Henderson’s heart was heavy now as he stood amongst the large group of natives, all of them staring up at the newly blasted hole in the rock.

Three men dead. Killed by the unexpectedly fierce power of the blast, which despite the men’s experienced calculations, did not allow them sufficient time to retire from danger. They were blown apart and the gaunt, harrowed minister would be burying them tomorrow. After the successful removal of the Indians, Angus McEwan had crowed about his triumph. Then he had raged at the accident. How could his men have made such an error in the quantity and positioning of the explosives? Obviously they had, and his work-gang was now three short. Two Scots and a Chinaman who would never see their homes and families again.

The natives had watched impassively as the body parts had been gathered like berries and brought back to the camp, and now they congregated at the base of the rude scaffolding, keeping vigil over what amounted to no more than a jagged black tear in the rock.

Henderson spoke to Chief Hunting Wolf at his side. ‘You go home now?’

The chief’s gaze remained on the black hole. ‘No. I cannot go. We must wait. And prepare.’

The minister was weary. He nodded as if he understood, which he did not, and left the band of natives to their vigil. The snow could not possibly become any heavier without falling as a single unbroken sheet. It covered the head of a person remaining stationary like an ermine hat in seconds. Henderson swept his frozen hat away with a hand and started back to his cabin.

McEwan’s foreman, Duncan Muir, was waiting for him. Henderson was relieved it was not McEwan himself. His energy for confrontation was low, and unlike his superior, Muir was a civilized and pious man.

‘May I come in, Reverend?’

Muir stood at the door of Henderson’s tiny cabin, which like all the other cabins, had no lock. McEwan would have been in there by now, his feet on the stove. Muir had more manners.

‘Of course, Mr Muir. Please.’

They entered the small hut, its bare wooden walls boasting a single decorative fancy: a cross made from birchwood and twine. A bed, table and two rough stools were the only furniture Henderson possessed. A battered storm lamp and a stove provided the luxury of heat and light.

Muir stood by the stove, his fur hat in his hands.

Henderson wiped the snow from his black coat and closed the door against the colourless desert outside.

‘I’m afraid I can offer you little refreshment, Mr Muir. The supplies are low as you are aware, and my few edible conceits have already been donated to Cook for the benefit of all.’

‘Och, I am not in search of sustenance, Reverend. It is matters of the spirit I wish to discuss.’