"Dis Pierre Cambon's gon," said the little man, suddenly tapping the weapon he had been inspecting. "She 'ave hees name on ze stock. An' ze birch-bark down yonder; she's belong' to Jules Beaujeau. You buy 'um?"
Prime scarcely knew what to say; whether to tell the truth, which would not be believed, or to make up a lie, which might be believed. As a compromise he chose a middle course, which is always the most dangerous.
"I don't know these two you speak of, by name; but the two men who owned the canoe and the guns are both dead."
The supper guest sprang up as if a bomb had been exploded under him and quickly put a safe distance between himself and the camp-fire.
"You—you kill 'um?" he demanded.
"No; come back here and sit down. They had a fight and killed each other."
The man returned hesitantly and squatted beside the fire to press another live coal into the bowl of his pipe. Prime switched the talk abruptly.
"You'd better change your mind about the offer I made you and pilot us to the nearest town. We will pay you well for it."
"You got money?" was the short question.
"Plenty of it."