They had landed at Henderson’s house and Hunting Wolf had entered the strange dwelling, marvelling at the contents, excited by the strange and wonderful objects that filled the house. Henderson’s wife was there by a fire, drinking from a glittering glass. He had looked at her for a time, reading the coldness and bitterness in her heart: bitterness that there were no children by the hearth for callers to admire, that there were no brightly-lit gatherings in the house with her as the hostess. Hunting Wolf read her hatred of her husband and a deeper hatred of the God that had called him away from her side. She wanted him there, but she did not want him. He was saddened when he returned, but he told Henderson of everything he had seen except the contents of his distant wife’s heart.

The tall Scot had turned pale and his eyes had opened as though to fall from their sockets.

‘This not true,’ was all he could say to Hunting Wolf, but the chief knew that Henderson had indeed recognized every detail to be the truth. He thought that Henderson would be pleased, but he was not. He would not speak of it again, and Hunting Wolf let it be. But he knew now of the land that these men came from, and he wondered why their thoughts were so full of hatred of Hunting Wolf and his people. How could his tribe of Kinchuinicks pose any threat to these men and women, who were more abundant than the blades of grass that pierced the snow in spring? He squatted silently musing on it each day as the white men chipped their way into the mountain, the mountain they had opened against his will and against the laws of nature.

It had been ten days since they had buried the workers. Ten days since he had recognized the thing that was in the bird. But since then it had shown itself only to frighten and confuse the unbelieving white men. He knew it would show itself to him soon, and today it had. Oh Great Spirit save him, it had.