“Hyar’s a pistol. It’s loaded with a ball. This skunk ain’t fit to live. Trapper law will bar ye out in shootin’ him through the head. He is in yer hands.”
Jan took the pistol, cocked it, and placed it close to the head of the Frenchman. A deathlike stillness reigned in the place. The face of Jules was utterly colorless, but he did not speak a word. He knew that his life was forfeited by the stern laws of the trappers, and that nothing could save him, if the man whose life he had placed in such deadly peril chose to claim that forfeit. But his proud spirit would not permit him to speak a word. He looked straight into the muzzle of the threatening weapon, his lips white as ashes.
“Fire!” he whispered at length.
Jan dropped his hand.
“Remember that this is the second time he has nearly killed ye,” said Ben. “He cut the raft loose the other day.”
“Vat?” cried Jan.
“Yes,” replied Damand. “I did that. Fire away.”
Again Jan raised the weapon and again that deathlike silence fell upon the scene. But Jan could not do it. Such an act was not in his nature. He uncocked the weapon and handed it back to Ben.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “He nearly kills me, deux, swi dimes, put I nefer kills a man mit his hands tied. Let him go.”
“Walk before us,” said Ben, sternly. “Don’t try to escape.”