“Eh bien, Jacques he ’ave more company?” a warm friendly voice shouted.
“I’m not staying long. In a hurry. I want those dogs of yours. Sent out on detail, must make haste,” Morely said quietly.
He removed his parka, shaking the snow from it, and stood revealed in the uniform he wore.
“Well met. What district are you from and your name? I’m Corporal English, out of Moose Factory.”
Morely wheeled. So blinded had he been by snow and wind, he had not seen the man’s uniform when he entered.
“Jacques, he ’ave an honor. Two men of ze Mounted under hees roof,” the French trapper murmured. His round black eyes gazed admiringly at the splendid proportions of the two men. Both of them standing six foot, deep chests, stalwart shoulders, slim waisted.
Regretfully he rubbed his hand over his rotund stomach.
“I’m Hardy, Lake St. John,” Morely said coolly, returning the other’s steady gaze.
He turned to Jacques. “I’ll have to commandeer your team.”
“You are Porter Hardy?” Corporal English asked.