andlords. But, Pierre, aff another man's bat like that--aw,
Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe."

Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he
did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting
the three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment
musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench
where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were.

"I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's post there. It was the fall of
the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the
air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest?
Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in
the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in
the fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing.
Cards, of course. But that's only for times, not for all seasons. So I
was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black as a
coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs worked
like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to
do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime watching the
empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young bride waiting her
husband for the first time."

Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, and
his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on his
conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But
that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he
said coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart's goin' like a
trip-hammer at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre."

"Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air. At
night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little brown
brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same old
game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine, always
fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I had
a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl.
We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had
never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and
understand without words. A face was a book to her.

"Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, when
we saw someone ride over the Long Divide.