“Hm!” said Gault stroking his chin. “Then they’ll know that you were my man all the time. . . . Oh, what does it matter now! Everything is in my hands. . . . Had Blackburn sent his fur out yet?”
“No. Roundin’ up pack horses when him kill.”
“Then that is my fur now! . . . What will the Slavis do without their master?”
Etzooah shrugged expressively. “No can tell. Slavis lak crazy children. Not know what they do. Maybe they run wild now; kill the girl and steal the store goods. No can tell.”
Gault’s face darkened. “By God!” he cried. “If the Slavis get out of hand, it would bring in the police. I don’t want the police nosing into this. I will ride back to-day. Toma! Toma! . . . You, Etzooah, eat in my kitchen, and take a sleep. . . . Toma, you——————!”
The old man came shuffling in.
“Fetch Moale from the store. Bestir yourself! Afterwards get out my riding-suit, my saddlebags, my traveling blankets, and all things necessary for a journey!”
Joe Moale was the “bookkeeper” at Fort Good Hope, otherwise Gault’s second in command. Technically a white man, a flavor of the red race clung about him; he was probably a quarter breed. He was reputed to be a relative of Gault’s. An educated man, as able and intelligent as any white man in the company’s employ, he was as inscrutable as an Indian. He was a well-built man of middle height, not uncomely in his wooden fashion. It was impossible to guess his exact age, but he was much younger than the trader. He served Gault with absolute and unquestioning faithfulness, but there was no affection in the glance that he bent on his master. With true redskin patience he was waiting for Gault to die.
“Blackburn is dead!” cried Gault, striding up and down in his dark exultation.
“The news has already spread about the Post,” said Moale, unmoved.