Luana’s eyes were wide open, and she sat up.
“Annette—dead?” Then she gazed at the child Annette. “I think she maybe at work somewhere. Dead?”
Pideau shook his head without a sign of emotion.
“The mountain fever kill her,” was all he said. “She go, an’ leave me with little—Annette.”
Both were gazing at the two children. And the silence between them prolonged.
At last the woman’s gaze was withdrawn, and she sought the man’s dark face with a question.
“It good,” she said at last. “Then I raise your Annette with my boy-man. Yes?”
Pideau eyed the two infants who had now approached each other more nearly. They were mixed up in the aimless way of babyhood. There were sounds coming from them. Gurgles from Annette. And leaping words from the boy. Pideau’s face had no smile, but he suddenly laughed with his voice.
“Yes,” he said. “You stop here while I mak good trade. You cook. An’ I teach you the work of the cattle. I go now. I get ten cows. It’s a farm ’way out on the prairie. Then I come back with them. You raise Annette with your boy-man. I am glad. The wolf pack grows!”
He moved off to the fire where Luana’s food was cooking. And as he went he laughed at his own humor.