The blue eyes of
Cummins' wife, the words of her gentle lips, the touch of her hands had
made law at the post. She, herself, had become the omniscience of all
that was law to them, and if she smiled upon the Englishman, and talked
with him, and was pleased with him, that was only one other law that she
had made for them to respect. So they were quiet, evaded the Englishman
as much as possible, and watched--always watch ed.
These were days when something worse than disease was eating at the few
big honest hearts that made up the life at the post. The search for
Cummins never ceased, and always the woman was receiving hope. Now it was
Williams who went far into the South, and brought back word that a
strange white man had been seen among the Indians; then it was Thoreau,
the Frenchman, who skirted the edge of the Barren Lands three days into
the West, and said that he had found the signs of strange campfires. And
always Jan was on the move, to the South, the North, the East and the
West. The days began to lengthen. It was dawn now at eight o'clock
instead of nine, the silvery white of the sun was turning day by day more
into the glow of fire, and for a few minutes at midday the snow softened
and water dripped from the roofs.
Jan knew what it meant. Very soon the thick crust of the "Beeg Snow"
would drop in, and they would find Cummins. They would bring what was
left of him back to the post.
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