“Who the deuce are you talking about, Joe?” inquired Bainbridge crisply, “Who would pay him to play a dirty trick like that?”
The guide slowly turned his head, and regarded Bob with a sort of impassive significance.
“Big Punch know who,” he retorted briefly.
“Perhaps I do, perhaps not.” Bob’s tone was decidedly impatient. “Anyhow, let’s have the name, and see if we agree.”
“Huh!” grunted Moose wearily. “Him Crane. Pete, he great friends with Crane’s man, K’lock.”
Bainbridge’s jaw dropped, and unconsciously he drove his paddle deep down into the current, checking the canoe for a moment or two.
“Bill Kollock!” he exploded, in angry amazement. “Do you know what you’re talking about, Joe?”
The Indian grinned faintly.
“Sure! Joe see ’em in s’loon in Bangor heap many times. Ver’ friendly. Come to Pete’s camp yonder five—six days ago, see K’lock goin’ away.”
Bob’s face was scarlet with rage, and the eyes fastened upon the guide’s impassive countenance flashed.