Old MacPhee took the blackened clay pipe from his mouth and puffed a
blue spiral into the dead, sultry air. A sour expression gathered about
his withered lips.
"Dinna gibe at yon puir mortal," he rebuked. "Ye canna keep fools frae
wanderin'. I've seen manny's the man like him. It's likely that once
he's had a fair taste o' the North he'll be less a saint an' more a
man."
The afternoon was far spent when they landed. Breyette and MacDonald
made themselves comfortable with their backs against the wall. Supper
came and was eaten. Evening closed in. The bold, scorching stare of the
sun faded. Little cooling breezes fluttered along the lake shore,
banishing the last trace of that brassy heat. Men who had lounged
indoors, or against shaded walls roamed about, and half-breed women
chattered in voluble gutturals back and forth between the cabins.