His face was hard set.
He stepped out into the snowstorm and the night. Rolf was left
alone with Skookum.
Sad, sad, everything seemed sad in his friend's life, and Rolf,
brooding over it with wisdom beyond his years, could not help
asking: "Had Quonab and Gamowini been white folk, would it have
happened so? Would his agony have been received with scornful
indifference? Alas! he knew it would not. He realized it would
have been a very different tale, and the sequent questions that
would not down, were, "Will this bread cast on the waters return
after many days?" "Is there a God of justice and retribution?"
"On whom will the flail of vengeance fall for all these abominations?"
Two hours later the Indian returned. No word was spoken as he
entered. He was not cold. He must have walked far. Rolf
prepared for bed. The Indian stooped, picked up a needle from
the dusty ground, one that had been lost the day before, silently
handed it to his companion, who gave only a recognizant "Hm,"
and dropped it into the birch-bark box.
Chapter 44. The Lost Bundle of Furs
There had been a significant cessation of robbery on their trap
line after the inconclusive visit to the enemy's camp.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235