“You came in a nick of time,” Dick returned.
“One of our party has disappeared, we think he’s been captured. Now we’re trying to get a wounded policeman to a place of safety while I and my guide take a look for my chum. My name’s Dick Kent,” he held out his hand.
“Me, I’m Gaston Leroi,” announced the stranger, shaking with French warmth, “that Henderson’s man Govereau kill my partner up on Crooked Stick River. I get away pretty lucky.”
“And it’s lucky for us you got away,” Dick replied with spirit. He stepped to the sled and stopped over the wounded officer. “Corporal Richardson, here’s a man who can help us out,” Dick told the officer.
“Thank God,” murmured the policeman. “What’s his name?”
“Gaston Leroi.”
“Gaston Leroi!” exclaimed the corporal with more strength in his voice than had been there for hours. “Not the trapper Leroi. Hey! Bring him around where I can see him.”
At the sound of the wounded man’s voice the French trapper had leaped forward where he could see the officer’s face.
“By gar!” exclaimed Leroi. “George Richardson! What them fellers do to you, George?”
Dick was overjoyed to discover the men were old friends.