“Ah!”
“You know what dat is? You hav’ before it seen?”
“Yes!” answered Bracknell quickly. “It is dynamite. How did you come by it?”
“Ze stranger mans he leaves it in ze stores dat he give Paslik an’ Sibou. He forget it, or he tink dey get meddling with it an’ blow themselves to Hell. But dey bring it back, and I know it, and I keep it; and remembering ze winter thunder which Paslik an’ Sibou dey hear in their sleep, I say ze trail it was blown up, an’ not fall in, behold, Paslik an’ Sibou wi’ ze stranger mans go all ze way to Dawson, an’ ze trail it is good.”
“Upon my word, Louis, I believe you are right.”
“Dere is no question. It is so sure as ze rising of ze sun!”
A dark thought shot in the corporal’s mind. Four winters ago this had happened, and in that year Dick Bracknell, who had trapped Joy Gargrave into marriage, had fled from England. Rolf Gargrave’s death might be conceived to serve the interests of his son-in-law, and Rolf Gargrave had been murdered.
“Louis,” he asked abruptly, “what sort of a man was he whom Paslik and Sibou served?”
“He was tall, with full beard and dark eyes. His voice was of ze English an’ not of ze American, for he talked not through the nose.”