"That depends entirely on you—and what effect that accusation made. If you're with me, I fight. If not—well frankly—I don't know."
"'Member the mill, when he burn down?"
"Yes."
"You no believe Ba'teese did heem. Oui, yes? Well, now I no believe either!"
"Honestly, Ba'tiste?" Houston had gripped the other man's arm. "You don't believe it? You don't—"
"Ba'teese believe M'sieu Houston. You look like my Pierre. My Pierre, he could do no wrong. Ba'teese satisfy."
It sent a new flow of blood through the veins of Barry Houston,—that simple, quiet statement of the old trapper. He felt again a surge of the fighting instinct, the desire to keep on and on, to struggle until the end, and to accept nothing except the bitterest, most absolute defeat. He quickened his pace, the French-Canadian falling in with him. His voice bore a vibrant tone, almost of excitement:
"I'm going back to Boston to-night. I'm going to find out about this. I can get a machine at Tabernacle to take me over the range; it may save me time in catching a train at Denver. There's some fraud, Ba'tiste. I know it.—and I'll prove it if I can get back to Boston. We'll stop by the cottage down here and see Miss Jierdon; then I'm gone!"
"She no there. She, what-you-say, smash up 'quaintance with Medaine. She ask to go there and stay day or two."
"Then she'll straighten things out, Ba'tiste. I'm glad of it. She knows the truth about this whole thing—every step of the way. Will you tell her?"