James Henderson kneaded his brow and tried to calm himself. He must regain his authority here and he raised his head to do so. ‘I must remind you that Angus McEwan is still in there waiting for us to give him a decent burial. There will be time to discuss this predicament, but I must insist that we proceed. The man deserves our Christian attentions.’ It was good. They were reminded of the man and not the deed, although it would take a strong stomach to do the necessary and scrape McEwan’s remains from the floor. He decided to take the lead. ‘And if none of you are man enough to deal with it, I will do it on my own.’

He looked around and then moved off towards the door. Duncan Muir put a hand out to his thin arm, and shook his head. ‘Naw, Reverend Henderson. Leave him. We must do it.’

Henderson nodded, and as if prompted a group of men at the back put their hats on and opened the door. He watched their slumped shoulders and shuffling gait and pitied them their grisly task. He had not even been able to fully enter the cabin, the sight of the blackened blood on the floor being more than he could bear. These men were of stronger stuff and he felt guilt and a nugget of shame that he had manipulated them. The cold air seeped in with the opening of the door and the ever-present wall of falling snow was there to greet them. As they filed out, the men at the front stopped.

‘Look! There, by God!’

Henderson came to the door and peered over their shoulders to see what it was. Through the opaque sheet of snow, a figure was approaching. A white man. A tall white man in a long black coat walking towards them from a thicket of trees as though he were expected. He raised a hand in greeting and the men looked at one another.

‘Hallo!’

Muir pushed through and stared at the figure. He found his tongue in time to answer by the time the man reached the crowd of staring faces and stood before them with his hands on his hips.

‘Are you a ghost, sir?’ Muir was only half in jest.

The stranger laughed, his pale blue eyes taking in the assembled company, and resting on Henderson’s face with a smile. ‘No indeed. A trapper foiled by the snow, gentlemen. And a damned hungry one.’

A Canadian accent, but hard to place. The men stood uselessly in a bunch, staring at him miserably until Muir took the initiative again.

‘You’ll forgive us our surprise, sir. We’ve had a … we’re in the midst of tragedy today and we expected no one until the trains can get through.’

He looked concerned, and nodded. ‘Tragedy follows us like our own shadows out in this wilderness. I’m no stranger to it.’