“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
The Indian asked no more questions just then, but hastened to open his pack. First he found a bottle of whisky, and made Haig take a long drink. Pete believed in two remedies for all human ills. He had a brew of herbs that he had inherited from his tribal ancestors, his sole inheritance besides his iron body. This brew was good for fevers; and whisky was good for everything else. Having doctored Haig with the whisky, he now turned to Marion with the brew. From a flask he poured some of the dark brown liquid into a cup, let it come just to a boil among the embers of the fire, and when it had cooled a little placed it to Marion’s lips. It was bitter, and she tried to draw away from it, but Pete forced her gently to drain the cup.
Whatever the brew might be worth, the whisky certainly was efficacious. Haig sat erect, and began hurling questions at the Indian.
“How did you get in here––in God’s name?” was the first.
“Black Lake country.”
“But how did you get in there?”
“Simpson’s Pass.”