Annette? Yes. Annette was still the centre of everything for him. But the setting in which she stood was changed. He had tasted of real life, human life, in the past few hours, and he wanted more. He wanted it all. He wanted to measure his strength in the world of men, where every grain of success must be fought for and won over the fallen body of some human adversary. For the moment his adversary was the man riding beside him. That was all right. It was good to try his ’prentice hand on such easy material. Later would come the real thrill, the real battle.
At the foot of the slope, on which the dugout stood, Pideau drew rein. He indicated the cattle about which the dogs circled, a needless guard.
“You best set ’em in the corrals,” he grated harshly. “Feed ’em hay. Later we’ll fix the brands. When you’re through we ken eat.”
Pideau spoke with the confidence of authority. He spoke as though nothing had changed their relations, as though nothing could change them.
The Wolf never hesitated. There was no sign in him of any rebellion. There was nothing provocative in his manner. He turned his pinto towards the hillside and replied over his shoulder.
“I must go to Luana—first,” he cried, and breasted the hill.
Pideau gazed after him. His eyes were calculating, and one brown hand was gripping the small of his rifle, and his fingers felt the trigger.
He saw the slim body swaying to the eager gait of the pinto as it raced up the sharp incline. He saw the boy’s hand, which, like his own, was grasping his rifle. And for several furious moments he was yearning. Then he, too, began the ascent of the hill.
The Wolf was standing at the side of the rough bed in the inner room of the dugout. It was the same rawhide-strung bed built of spruce saplings from which years ago Pideau had carried his dead wife to her grave far down in the valley.