Angus McEwan winced. To tell the men what he thought of James Henderson and his hysterical tantrums would be to lose their respect. Religion to the Scots trumped authority as paper wraps stone in the child’s game. He would bite his tongue and play this carefully. ‘The Reverend Henderson has nothing more serious than cabin fever, Strachan. A month of snow like this does not often occur in the parish of Morningside.’

There were one or two short laughs from those men who knew Edinburgh and understood the jibe at Henderson’s naïveté. McEwan continued, encouraged by the response. ‘Aye, and it is the same affliction and nothing more that is making you all see and hear what is not there. You must shake yourselves from this indulgence.’

Strachan was not convinced. ‘Ah’ve been in snowstorms that wid bury a man in minutes, Mr McEwan. An’ four of us here have been stuck under a brushwood shelter for nigh on seven weeks wi’ the rations doon tae biscuits an’ bacon. If ye’re tellin’ us that we dinnae know cabin fever when we see it then you dinnae know the crew ye’re workin’.’

McEwan looked around the faces, searching for an ally amongst the nodding heads. His search was fruitless.

Strachan hammered home the last nail. ‘Naebody’s got cabin fever. And naebody’s workin’ till we see what they’re gonnae dae next.’

McEwan stared him down. ‘Then you’ll not be wanting work at all when the snow stops long enough to let an engine through and I send for a new crew.’

A few anxious faces, but not many.

‘Maybe that’s so.’

Chanting from behind him broke McEwan’s studied glare and made the men resume their wide-eyed vigil.

The Indians had thrown a sewn buckskin cover over the wooden structure and the chief was shaking some damnable stick over it as he made incantations. In front of the tent on a small mound of earth was a buffalo skull and what looked like the severed wings of a large bird.

McEwan ran a hand over his beard, where snowflakes were trying to hide and looked back at the group of his men. ‘You forget how long I have endured this wilderness. My tales will match yours and more, Strachan. And I tell you this: if it is not cabin fever then it is the worst case of men behaving like old women I have ever come across. When you search for work in the cities I would advise you to adopt the former as reason for your dismissal. It is better than the truth.’

He read their faces, then turned and walked back towards the camp, making a deliberate detour that would take him through the circular site of the peculiar tent.