The women are grim. They stand up. Our men have recognized the truck, too, and they’ve rushed up from the shore. Now they gather in a semicircle across from the women.

The two wardens hook their thumbs in their belts under their big bellies as they take in the scene. They inspect the racks, the mortars, poke the ashes with the toes of their boots.

“Looks like we’ve caught you red-handed,” the bigger one says. “What’s going on here, my friends?”

He breathes in deeply.

“If I understand correctly, you are smoking a moose. Yup, that’s it, a moose, no less.”

There is the rumble of muffled anger, but the wardens take no notice.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you that hunting moose is strictly forbidden at this time of year. Everyone must abide by the law — rich and poor, whites and Indians.”

He starts walking again and stops, thinking.

“Was it a buck or a female?”

He waits.

“As usual you’ve got nothing to say. Dumb as stumps! I don’t see the head anywhere.” He looks around.

“It was a female! That’s why you got rid of the head, isn’t it? But I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you Algonquin like the back of my hand. The law is tough on anyone who poaches a female, but I’m going to prove that I have a heart. If you tell me who killed it, I will show some mercy. Right, Ti-Bob?”

“Yes, sir, Peter! You will show mercy.”

Peter inspects each of the hunters in turn. He looks them right in the eye. It’s a challenge, a put-down. The game wardens are powerful people. They have guns and they are white, and they know that Indians are patient and fearful.

The children are hiding behind their mothers’ skirts. Peter stops in front of Moïse.

“Moïse, the greatest moose hunter of them all! I’ll bet my bottom dollar you’re the guilty one. And if it isn’t you, Moïse, it’s all of them.” He jerks his head in our direction.

“Anyhow, it doesn’t make any difference.” He turns to the smoke rack and kicks it hard. The posts shake, the poles collapse, and the strips of meat fall into the ashes.

The wind has dropped, the birds have disappeared. Even the babies in their tikinagans are wide-eyed with terror.

Why so much hate? Why commit such a sacrilege?

Peter’s voice is threatening. “I’m going to ask you one more time. I can confiscate your canoes, all your rifles. Who was it? Nobody? Moïse? The Big Manitou himself, maybe? Okay, enough with the games. Ti-Bob, go and get the rest of the meat!”

“It was me!”

The voice is firm. It’s a woman’s voice. The two wardens act as if they haven’t heard anything.

“Me!”

This time the word rings out like a shot at point-blank range. It gives me the shivers.

“Me! It was me!”

The cries come from every direction.

Caught by surprise, the two men turn toward the circle of women. The cries keep coming, like claps of thunder.