“I am—the same James Morris that you tried to rob of a trading-post on the Kinotah,” answered the young soldier, bound that Jean Bevoir should understand the situation fully.
“Zat was ze bad bus’ness, yes. I think ze tradin’-post mine. I haf ze papairs to show of it.”
“The grant is my father’s, and always was,” retorted Dave.
“Do not be too sure,” answered the trader craftily. “I can bring ze men to swear it ees mine—two, t’ree men.”
“Your title is no good.”
“We vill see ’bout zat. If I bring ze men ze court will say it ees mine, and why not? I haf been dare long before your fadder, yes.”
There was a pause, for Dave did not know how to reply to this speech. The French trader looked at the youth’s face searchingly.
“You listen,” he whispered, so that those around might not hear. “I tell you something, yes.”
“What?” questioned Dave, wondering what was coming next.
“If you send me to ze prison for two, t’ree year what goot haf dat been? Nodding, no nodding to you! I go and I come out, and ze trading-post still belongs to Jean Bevoir, not to your fadder.”