“Who is this man?” demanded Conacher, putting his finger on the Slavi.
“Saltahta,” said the newcomer quickly.
“Saltahta,” repeated Tatateecha like a parrot.
Conacher bit his lip. With a jerk of his head he dismissed Tatateecha. The other man made as if to follow.
“You stay where you are!” cried Conacher.
Whether or not the man understood English, the gesture which accompanied the words was amply significant, and he stopped in his tracks. He began to whine pitifully in his own tongue, pointing to his lips and hugging his stomach.
“I don’t give a damn how hungry you are,” said Conacher. “I mean to keep you under my eye until I decide what to do.”
The Indian sat down at the foot of a tree, and pathetically exhibited his empty pipe to the white man. Conacher tossed him the remainder of a plug of tobacco, which he began to shave with an air of philosophic indifference.
There was an agonizing struggle going on in Conacher’s breast. Though he had every reason in the world to believe that letter a trick, he found that he could not disregard it. There was still one chance in a thousand that it was genuine, and it was a chance he could not take. He had been unwilling enough in the first place to leave Loseis; this little doubt tipped the scale. With that doubt of her safety in his mind he recognized that it would be simply impossible for him to go on day after day always putting a greater distance between them. “Oh, to hell with the fur!” he said to himself; and in that moment his mind was made up.
But he had no notion of swallowing Gault’s bait (if such it was) whole. He lit a pipe to stimulate his mental processes, and puffed at it leaning against a tree, and gazing down at the innocent-eyed Indian speculatively. He thought: I shall take you back with me, my man. Tatateecha is a good way from home now, and he’s been over this route many times. He ought to be able to deliver the fur to Gruber. But in any case I’d sooner trust him than you. Whether you like it or not, you shall come back with me.