“Are you going to give up those skins, or do we have to take them from you?”
As he spoke he did a significant thing. He lightly tapped with his finger tips the rifle stock of the man next to him. It was a quiet hint, yet a sufficient one.
“We are in your power right now; but perhaps before long the tables will be turned,” said Tom. “Take the skin that you stole, and——”
“Say no more, my young friend. You are wise beyond your years. Flem,” this to a squat-figured, evil-looking fellow with a shack of sandy hair, who was one of the trio whose arrival had caused our friends so much trouble, “Flem, hand me that black fox skin. I went to some trouble to secure it. I propose to keep it.”
“As long as you can, you ought to add,” muttered Jack, under his breath.
As for Picquet, he, like Tom, remained silent. There was really nothing to be said. Without a word he booted the skins he had recovered from the fur robber’s loot across the floor. One of the Wolf’s men picked them up.
By this time it was almost dark within the tent. But from the red-hot stove there emanated quite a glow which showed up the evil countenances of the boys’ captors in striking relief. Except for their leader, the Wolf, whose soft tones and retiring manners would have made anyone pick him out for anything but what he was, they were a repulsive looking crew.
It was clear enough to Tom now that they were in the power of men who made a regular business of fur robbing, and a thoroughly prosperous one, too. He felt an intense disgust for them. Knowing as he did the hardships of a trapper’s life, the long tramps through the freezing snows, the isolation and the loneliness of the existence, he thought, with angry contempt, of the meanness of men who would rob the rightful owners of such hard-earned trophies.
“Feel pretty sore at me, don’t you?” asked the Wolf, who had been eying the boy narrowly.
“Not so sore as disgusted,” shot out Tom. “I’ve seen some mean wretches in my time, but a man who will deliberately——”