Henderson was as surprised as the rest of them by this man’s appearance, but he was not comforted by his easy manner. In fact, he was made distinctly uneasy by those smiling eyes. But he could tell that Muir was pleased they had a guest.

‘There’s no hot food. Our cook is indisposed at present. But there’s a loaf and some cold ham if you care to have that.’ Muir looked around and then back at the man. ‘I must say it’s a relief to see a new white face.’

‘It’s a pleasure to see a face at all for me. I can go for half the year and not see a Christian soul.’

The words were forced, Henderson thought. An easy manner, yes, but words that were almost being read from a book. As if he was learning them, very fast, from some unidentified source. He put it down to the fact the man was a trapper, and must indeed, true to his word, be alone for much of his life. No doubt he was just picking up the rudiments of social intercourse as he went. But it was odd, and the minister did not care for it.

Henderson stood aside for the man as he was led into the canteen to be fed, and the men outside burst once more into heated conversation. They looked as though they wished to change their minds and delay the grim chore for the more heartening pursuit of watching this new man eat, when Henderson turned to them and put up a hand.

‘It must be done. He should not be left like a dog.’

They made no gesture, but one by one they lowered their heads and moved away through the snow to McEwan’s defiled cabin. Henderson went back inside the long, warm wooden building. The trapper was already at table, being brought a piece of ham by Sinclair, a short and dour man from Inverness. A flash of irrational rage shot through James Henderson as he watched this man being waited on but he fought it back. The man was hungry and just new from the isolation of the wilderness. He had a right to their hospitality. He stepped closer to the throng that was around him to hear his words. The trapper was answering Muir’s question with a smile.

‘Strange to say, I have almost forgotten my real name. Best call me by my Indian name given to me many seasons ago when I was trading with the Kinchuinicks, I believe on account of my hair. They have peculiar notions these savages. But it serves me well and I have used it for so long I have become it. They call me Snowchild Sitconski.’

He grinned to the men. They did not grin back.