“Things is confusin’ to judge by the yarns folks tell,” added Ralph, with a shake of his shaggy head.
“Them fellers as comes up to your shack, Victor, mostly talks o’ drink, an’ shootin’, an’–an’ women,” Nick went on. “Guess the hills’ll do us. Maybe when we’ve done wi’ graft an’ feel that it ’ud be good to laze, likely we’ll go down an’ buy a homestead on the prairie. Maybe, I sez.”
Nick spoke dubiously, like a man who does not convince himself.
“Hah, that’s ’cause you’ve never been to a city,” said the Breed sharply.
“Jest so,” observed Ralph quietly, between the puffs at his pipe.
Gagnon laughed silently. His eyes were very bright and he looked from one brother to the other with appreciation. An idea had occurred to him and he was mentally probing the possibilities of carrying it out. What he saw pleased him, for he continued to smile.
“Well, well, maybe you’re right,” he said indulgently. Then silence fell.
Each man was rapt in his own thoughts, and talk without a definite object was foreign to at least two of the three. The brothers were waiting in their stolid Indian fashion for sleep to come. The trader was thinking hard behind his lowered eyelids, which were almost hidden by the thick smoke which rose from his pipe.
The fire burned down and was replenished. Ralph rose and gathered the pannikins and threw them into a biscuit-box. Then he laid out his blankets while Nick went over and bolted the door. Still the trader did not look up. When the two men had settled themselves comfortably in their blankets the other at last put his pipe away.
“No,” he said, as he too negotiated his blankets, “guess we want good sound men in these hills, anyway. I reckon you’ve no call to get visitin’ the prairie, boys; you’re the finest hunters I’ve ever known. D’ye know the name your shack here goes by among the down-landers? They call it the ‘Westley Injun Reserve.’”