A voice, presumably Watusk’s, replied: “Blackburn’s daughter, and the Beaver girl are at the post.”
The listening Loseis smiled to herself.
“Did you see them?” asked Gault.
“N’moya. They were in the house. How could I look in the house without showing myself? There was smoke coming out of the chimney. For an hour I watched it from the branches of a pine tree where the trail goes over the hill.”
“Maybe Blackburn’s daughter had left the Indian behind.”
“N’moya.”
“Watusk is right,” put in Moale’s voice. “After everybody else was gone, no Indian would stay there alone; not with that new-made grave in sight!”
“It is well,” grumbled Gault.
There was more talk about eating. Gault indifferently told the breeds they could take theirs if they wanted, but they would get no more until morning.
More time passed. As is always the case with men waiting an event, they found but little to say to each other. Sometimes the Crees discussed their own concerns in low tones. Sometimes they all fell silent for so long that Loseis supposed they had fallen asleep. Then suddenly Gault and Moale took up the thread of a conversation as if it had been dropped but a moment before.