Then the old man trembled lest she should resent his words. She seemed about to do so, but the flush faded from her brow, and she said, simply: "I care for Val most, father. But he didn't know he was getting Val into trouble."
She suddenly quivered as a wave of emotion passed through her; and she said, with a sob in her voice: "Oh, it's all scrub country, father, and no paths, and—and I wish I had a mother!"
The old man sat down in the doorway and bowed his grey head in his arms.
Then, after a moment, he whispered:
"She's been dead twenty-two years, Jen. The day Val was born she went away. I'd a-been a better man if she'd a-lived, Jen; and a better father."
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.