“I dunno, I’m telling you. I ain’t never been near the Porcupine River. Dunno whar’ it is.”
“You don’t, eh? Boosh! Let me tell you, mon ami, you tell one beeg story! Zee two garçons, dey trail you all zee way from dere, you beeg teef. You’ snowshoes make different track, an’ see zee cigareette stumps!” Several of the yellow paper wrappings were littered about the tent. “Now do you say you are not zee same man?”
“Stranger, honest to mackerel, I dunno what yer talkin’ erbout.”
Joe turned to the pile of skins once more.
“We search every corner dees tent, den,” he said, with finality.
But as he was stooping over the skins, throwing them out one by one, and scanning the pile the while with eager eyes for his own and the boys’ property, some subtle sixth sense made him suddenly wheel.
Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the little man’s hands make a sudden move. He was on him with a bound. In a flash he had both the little gray man’s hands pinioned in his own powerful grip, one over and one under the shabby covering.
Then, with a swift movement, he yanked the skin blanket down. He disclosed a hand holding a wicked looking revolver of heavy caliber. It was fully loaded and cocked.
Pod was not the harmless individual he had appeared to be.