The Wolf appeared in the doorway of the dugout.
The fire was lit, and smoke was rising sheer on the still air. Pideau was at the fire, crouching down feeding it, and making ready for the noon food. The Wolf’s pinto was precisely where he had left it, its rawhide picket rope trailing but unsecured.
Annette was there. She was standing apart, and her bold, beautiful eyes were fixed on the youth the moment he appeared. There was no disguise; no pretense. Woman’s curiosity dominated her expression and hid any sign of feeling that may have been lurking.
The Wolf looked her way at once. His look told nothing. It told nothing of the shock he had endured. It told nothing of the passionate grief ravaging his boy’s soul. It was full of a calmness that must have disappointed the impish spirit of the girl.
“You covered her up, Annette,” he said, without a tremor of that which he felt. “You sure did that for—me?”
The girl stirred uneasily. Her gaze averted to Pideau at the fire, who had not looked up.
“She was dead,” she said in a low voice.
“You covered her up for—me?” the Wolf persisted.
“No!”
Pideau looked up from the fire at the sound of Annette’s fierce denial.