“Hunting is all out of the question in sech a storm as this,” said Tony Jadwin, with a deep sigh. “No game stirring, onless it’s a rabbit, an’ they ain’t wuth wastin’ powder an’ shot on.”
The snow kept up until noon and was then over a foot in depth. But after that the sun came out, making the landscape dazzling white.
The party was coming out of a heavy stretch of timber when James Morris called a sudden halt. At a distance could be seen the smoke of a campfire.
“Must be Injuns,” was Peaceful Jones’s comment.
A brief consultation was held, and Tony Jadwin took it on himself to go forward and investigate. He skirted the clearing and passed among the trees, and that was the last the others saw of him for a full half-hour.
“Got news fer ye,” he said, to James Morris, on returning. “Powerful news, too.”
“What is it?” demanded the trader, quickly.
“Who do ye reckon I see over yonder?”
“Some Indians?”
“Yes, a handful. But thet ain’t all. I see thet good-fer-nuthin’ Frenchman thet made so much trouble fer ye fer years.”