“What is it?” demanded Conacher.
“He is out of tobacco,” said Loseis.
“Oh, my God!” cried Conacher. “Tobacco! When we were counting on him to bring us help!”
Loseis held up a restraining hand. “You will only frighten him stupid,” she said. “Let me find out what happened.”
The miserable Tatateecha told his story to Loseis, who translated it for Conacher. “He says, early this morning when they were packing up for the start, Gault, and his three big men suddenly rode into their camp, and the Slavis jumped on horses and spread in every direction. Gault, when he found you were gone, turned right back, but Tatateecha couldn’t round up the Slavis by himself, he says. One by one they gained the trail and galloped home; and there was nothing for it but for him to come home too. . . . It may be true. It has the sound of truth.”
“Leaving all the fur and the pack-horses where they were, I suppose,” said Conacher.
Loseis shrugged. “I expect that was bound to be lost,” she said.
“And he calls himself their head man . . . !”
Loseis concealed her bitter disappointment under a mask of indifference. “He isn’t worth swearing at,” she said. “Give him a plug of tobacco, and let him go.”
Tatateecha began to argue for two plugs of tobacco; Conacher with a threatening gesture, sent him flying down the hill.