Burned Bridges

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.