Frontin’s jaw fell. Crawford stared at the trees, utterly aghast for an instant, until he saw a man step from the trees and start forward, across an open space of a hundred yards. A man—a white man!
“Devil take me! Is it real or a dream?” murmured Frontin.
“Real.” Crawford came to life abruptly, recovering from his astounded surprise. “Come.”
He started forward, and the other followed, staring. The stranger was confidently forging toward them across the snow, and was alone, apparently unarmed.
“Look at his ears!” said Frontin suddenly. “There’s an animal for you, cap’n!”
The stranger was bareheaded, wore woollen shirt and trousers, no furs. He was not tall, but very wide, thickly built, long in the arm; his head was well set between broad shoulders. His hair, cut close and ragged by a knife, was a bright flame-colour, and his heavy features ended in a pointed red beard. His skin, too, was red and high-blooded, while his ears were set very high on his head. He had all the look of a vigorous animal alive with power, and his eyes were of a light grey, whitish and almost colourless, but extremely sharp and alert.
The three came together. The stranger stood gazing at the other two—Frontin, hawk-nosed and saturnine, dark and grimly cynical; Crawford, thin and hatchet-faced, his heavy-lidded blue eyes somehow expressing his indomitable spirit. The stranger spoke abruptly.
“Which is Crawford? Workin’ for the French company?”
“I am Crawford, but I’m working for myself. Who the devil are you?”
“My name’s Maclish, agent of the English company.” Maclish spoke with a slight Scots burr. “I’ve had word of your coming, and I’m here to send ye back.”