“Ay, master!” spoke up the man Dickon, whilst his comrades growled approval. “The horizon be as good one place as another—and we be your men!”
Crawford looked at Frontin, his blue eyes all asparkle.
“And you, old buccaneer? Wilt go to Nelson and join Serigny? Or wilt go——”
Frontin shrugged, but his affected cynicism could not hide the quick glow in his dark countenance.
“I? Bah! Don’t be a fool. I go to get some soup over the fire, and advise you to do the same——”
A roar of laughter broke the tension.
BOOK III
THE STAR GOES, THE WOMAN REMAINS
CHAPTER I
IT DOES NOT PAY TO BE MERCIFUL
Now the story passes to a mid-afternoon of spring in the far northwest, where as yet spring was only a name of bitter mockery. Hal Crawford and his men, with the terrified Cree guides who led them, staggered over the snow-crust of a tree-girded valley, along the open space which held a frozen stream hidden beneath its ice and snow.
Far in the lead went the Cree trail-breaker. Crawford followed him, and behind Crawford came Frontin. The others, Indians and white men, straggled along as best they could, Sir Phelim Burke bringing up the rear and driving them on. As he wearily followed the Cree on between the lines of dark trees, Crawford began to feel the grip of hopeless despair—and with reason.