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Updated: June 27, 2025
I had forgotten Tavish's cache or we might have saved our meat." He ran a hand through his thick, grayish hair until it stood up about his head like a brush. David tried not to reveal his restlessness as they waited. At each new sound he hoped that what he heard was Tavish's footsteps. He had quite decidedly planned his action.
He cut the babiche threads with his knife, unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read, while Tavish's mice nosed slyly out of their murky corners wondering at the new and sudden stillness in the cabin and, it may be, stirred into restlessness by the absence of their master. The ground under the snow was discouragingly hard.
Even the idle felt that it was a time for relaxation and quiet. "Have you answered Miss Tavish's invitation?" asked Jack one morning at the breakfast-table. "Not yet. I shall decline today for myself." "Why? It's for charity." "Well, my charity extends to Miss Tavish. I don't want to see her dance." "That leaves me in a nice hole. I said I'd go." "And why not?
I'm expecting some." Rellihan again deferentially opened the door for the messenger of the mayor of Marion; Mac Tavish had knocked and given his name. "It's all richt, sir!" he had reported on his arrival from his mission to the telephone. The exasperated Governor viewed that free ingress and muttered. Mac Tavish's unimpeded egress on the second errand provoked the Governor more acutely.
Tavish, if he had been caught in the twilight darkness and had waited for the moon to rise, would be showing up soon. He walked to the side of the cabin and looked back. Quite distinctly he could see Tavish's meat, suspended from a stout sapling that projected straight out from under the edge of the roof.
That his mind was quite easy on the score of Tavish's physical well-being he emphasized by falling asleep very shortly after rolling himself up in his blankets on the floor.
He bent over him, on one knee, and averted his eyes as he searched the pockets of Tavish's heavy coat. Against the dead man's breast he found it, neatly folded, about the size of foolscap paper several pages of it, he judged, by the thickness of the packet.
Patrolman Cornelius Rellihan, six feet two, was lofty enough. He marched to and fro beyond the rail, his heavy shoes flailing down on the hardwood floor. Every morning the bang of those boots started the old pains to thrusting in Mac Tavish's neck. But Officer Rellihan was the mayor's major-domo, officially, and Stewart's pet and protégé and worshiping vassal in ordinary.
Even Baree seemed to sense his master's oppression, for he had laid his head between David's feet, and was as still as if asleep. A long way off David could hear the howling of a wolf and it reminded him shiveringly of the lead-dog's howl that night before Tavish's cabin.
He had forgotten, almost, that Father Roland was a servant of God, so vitally human had he found him, so unlike all other men of his calling he had ever known. But it was impressed upon him now, as he followed Mukoki. Father Roland wanted to be alone. Perhaps to pray. To ask mercy for Tavish's soul. To plead for its guidance into the Great Unknown.
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