'He's a waste of breath wherever he is. Fellows like him ain't a bit of good, until they're planted. Then they do keep a few worms going and enrich the ground a bit.'
Denton drew himself upright with poor dignity. 'I have my call, and I obey it. I am here to care for the soul of our sinful brother.'
McAuliffe burst into a lusty roar. ''Scuse me smiling, Peter. Think he wants you to trouble? Tell you, he'd be a lot more interested if you looked a bit after your own. How's the fellow, Justin? Going to snuff out?'
The half-breed gave a loud grunt of dissent, then bent again over the sick man, who was apparently asleep.
'He's not, eh? Well, you'll do fine, boy, if you drag him back.' He pulled forth a massive watch and continued, ''Bout time for my grub. Suppose you fix him up and hustle across to the fort. I've got a hungry sort of faceache on me just now. So long, Peter; it's made me regular tired seeing you again. Why don't you croak off, and make some of us happier?'
Followed by an indistinct reply to this gracious sentiment, the two left the hut and passed along in the white sunlight, taking the narrow shingle path which ran between the cliff base and low ebb of the waters. The taciturn half-breed was kept at a short double by McAuliffe's long strides, but at the tree-covered headland the latter paused to get a light for his pipe. There was a cool patch of shade beneath the overhanging rock, so Justin stopped willingly and rubbed the heat from his wrinkled forehead. Then he bit deeply into a black plug, while McAuliffe swore at the pungent sulphur which had found its way up his nose.
The great river swirled along, with a lazy gurgling beneath the bright light. Sweeping kanikaniks bent over and lay upon the cool surface, entangling small driftings that occasionally came down on the stream. There was something caught in the red strands now, and the half-breed's keen eyes soon perceived it. He pointed with his usual sonorous grunt.
McAuliffe puffed blue smoke through his moustache. The sunlight was dazzling, so at first he saw nothing but the red lines crossing and recrossing foam patches. Then, beyond the small waves which licked the shingle, he caught sight of a shining surface rising and falling feather-like, fretting at the restraint. 'Goldam, boy!' he exclaimed, 'it's a paddle.'
Justin grunted and again pointed, this time to a fragment of bark twisted up among the pendulous strings.
'Looks as if a nitchi had been overset here,' said the Factor. 'There's been a canoe smashed, and it's a sure thing he didn't escape. He wouldn't have gone off without the paddle. Must have been in the storm, boy.'