“There’s nuthin’ in the Bush that can skeer Joseph Defago, and don’t

you forget it!” And the natural energy with which he spoke made it

impossible to know whether he told the whole truth or only a part of

it.

Hank turned towards the doctor. He was just going to add something

when he stopped abruptly and looked round. A sound close behind them in

the darkness made all three start. It was old Punk, who had moved up

from his lean-to while they talked and now stood there just behind the

circle of firelight — listening.

” ‘Nother time, Doc!” Hank whispered, with a wink, “when the

gallery ain’t stepped down into the stalls!” And, springing to his

feet, he slapped the Indian on the back and cried noisily, “Come up t’

the fire an’ warm yer dirty red skin a bit.” He dragged him towards the

blaze and threw more wood on. “That was a mighty good feed you give us

an hour or two back,” he continued heartily, as though to set the man’s

thoughts on another scent, “and it ain’t Christian to let you stand

there freezin’ yer soul to hell while we’re gettin’ all good an’

toasted!” Punk moved in and warmed his feet, smiling darkly at the

other’s volubility which he only half understood, but saying nothing.

And presently Dr. Cathcart, seeing that further conversation was

impossible, followed his nephew’s example and moved off to the tent,

leaving the three men smoking over the now blazing fire.

It is not easy to undress in a small tent without waking one’s

companion, and Cathcart, hardened and warm-blooded as he was in spite

of his fifty odd years, did what Hank would have described as

“considerable of his twilight” in the open. He noticed, during the

process, that Punk had meanwhile gone back to his lean-to, and that

Hank and Defago were at it hammer and tongs, or rather, hammer and

anvil, the little French Canadian being the anvil. It was all very like

the conventional stage picture of Western melodrama: the fire lighting

up their faces with patches of alternate red and black; Defago, in

slouch hat and moccasins in the part of the “badlands” villain; Hank,

open-faced and hatless, with that reckless fling of his shoulders, the

honest and deceived hero; and old Punk, eavesdropping in the

background, supplying the atmosphere of mystery. The doctor smiled as

he noticed the details; but at the same time something deep within him

— he hardly knew what — shrank a little, as though an almost

imperceptible breath of warning had touched the surface of his soul and

was gone again before he could seize it. Probably it was traceable to

that “scared expression” he had seen in the eyes of; “probably” — for

this hint of fugitive emotion otherwise escaped his usually so keen

analysis. Defago, he was vaguely aware, might cause trouble somehow . .

. He was not as steady a guide as Hank, for instance … Further than

that he could not get …

He watched the men a moment longer before diving into the stuffy

tent where Simpson already slept soundly. Hank, he saw, was swearing

like a mad African in a New York nigger saloon; but it was the swearing

of “affection.” The ridiculous oaths flew freely now that the cause of

their obstruction was asleep. Presently he put his arm almost tenderly

upon his comrade’s shoulder, and they moved off together into the

shadows where their tent stood faintly glimmering. Punk, too, a moment

later followed their example and disappeared between his odorous

blankets in the opposite direction.

Dr. Cathcart then likewise turned in, weariness and sleep still

fighting in his mind with an obscure curiosity to know what it was had

scared Defago about the country up Fifty Island Water way, -wondering, too, why Punk’s presence had prevented the completion of

what Hank had to say. Then sleep overtook him. He would know to-morrow.

Hank would tell him the story while they trudged after the elusive

moose.

Deep silence fell about the little camp, planted there so

audaciously in the jaws of the wilderness. The lake gleamed like a

sheet of black glass beneath the stars. The cold air pricked. In the

draughts of night that poured their silent tide from the depths of the

forest, with messages from distant ridges and from lakes just beginning

to freeze, there lay already the faint, bleak odours of coming winter.