

Hoarse as the voice was, Morley recognized it. He stopped dead in his tracks, completely still, hardly breathing, frozen with shock.

Screened behind a large tree, Morely watched Hardy take hesitant steps forward and saw him bump into a tree. Amazement filled the observer.

It was getting dark, but there was still enough light to see the trees and bushes.

“Blind! I left the cabin too early. And what a bloodhound he is! He’s tracked me almost to the Post!”

Rapidly, Morley thought and planned. He connected with the officer.

“Ha, there you are,” the blind man shouted. “I thought you had left. I need help. Snowblind.”

Morely looked at the swollen eyelids, stuck together over the blind eyes. He grabbed Hardy’s arm. In a rough, raspy voice, he said a few words in Cree.

“You're an Indian? Then take me to your cabin. The glare of the sun on the snow is blinding me.”

“I'll take you to my lodge,” he grunted in Cree. Hardy let out a sigh of relief.

Morely, who was recognized and respected as a great healer among the Crees of Northern Quebec, knew he could count on Migisi.

When the Indian heard the men coming, he flung open his door. Morley shook his head and pointed a warning at Hardy.

He led the officer into the cozy, candlelit room.

The delicious smell of grilling deer steak filled the air.

“Ha, this feels and smells great,” Hardy exclaimed.

Beckoning to Migisi, Morley left the cabin, and the Indian followed.

Lowering his voice carefully, he told the Indian:

“I have brought this guy to you. He’s snowblind. I found him on the shore trail. But I don’t want him to hear my voice. He thinks an Indian found him because I spoke to him in Cree. Let him think no one is in the cabin except himself and you. Migisi understands?”

The Indian man nodded.

“Watch how I take care of his eyes. When I leave at dawn, you keep the treatment going until the light hits his eyes again.”

“If he can’t see by the third sun, come to me. Take care of him, Migisi. I’ll reward you with a two-pound tin of tobacco.”

Migisi’s footsteps in his moccasins were silent as he got dinner ready.

“Migisi care for your eyes now,” the Indian grunted. For an hour, he watched Morely apply the snow compresses on pieces of flour sack that he had sterilized by boiling for a long time.

With the dawn, Morely left and headed to the Post.

“He won’t leave the cabin until his eyes are completely healed. He understands that it would be too risky for his vision, and no matter how impatient he feels, he knows a blind person can’t serve.” Morely thought.

“I have a week. But I need to leave before then. I won’t take any chances because he’ll head for the Post first thing. God!” The bitter exclamation came out suddenly. “How different this has turned out from what I had planned! And it’s all my fault. If I had stayed hidden, if Hardy hadn’t seen my face when I stopped the mail, everything would have been fine.

“I would never have been suspected and could have returned to the Post as I planned. Everything went wrong because of that one mistake. Plus, I had no idea a Mounted officer would be traveling with the carrier.”

There was a constant sound of axes and saws in the air. The men at the Post were busy cutting down trees, building new cabins, and making new tables, chairs, and bunk beds. The Post was recovering from its weeks of distress.

The morning of the third day after he found Hardy, Migisi went to the Post to find Morely.

“The white man's eyes have been opened to the truth. This morning, he was able to see me.”

Morely turned to his supply shelves, grabbed a tin of tobacco, and handed it to the waiting Indian. Once the Indian left, Morely quickly walked to the old priest’s cabin.

“I have to leave tonight. It's tough to go, but you can take care of the recovery, and the new person will be here any day. Our moccasin telegraph has spread the news about the deaths of McAndrews, his wife, and his clerk to the major posts. They’ve probably already informed the company.”

“Father, I’m leaving tonight. I—” Morely paused. It was hard to lie while looking into those kind, loving eyes.

There was a crunch of snow underfoot outside. Someone paused to take off their snowshoes, then knocked on the cabin door. The old priest rushed to the door and flung it open.

The man in the doorway looked over the white head, straight into Morely's eyes.

“We meet again,” he said. His voice was sharp and cold.

Morely looked from the barrel of the drawn gun into Sergeant Hardy's eyes!

“I’m arresting you for stealing the mail. Hands up!” Sergeant Hardy’s sharp voice shattered the silence.

“Arrest—mail—what do you mean?” the old priest stammered.

He turned to Hardy. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“I am Sergeant Hardy of the Mounted. I was with Jim King, the mail driver, when this man stopped us.” Hardy’s voice softened as he looked into the troubled eyes of the old priest.

“There's definitely some mistake. This is Dr. Keith Morley—”

“No mistake, Dad. Just look at him. Ask him if you need to.”

“My son, are you a mail robber? For God’s sake, why?”

“I’d like to know that too,” Hardy remarked dryly.

“Tell us.” Again, the softly spoken voice of Father du Bois.

“There was something in the mail I had to get.” Morley’s voice dropped. “I traveled across the country to catch it. I planned to get what I wanted and come back here."

“All would have gone as I had planned, except that Sergeant Hardy was traveling a distance with the driver. He saw my face. I realized then that I would have to leave the country. I intended to do so, but fate had other plans.”

“But, you were gone so long.” Father du Bois paused in confusion.

“A blizzard rolled in. The sergeant and I both took shelter in the same cabin. He was sick—with the plague. I stayed with him until he was recovering.”

“He saved my life, Dad.” For the first time during Morely’s story, Hardy spoke.

Morely looked at the officer’s swollen eyelids.

“You got your sight back fast,” he said, “but you need to be careful with your eyes.”

Hardy looked at him in disbelief. How did this guy know about his recent blindness?

“How do you know I’m blind?” Hardy asked quickly.

“I didn't mean to bring it up. It just came out without me realizing, but I was the one who found you by your campfire and took you to the Indian's cabin. I spoke to you in Cree so you wouldn't recognize my voice.”

“Another obligation, Morely. Looks like I'm really in your debt.” The men stared at each other in silence.

“Will you keep telling your story?” There was something unusual in Hardy’s voice. “Why did you come back here when you had planned to do something else?”

“I met a Native American on the trail. He told me about the factor’s and his wife’s deaths. I realized I was needed. I knew Father du Bois was fighting it alone. I had to go back.”

Grimly Hardy nodded. The three sat in silence. After a while, Morely said, “Did you get the sack of mail, sergeant? I hope it was in good shape?”

Hardy stared at Morely blankly.

“What do you mean?” he snapped.

“Why, did you come back for the bag? It wasn’t far from the cabin where we stayed.” It was Morely’s turn to speak sharply. He stared at Hardy’s blank expression in disbelief. “You read my note, right?”

"What message?"

“The note I put in the parka pocket. The one you’re wearing.”

Hardy reached deep into his pocket. Wedged in a corner was a small folded piece of paper. He hadn't seen it before. He pulled it out and looked at it blankly.

He read aloud:

The room was quiet. After a while, Hardy asked, “What did you take from the bag?”

“A letter. I wasn't really interested in the mail besides that. I planned to put it where it would eventually be found. Of course, my gun threat was just a bluff. I wouldn’t have shot—”

“Whose letter was it that you took such risks to get?” Hardy asked quickly.

“The factory's, McAndrews. I had to have it.”

"Explain, Morley."

“I'll explain at headquarters,” he said slowly.

Father du Bois placed a shaking hand on Hardy’s arm.

“Sergeant, I beg you, don’t take this man. You can free him if you choose to. You are not just an enforcer of the law. You are the law itself. You, who are invested with the authority of the courts, can make your own court here, try, and release this man.”

Hardy was quiet, his troubled gaze fixed on the priest’s pleading eyes.

“There is so much sickness. The people need the doctor. He is definitely needed. Don’t take him away.”

“Dad, I can’t be the judge in this situation.” Hardy’s voice was quiet. “I understand everything you’re saying. And I know I have a duty to my prisoner. But, Dad, you, who wouldn’t betray a confession, can’t expect me to break the Mounted code? I can’t let my personal feelings influence my decision.”

Keith Morley got up.

“I’m ready, sergeant. By the way, your uniform is at my cabin. I’m sure you want to wear it? It’s been cleaned and aired out. We’ll stop by the store and pick up a pair of very dark goggles for your eyes. You need to be careful.”

Hardy was filled with admiration. Damn, he really liked this guy. No flinching, no pleading for mercy. His voice was calm and steady.

Morely turned. Silently, the priest's hands gripped his.

“When you’re trapped between dark walls, stay strong, my son. My prayers are always with you, and I’ll be here waiting for you to come back.” The soft voice wavered.

The two men walked to the door. With misty eyes, the priest listened to the fading crunch of their footsteps.

“It looks like you’re going too far in arguing for this guy, sergeant.”

Inspector McKenzie studied Hardy's sincere expression closely.

“I’ve just given you a detailed report, sir. I should add that the prisoner saved my life. I believe it happened twice. I also reported what I’ve heard about him. I asked around at every post on my way here. I spoke with people who know him. He is respected by everyone.

“He has dedicated three years of his life to the North without any recognition. His contributions are priceless because, as you know, sir, we can't find half the doctors we need up here. He eliminated the outbreak at Nichikun. In other posts, it’s still spreading. And Jim King, the driver, has died as well.”

The inspector sat quietly. “Bring in your prisoner,” he said at last.

Hardy nodded, leaving the inspector's court. Morley looked up with tired eyes, asking questions.

“He’s ready for you. And Dr. Morely, I want to say I’m sorry. Damn it, I’m sorry. I wish I could have—”

“I get it, sergeant.” The voice was quiet, tense.

Inspector McKenzie glared intently at the man in front of him.

“What do you have to say?” he snapped.

"I needed that letter."

“Why?” the inspector shouted.

“Haven’t you read it? I handed it to the sergeant.”

“I want to hear your story first. Then I’ll read it.”

“McAndrews and I had a nasty fight. He accused me of having too friendly relations with a mixed-race girl at the Post. The accusation was untrue. The girl was just thankful for me helping her survive a bad case of pneumonia. Someone had stirred up McAndrews’s suspicions, and he was being really stubborn. He wouldn’t listen to me or believe me.

“His daughter Alice and I are engaged. She is spending the winter in Quebec, and we were supposed to get married when she comes back.

“He wrote to her, describing the kind of man he thought I was, and told her to end our engagement right away.”

“She’s the kind of girl who completely believes in her dad. She thinks he can do no wrong and that he’s never wrong. She’s loyal and devoted to him. He insisted I read his letter, probably to make me understand that Alice was lost to me for good. And she would have been. She would never have listened to me.” Morely paused for a moment.

“I knew the letter was sent out in that mail. I was determined to get it. And I did.”

Involuntarily, McKenzie nodded. Did a memory of his own passionate youth come back to him? A youth that would risk everything for someone they loved?

“I planned to go back to the Post right away. My brief absence wouldn't have been noticed since I frequently wander into the woods where illness has been reported. In about a week, I intended to head to Quebec and persuade Alice to marry me there. I believe she would have—because we love each other. Then we would have returned to the Post. My work is here in the North, and it's what I love.”

Morely went silent.

“Looks to me like it was an act of—uh—fate that Alice McAndrews never got that letter. With her father and mother gone, the poor girl needs the man she loves,” Hardy suggested. He kept a cautious watch on the inspector as he spoke.

McKenzie stared intently at his sergeant, then picked up McAndrews's letter. He read it carefully, his thick brows furrowed and his expression serious.

Morely’s hopes faded. There was no warmth, no compassion in that stone-like face.

To be stuck in prison while the plague was still going strong! When he was so desperately needed! And Alice, alone in her grief—he groaned out loud.

Hardy's expression was brooding as he observed McKenzie.

“The law acknowledges extenuating circumstances,” McKenzie said. “I believe I have valid reasons to dismiss this case. You’re free to go, Dr. Morely.”

He got up and extended his hand. Inspector McKenzie’s eyes sparkled as he gazed at his sergeant.