Declute felt for his pipe, lit it, and threw the charred match down with a shudder.
Paisley stepped from the boat and brushed past him up the path.
“You told Mac, I suppose?”
“Yep, they know it, and Gloss she is takin’ on some. I guess she thought a lot of poor old Noah.”
“I reckon she did,” agreed Paisley; “he brought her here nigh twenty years ago.”
They found Big McTavish carrying fodder from the corn-stalk stack into the log-stable. From the chinks of the barn between the logs came the white breath of the oxen, and the chickens released from their coop ran in and out of its open door.
“Bill,” said the big man, his blue eyes humid with feeling, “it looks as though poor old Noah went with the schooner.”
“It does,” nodded Paisley. “Mac, we all know who it was burned the boat, and bad as we know Hallibut to be, it’s awful to think he would sacrifice that old man so’s there wouldn’t be a witness against him when he tries to prove we did it. It’s awful!”
Boy came up, his face worn and his eyes heavy. He placed the spade he carried inside the stable door and turned away up the path.
Paisley stepped forward and threw his arm about Boy’s shoulders.