Father
Roland's face became heavy, furrowed, perplexed. He broke in suddenly,
in Cree, and when he ceased speaking Mukoki withdrew slowly. The last
David saw of the Indian was his shifting, garnet-like eyes, disappearing
like beads of blackish flame.
"_Pest!_" cried the Little Missioner, shrugging his shoulders in
disgust. "The dogs are uneasy. Mukoki says they smell death. They sit on
their haunches, he says, staring--staring at nothing, and whining like
puppies. He is going back with them to the other side of the ridge. If
it will ease his soul, let him go."
"I have heard of dogs doing that," said David.
"Of course they will do it," shot back Father Roland unhesitatingly.
"Northern dogs always do it, and especially mine. They are accustomed to
death. Twenty times in a winter, and sometimes more, I care for the
dead. They always go with me, and they can smell death in the wind. But
here--why, it is absurd! There is nothing dead here--unless it is that
mouse, and Tavish's meat!" He shook himself, grumbling under his breath
at Mukoki's folly. And then: "The dogs have always acted queerly when
Tavish was near," he added in a lower voice. "I can't explain why; they
simply do. Instinct, possibly. His presence makes them uneasy.
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