After a brief colloquy with Moale, Gault dismounted, and came striding towards them with measured steps. He had retained the lordly air of the old-time trader. His self-control was marvelous; he kept his head up, and looked from Loseis to Conacher with brazen coolness. But there was a sort of glassy guard over his eyes. You could not see into them.
“He has his nerve with him,” grumbled Conacher in unwilling admiration. “Marching up to the gun like this, with empty hands.”
“He may have a pistol,” suggested Loseis.
“He’d have to draw it,” said Conacher coolly. “And my gun is in my hands.”
As he drew close, Gault’s eyes flickered once. It must have been like a knife in his breast to see Conacher and Loseis pressed together companionably in the door of their house like a little family. But this was the only sign of feeling he gave.
“Good evening,” he said to Loseis.
“Good evening,” returned Loseis.
Gault went on: “I was somewhat surprised to learn from Moale, when he returned to me to-day, that Conacher was with you.”
“Were you?” said Loseis dryly.
“You told me that he had gone with the fur.”