The grave had been dug about fifty paces from the door. Arriving there, they placed the body upon the grass, while the Factor mopped his forehead and remarked upon the weather. He was grinning broadly, as a necessary covering to his real feelings. Subsequently he confided to Lamont that he had been compelled to recall the most humorous incidents connected with his past career as a preventive to foolish signs of grief. Justin stood by stolidly, and spat into the grave.
'Shouldn't wonder if we didn't get an electric storm presently,' observed the Factor. There was no reply to this attempt at conversation. 'What'll we do now?' he continued, smiling expansively.
Justin grunted, then pointed expressively to the dark hole surrounded by fresh grass.
'Plant him, eh? well, I guess so. Got any ropes?'
There were none handy, so the half-breed went off to the store for some. The Factor filled the interval by relating a ludicrous anecdote for his companion's benefit, and chopping a pipeful of plug. When Justin returned, ropes were passed round the leafy bier and the body was lowered by concerted effort.
Then McAuliffe lit his pipe, and knocked his great boots together clumsily. He looked across at Lamont, leaning against the tree which shadowed the open grave. 'How are you on the prayer racket?' he blurted forth.
The young man shook his head and muttered something unintelligible.
'Seems kind of hard to cover the boy up and get off without saying a word, don't it? Say, Justin, can't you do something that way?'
The half-breed chewed and grunted a negative. Then there was unpleasant silence, which was finally broken by the rustling of bushes. The old Chief appeared, leaning on his daughter's arm. They both paused, silent, at the brink. Menotah's arms were overflowing with delicate, half-opened buds of the forest rose, and these pink and white blossoms—recalling faded life pleasures of the past—she commenced to drop softly upon the body beneath.
'Goldam!' muttered the Factor, 'I wish I knew what to say, and how to put it.'