"Let us go," she said; then, presently: "No, let us sit here and forget that we have been talking."
I was satisfied. We sat down. She watched the scene silently, and
I watched her. I felt that it would be my lot to see stranger things
happen to her than I had seen before; but all in a different fashion.
I had more hope for my friend, for Ruth Devlin, for—!
I then became silent even to myself. The weltering river, the fishers and their labour and their songs, the tall dark hills, the deep gloomy pastures, the flaring lights, were then in a dream before me; but I was thinking, planning.
As we sat there, we heard noises, not very harmonious, interrupting the song of the salmon-fishers. We got up to see. A score of river-drivers were marching down through the village, mocking the fishers and making wild mirth. The Indians took little notice, but the half-breeds and white fishers were restless.
"There will be trouble here one day," said Mrs. Falchion.
"A free fight which will clear the air," I said.
"I should like to see it—it would be picturesque, at least," she added cheerfully; "for I suppose no lives would be lost."
"One cannot tell," I answered; "lives do not count so much in new lands."
"Killing is hateful, but I like to see courage."
And she did see it.