Mac had seen from far off the faint blue banners of smoke blowing now right, now left, then tossed aloft in the pallid sunshine. He looked about sharply for the Boy, as he had been doing this two hours. There was the Jesuit bending over the fire, bettering the precarious position of a saucepan that insisted on sitting lop-sided, looking down into the heart of coals. Nicholas was holding up the tent-flap.
"Hello! How do!" he sang out, recognising Mac. The priest glanced up and nodded pleasantly. Two Indians, squatting on the other side of the fire, scrambled away as the shifting wind brought a cloud of stifling smoke into their faces. "Where's the Boy?" demanded Mac, arresting the stampede.
Nicholas's dog-driver stared, winked, and wiped his weeping, smoke-reddened eyes.
"Is he in there?" Mac looked towards the tent.
Andrew nodded between coughs.
"What's he doing in there? Call him out," ordered Mac.
"He no walk."
Mac's hard face took on a look of cast-iron tragedy.
The wind, veering round again, had brought the last words to the priest on the other side of the fire.
"Oh, it'll be all right by-and-by," he said cheerfully.