Into Batiste’s face flashed surprise, anger and resentment. Surprise, because he had not believed all the things Iz-le-roy had told him of the white men, but had preferred to think them all like Father Francis. But now? His father was right. They were all cold and merciless, their hearts hard as their steel ax-heads, their tongues sharp as the cutting edge. With head held high he marched through the door, away from the hot stove, the steaming coffee, and the delicious smell of frying bacon, out into the cold storm.
“Oh, father!” remonstrated his wife, as Sterling closed the door.
“Look here, Mary,” he answered testily, “we fed a whole tribe last summer, didn’t we?”
“But this lad don’t belong to them,” she pleaded.
“All the worse,” he rejoined. “Do an Injun a good turn an’ he never forgets. Give him his breakfast, an’ he totes his tribe along to dinner.”
“Well,” sighed the good woman, “I’m real sorry.”
For a few moments both were silent. And presently, as the man’s kindly nature began to triumph over his irritation, he hitched uneasily in his chair. Already he felt ashamed. Casting a sheepish glance at his wife, he rose, walked to the door, and looked out. But a wall of whirling white blocked his vision. Batiste was gone beyond recall.
“Where’s Avis?” he asked, returning to the stove.
“A-vis!” called her mother.