Crawford, suiting action to utterance, surveyed him with a slight and whimsical smile.
“My dear Deakin,” he responded calmly, “we ought to know you, since we’ve had men posted around your ship since last night! If we bore you any ill will, we might have taken that craft of yours a dozen times over. But to what end? As the redskins say, I’m bringing you a belt of white wampum and a calumet. Agree to a truce, and I’ll go over to your ship with you and have a friendly talk.”
“Your name?” growled Deakin, obviously taken all aback.
“Crawford.”
“Blood and wounds! Not Hal Crawford, the pirate?” cried Deakin, while his men gaped and stared at hearing the name.
“So called. Come—is it peace or war? Give your word; I’ll accept it.”
Deakin was not the sort to hesitate when trapped. He put out his hand and advanced, giving Crawford a mighty grip. He made answer with apparent heartiness, yet with a ruthless treachery thinly veiled in those domineering eyes of his.
“Ay! Come aboard with us; peace it is, cap’n. To the ship, lads, and out o’ this! The flood tide be lifting this accursed ice. Leave the corpse where it is.”
Crawford turned and lifted his voice. “Frontin! Take the men back to the ship and signal in all the crew. If I do not return in three hours, come over the ice and hang Moses Deakin.”
“Ay, cap’n,” the unseen Frontin made reply.