held it close against the side of the motor boat, the trained eyes of the older man taking in at a glance every detail of their find. His brows drew together in a frown and he gave a low whistle.
“Somethin’ queer, here, kid. We ain’t the first that’s found him! Come on, let’s get him ashore.”
Connie made a light line fast to the bow of the canoe, McKeever started his engine, and the Aurora chugged slowly toward the bank, dragging the canoe in her wake.
A worn blanket in which were rolled a small can of tea, a corked “pain killer” bottle containing a few sulphur matches, an old velvet “moss bag” in which were some shreds of pemmican, a small bottle of black rifle powder, and a filthy rag in which were wrapped a few lead slugs, constituted the Indian’s trail pack. The officers removed the body and laid it upon the worn blanket, and Sergeant McKeever turned to the boy:
“What do you make of it, son? Look sharp. You’re a member of the Force, now, an’ it’s up to you to use your brains.”
“It’s smallpox,” ventured Connie, with an involuntary shudder.
