The shadows of the fog were changing to the shadows of night, and the silent Lemaire rose and flung wood on the fire. It sent out a warm glow; and as if it had been a signal, a living shadow crept from the shadow of the rocks, and very timidly approached the light.
Both men rose with an exclamation; for they had not seen a human being for nearly a month. Barrett said, “An Indian,” and sank back on his blanket, leaving Lemaire to ask questions. Lemaire went round the fire, and stooped over the queer huddled shadow on the ground.
“Well?” Barrett called after him at last.
“A Montagnais,” Lemaire answered after a pause, some trouble in his voice. “About the oldest old Indian I’ve ever seen; they aren’t long-lived. . . . . . He seems a bit wrong in the head. He doesn’t seem to know his name or where he comes from. But—he says he’s going to a big encampment many day’s journey west. He says he’s been following us. He says he’s a friend of mine.”
“Is he?”
“I never saw him before. . . That’s all I can get out of him. He’s probably been cast off by his tribe. Why? Oh, too old to be useful.”
“Cruel brutes.”
“Not so cruel as some white men,” said Lemaire, half to himself. He had come back to the firelight, and was rummaging among their stores, none too plentiful. He returned to the old Indian, carrying food; and presently Barrett heard snapping sounds, as of a hungry dog feeding. Lemaire came again to his nook under the tent; and Barrett smoked out his pipe in silence. Then, as he knocked the ashes, fizzling, into a little pool of rain, he said gently, “Bob, what makes you so uncommonly good to the Indians?”
Quiet Lemaire did not attempt to evade the direct question. But a rather shy flush rose to his dark, lean cheeks as he said diffidently, “I suppose—because I feel my family—any one of my name—owes ’em something.”
“The grandfather again, eh?”