“Can we both get away together?” asked Gault.
“Why not? The fur is all in. At this season Claggett can keep the store.”
“Then I want you to come with me. We must start within an hour. Round up the four smartest lads you can put your hands on, and a dozen of our best horses. We must make a good appearance, you understand. Six of us will be more than enough to handle the beggarly Slavis. . . . Blackburn is dead!” he cried for the mere pleasure of repeating the words. “And his business is ours!”
“What will you do about the girl?” asked Moale stolidly.
“Oh, a miss of eighteen,” said Gault contemptuously. “She will give me no trouble . . . I’ll be her guardian, her trustee,” he added with a satanic smile.
“She’ll be rich,” said Moale.
“Not when I’m through with her.”
“I’m not referring to the Post, nor the horses,” said Moale. “Blackburn sends out near a hundred thousand dollars worth of fur per annum. He don’t import but a fraction of that in goods. The balance must be salted down somewhere.”
Gault stopped and stared. A new light of cupidity broke in his face. “Why, sure!” he said, a little bemused with the glittering picture that rose before his mind’s eye. “My mind must be wandering! Shouldn’t wonder if it amounted to a million! . . .” He went on muttering to himself: “It would be the best way anyhow. Nobody could question what I did then. And I shouldn’t be doing it for the company neither but for myself!” His voice suddenly rang out. “By God! I’ll marry the girl!”
Going to the sideboard, he examined his face anxiously in the mirror. “Joe,” he said, “if you didn’t know my age, how old would you call me?”