Henderson’s face crushed with anxiety. If the man had been lying out there all night as Powderhand seemed to imply, he was lucky to be alive. He leaned forward to feel Hunting Wolf’s pulse, but a tiny hand shot out and blocked his way. Walks Alone did not want him to touch his father.

‘I must feel for his life. In his hand.’

The boy shook his head slowly. His mother spoke in a quiet voice. ‘We must not touch him. There is a dark spirit upon him. Walks Alone can feel it in his father.’

Henderson felt his world start to crumble again. More talk of spirits and darkness was not what Henderson had come here for, and he ached to be free of this superstitious foolishness that had led to his own sick visions. He withdrew his hand and settled back on his knees. This time, though he knew the boy could not speak, he addressed the question to those big serious eyes. ‘Will he wake?’

Walks Alone nodded and turned his attention back to his father. Henderson decided he would wait. If they asked him to leave he would, but right now, he would wait. The faces around the edge of the tipi were divided in their interest between the white man and their chief, but all remained silent and the only sound was the laboured breathing of the unconscious man on the floor.

* * *

Cook cursed at the stove as the cauldron of broth showed little signs of boiling. Those men. They didn’t realize the miracles he performed daily, that was the trouble. Nearly a month now without any contact from outside this white prison, and he was still serving up good eats. Did the ungrateful pigs not realize that his repertoire was based on getting fresh supplies from the trains that should have been passing through here three times a week? But without trains, with their crates of vegetables and meat, he was reduced to famine cooking. And he was doing a damned good job. But what thanks did he get? No buggering thanks, that’s what. The Scots were a dour race, and he should know, since his new Canadian blood ran thick with old Highland stock. But he’d had enough of those long, bearded craggy faces sitting around the refectory table in the canteen cabin, never once saying, thank you, or that sure tasted good, Saul. And Saul Campbell had cooked for plenty of miserable railroad crews in his time. Yes, these long-faced goats took all the prizes.

The snow was getting to them too. All this frightened muttering of ghosts and Indians and talking animals was more than he could stomach. It was like cooking for old women. If he didn’t know for sure that there wasn’t a drop of liquor for at least fifty miles in any direction, he’d swear they were all suffering the tremors.