But Rolf had not yet learned to respect the red yarns the Indian hung from a deer's skull, though he did come to understand that he must let them alone or produce bad feeling in camp.
Sunday had become a day of rest and Quonab made it also a day of song and remembrance.
They were sitting one Sunday night by the fire in the cabin, enjoying the blaze, while a storm rattled on the window and door.

A white-footed mouse, one of a family that lived in the shanty, was trying how close he could come to Skookum's nose without being caught, while Rolf looked on.

Quonab was lying back on a pile of deer skins, with his pipe in his mouth, his head on the bunk, and his hands clasped back of his neck.
There was an atmosphere of content and brotherly feeling; the evening was young, when Rolf broke silence: "Were you ever married, Quonab ?" "Ugh," was the Indian's affirmative.
"Where ?" "Myanos." Rolf did not venture more questions, but left the influence of the hour to work.

It was a moment of delicate poise, and Rolf knew a touch would open the door or double bar it.

He wondered how he might give that touch as he wished it.