Hank turned towards the doctor.  He was just going to add something when he stopped abruptly and looked round.  A sound close behind them in the darkness made all three start.  It was old Punk, who had moved up from his lean-to while they talked and now stood there just beyond the circle of firelight—­listening.

“’Nother time, Doc!” Hank whispered, with a wink, “when the gallery ain’t stepped down into the stalls!” And, springing to his feet, he slapped the Indian on the back and cried noisily, “Come up t’ the fire an’ warm yer dirty red skin a bit.”  He dragged him towards the blaze and threw more wood on.  “That was a mighty good feed you give us an hour or two back,” he continued heartily, as though to set the man’s thoughts on another scent, “and it ain’t Christian to let you stand out there freezin’ yer ole soul to hell while we’re gettin’ all good an’ toasted!” Punk moved in and warmed his feet, smiling darkly at the other’s volubility which he only half understood, but saying nothing.  And presently Dr. Cathcart, seeing that further conversation was impossible, followed his nephew’s example and moved off to the tent, leaving the three men smoking over the now blazing fire.

It is not easy to undress in a small tent without waking one’s companion, and Cathcart, hardened and warm-blooded as he was in spite of his fifty odd years, did what Hank would have described as “considerable of his twilight” in the open.  He noticed, during the process, that Punk had meanwhile gone back to his lean-to, and that Hank and Defago were at it hammer and tongs, or, rather, hammer and anvil, the little French Canadian being the anvil.  It was all very like the conventional stage picture of Western melodrama:  the fire lighting up their faces with patches of alternate red and black; Defago, in slouch hat and moccasins in the part of the “badlands” villain; Hank, open-faced and hatless, with that reckless fling of his shoulders, the honest and deceived hero; and old Punk, eavesdropping in the background, supplying the atmosphere of mystery.  The doctor smiled as he noticed the details; but at the same time something deep within him—­he hardly knew what—­shrank a little, as though an almost imperceptible breath of warning had touched the surface of his soul and was gone again before he could seize it.  Probably it was traceable to that “scared expression” he had seen in the eyes of Defago; “probably”—­for this hint of fugitive emotion otherwise escaped his usually so keen analysis.  Defago, he was vaguely aware, might cause trouble somehow ...He was not as steady a guide as Hank, for instance ...  Further than that he could not get ...

He watched the men a moment longer before diving into the stuffy tent where Simpson already slept soundly.  Hank, he saw, was swearing like a mad African in a New York nigger saloon; but it was the swearing of “affection.”  The ridiculous oaths flew freely now that the cause of their obstruction was asleep.  Presently he put his arm almost tenderly upon his comrade’s shoulder, and they moved off together into the shadows where their tent stood faintly glimmering.  Punk, too, a moment later followed their example and disappeared between his odorous blankets in the opposite direction.