"No," said Van Dorn.
The man who did not know Loree went to his knapsack and took out a jacket made of deerskin tanned with the hair on. It was lined with red flannel. He held it up and looked at it fixedly. Trudeau started as it met his gaze, and he came up to Van Dorn and pointed to the garment.
"You wear zat?" asked he.
"Yes," said the other. "It is a good warm jacket."
"A man w'at wear deerskin zhaquette," said Trudeau, "in zese wood', in shooting seasone, sartaine go home in wooden ove'coat—sure's hell!"
"Oh, I guess there's no danger!" said Van Dorn, his lips parting with a mirthless smile.
"Non?" queried Trudeau. "You ben in zese wood' before?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Van Dorn. "Lots of times!"
"Zen you know!" asserted Trudeau. "Zen you are zhoking wiz me. Zese huntaire sink brown cloth coat, gray coat, black coat, anysing zat move—she sink zem every time a deer. Las' wintaire lots men killed for deer. Pete St. Cyr's boy kill deer, hang heem in tree, and nex' morning take heem on back an' tote. A city huntaire see deer-hide wiz hair on moving, an him! sof'-nose bullet go thoo deer, thoo Pete St. Cyr's boy's head! Zat zhaquette damn-fool thing!"
"It goes either side out," said the hunter. "I can turn it, you know."