Mrs. Cameron, a tall, broad-faced, angular woman, greeted them from a busy kitchen with loud masculine familiarity. “Jim’s out to the stable. He’ll be in in a minute.”
They drew off their caps and mackinaws, rubbing their hands above the wide box-stove as they stamped the snow from their moccasins.
“Where’s Jessie?” asked Harrigan.
“She’s to Jim’s folks at Tramworth,” replied Mrs. Cameron, wrapping the end of her apron round her hand and reaching into the oven. “Jim said it was about time she learned somethin’,—them biscuits ain’t commenced to raise yet,—and I reckon he’s right. He says that Avery young-one can read her letters and write ’em, too. That man Ross is a-teachin’ her. So Jessie’s goin’ to school this winter.” She lifted a dripping lid from a pot on the stove and gave a muscular impetus to its contents. “But I can’t fancy that Avery young-one learnin’ anything ’ceptin’ to make faces at other folkses’ children and talkin’ sassy to her betters!”
Harrigan acquiesced with a nod.
Barney Axel stood, back to the stove, gazing out of the window.
“Indian Pete’s takin’ his time about that deer, Denny. Reckon he’s waitin’ for us to come and help him tote it out?”
Harrigan glanced at the speaker’s back. “Might ’a’ missed. I didn’t hear no shot, did you?”
“Nope.”
Just then Cameron came in with a bridle in his hand.