He had thought a crime, and he clenched his mittened hands as he stared
at the one window of the cabin. His eyes shifted upward. In the air was a
filmy, floating gray. It was smoke coming from the chimney. Peter God was
not dead.
Something kept him from shouting Peter God's name, that the trapper might
come to the door. He went to the window, and looked in. For a few moments
he could see nothing. And then, dimly, he made out the cot against the
wall. And Peter God sat on the cot, hunched forward, his head in his
hands. With a quick breath Philip turned to the door, opened it, and
entered the cabin. Peter God staggered to his feet as the door opened.
His eyes were wild and filled with fever.
"You--Curtis!" he cried huskily. "My God, didn't you see the flag?"
"Yes."
Philip's half-frozen features were smiling, and now he was holding out a
hand from which he had drawn his mitten.
"Lucky I happened along just now, old man. You've got it, eh?"
Peter God shrank back from the other's outstretched hand.
"There's time," he cried, pointing to the door.
"Don't breathe this air. Get out. I'm not bad yet--but it's smallpox,
Curtis!"
"I know it," said Philip, beginning to throw off his hood and coat. "I'm
not afraid of it. I had a touch of it three years ago over on the Gray
Buzzard, so I guess I'm immune. Besides, I've come two thousand miles to
see you, Peter God--two thousand miles to bring you a letter from
Josephine McCloud.
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