“Is he a miner?” It was Nora who asked the question.
“Yes.”
“Draw down your veil, Elizabeth, and don’t say a word to him. I’ll do the talking.”
Scarcely had she spoken when the flickering light moved out into the road, directly in their way. Ketchomunoski, lantern in hand, barred their way.
Jefferies could have urged the horses on, letting the big Polander run the risk of getting beneath their hoofs. But Jefferies was a peaceful man, so long as peace served his purpose. If strategy served, he preferred it to war; if not, then he was ready for the last. At the flourish of the lantern, he drew rein, calling out in friendly tone: “That you, John?” By that name every foreigner was known. “Come here, I want to speak to you.”
The Pole came to the side of the carriage. “We’ve got to get to Bitumen, John, and get there to-night. How’s the road?”
“No one go to there to-night,” he replied, in his broken English. He was to watch the road. Men were above. He would fire his gun if any one suspicious passed. They could not go on. This was the purport of his speech.
Leaning forward, Nora touched the man’s arm. “Don’t you know me?” she said. “I’m Dennis O’Day’s daughter. Listen! I must reach my father at once. At once, do you understand? I have a message to give him which will affect the strike. But I must give it to him. Fire your gun, and let the miners meet us. I want them to take me to my father.”
She kept her hand on the man’s arm as she was speaking. She looked him directly in the eye, as though by force of her own will she would compel him to do her bidding. Her words threw a new light upon the case. Yet in times like this, one can trust the words of no one.
“Where have I seen you?” he asked, scrutinizing her closely.