The Indian, grinning, shook his head like a dog, and pointed to his ear; the usual sign for not understanding.
Conacher pointed to himself, and said “Conacher.” He then pointed to the Indian.
“Saltahta,” said the man.
Conacher took the envelope. It bore no superscription. Tearing it open, his heart was filled with warmth at the sight of Loseis’ signature in big round characters. The letter had been written on the typewriter in the stammering style of the beginner. Conacher had had such a letter from Loseis down river. This one was brief.
“There is something wrong here. Gault is plotting mischief. I am afraid. The man who takes this to you is a good man. Let him go with the outfit, and you come back to me.”
As he read, all Conacher’s warmth was chilled. Suspicion leaped into his mind full-grown. There was a vagueness about the letter that was not like Loseis. Moreover he doubted if she would ever confess to being afraid, even if she were afraid. And why should she sign her full name; Laurentia Blackburn. On the other letter it had been simply Laurentia. He remembered the sheets that Gault had made her sign for him, and smiled to himself. Really, the plot was too transparent. He, Conacher, was to be drawn off, and the fur diverted to Gault’s uses under guidance of this Indian. Loseis had told him of a Slavi who was in Gault’s pay.
Suddenly putting his finger on the man’s breast, Conacher said: “Etzooah.”
The Slavi looked at him with perfect, stupid blankness, and shook his head. “Saltahta,” he repeated.
“Tatateecha!” called Conacher.
The little head man came climbing up the bank. Whatever his astonishment at the sight of the newcomer, nothing showed in his face.