She slipped from the room, and Watson looked across at Big McTavish.
“That girl,” he asked quickly, “is she your own child?”
The big man looked up, astonishment written on his face.
“No,” he answered, “but she’s just as dear as though she was our own. Her dyin’ mother sent her to us. Why do you ask that?”
Watson was reaching for his cap and rifle. Perhaps he did not hear the question. At any rate he did not reply.
Fifteen minutes later he mounted the weary gray horse and without so much as a word of adieu rode away through the timber.
McTavish stood on the edge of the clearing, his long arms folded, and watched his visitor disappear. Turning, he found the daft child beside him.
“Well, Davie,” he said kindly, “hadn’t you best run home now, lad? You’re all wet with the dew.”
The boy waved his arms above his head and imitated an eagle’s scream. Then he pointed to the white patch that marked the first blaze of the long trail.
“You mean the man on the white horse, Davie?” asked McTavish, smiling. “Yes, lad, I know.”