“Oh, suit your convenience, of course,” said Loseis politely.
Gault’s expression changed. His hard eyes turned askance on the girl. “Upon consideration,” he said, more smoothly than before, “I am sure we will be able to get away late this afternoon. We can make our first camp up on the prairie, where we will at least be out of your sight.”
Loseis bowed; and they parted out in the middle of the little square.
When Gault re-entered the kitchen of the men’s house, he did not speak. The expression on his face was frightful to see. One by one the Crees, making believe to have noticed nothing amiss, slipped outside. Even Moale did not care to face that look. He sauntered out after the others. Gault sat down as if to finish his meal; but he touched no food. He merely sat there with his hands on the edge of the table and his head lowered, thinking; thinking.
Finally he rose; and going into Blackburn’s room, coolly produced a key, with which he opened a wall cupboard. From it he took an earthenware jug, one of several on the shelves; and locking up the cupboard, carried the jug back to the kitchen table. Removing the cork, he smelled of the contents, but did not taste. It was a known thing in the country that Gault was not a drinking man. He called out to have Etzooah sent to him.
When the grinning Indian stood before him, Gault said curtly: “This afternoon, just before supper time, I shall be starting away from here. You are to come with me.”
Etzooah nodded.
“Etzooah,” the trader continued, fixing his burning glance on the man, “do the Slavis know the taste of whisky?”
“Wah!” said the Indian, showing his blackened teeth; “Tatateecha know it. And some of the old men. Twenty-five years ago there was a party of Klondikers went down this river. They had whisky. They hand it round. Blackburn had whisky too, but he did not give the people any.”
“Can you teach the younger men to drink it?” asked Gault with an ugly smile.