‘To believe in other gods, other spirits, is a sin, as taught to us by Jesus. Our brothers here, the Kinchuinicks, have their gods. But we as Christians know they are false and that in time Jesus will bring these men and women to his bosom to renounce their false spirits and worship with us the one true God, who through love sent us His only son. That knowledge is our greatest gift as educated, civilized, Christian men.’

The bird, curiously in the presence of such a crowd, hopped twice towards Henderson, its head cocked to one side.

‘So I say to you, do not concern yourself with the false gods of less fortunate, less civilized men. Concern yourself instead with the message of Christ, who …’

There was a thin whistling sound in the air and a dull thud, as an arrow speared the whiskeyjack cleanly through the breast. Henderson stopped mid-sentence, looking on in horror with the rest of the mourners. Henderson looked open-mouthed towards the Indians. How could they do such a thing? He felt insulted and betrayed. Then, it became worse.

Henderson and the men watched, appalled, as something happened to the snow around the doomed bird. From the dying creature’s yawning beak came a deep guttural groan so loud and deep one would not even expect it to emanate from a bear in pain, and the snow for at least three feet around its body thrashed as though churned by paddles.

The men watched with horror until the phenomenon stopped and the bird’s body lay still, skewered on the arrow like a chicken ready for roasting. Henderson denied himself the truth of what he had just seen. He stood wide-eyed, breathing hard, as the men milled around, shouting in panic.

Then he held up his hand and bellowed above them. ‘Be still. You see how you are? The Indians who know nothing about the sanctity of a funeral service interrupt it to hunt for food and you panic for no reason, your heads filled with nonsense. Be still, I say.’

They looked back at him doubtfully, but his authority and the power of his voice stayed their panic, and they were silenced. Henderson continued, watching the men keenly, praying silently that his voice would not break with emotion. ‘The message of Christ is what you must think of. To love one another and worship no other but God.’ He was trembling. Chief Hunting Wolf was walking towards the dead bird, his bow in his hand. What now, God? What now? ‘And so we bid farewell to our companions in the knowledge that we will meet again. Let us pray.’

Some men bowed their heads, but most looked in fright at the disturbed snow round the dead whiskeyjack. Henderson raised his voice again, almost shouting in very real anger, ‘Let us pray!’

They complied, reluctantly.

‘Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.’

Hunting Wolf was nearly there.