This was an unusual demonstration between these two. She watched him sadly for a moment, and then, leaning over and touching him gently on the shoulder, said: “It’s worse for you than it is for me, father. Don’t feel so bad. Perhaps we shall save him yet.”
He caught a gleam of hope in her words: “Mebbe, Jen, mebbe!” and he raised his face to the light.
This ritual of affection was crude and unadorned; but it was real. They sat there for half-an-hour, silent.
Then a figure came out of the shadows behind the house and stood before them. It was Pierre.
“I go to-morrow morning, Galbraith,” he said. The old man nodded, but did not reply.
“I go to Fort Desire,” the gambler added.
Jen faced him. “What do you go there for, Pretty Pierre?”
“It is my whim. Besides, there is Val. He might want a horse some dark night.”
“Pierre, do you mean that?”
“As much as Sergeant Tom means what he says. Every man has his friends. Pretty Pierre has a fancy for Val Galbraith—a little. It suits him to go to Fort Desire. Jen Galbraith, you make a grand ride last night. You do a bold thing—all for a man. We shall see what he will do for you. And if he does nothing—ah! you can trust the tongue of Pretty Pierre. He will wish he could die, instead of—Eh, bien, good-night!” He moved away. Jen followed him. She held out her hand. It was the first time she had ever done so to this man.