The sullen peace of the valley had merged into the deep-toned, continuous howl of hoarse throats. A terrible threat was in the sound. Jean unslung his rifle and looked to his pistol.
“Ther’s six in this gun,” he said deliberately. “Five of ’em is fer them beasties, if ne’sary. The other’s fer you if you git playin’ tricks. Mebbe ye’ll thank me later fer what I’m doin’. It don’t cut no figger anyway.”
Then he prodded the ice with his iron-shod staff.
Davia watched him while she listened to the din of the forest world. At length the staff had beaten its way to the water below.
“What are ye doin’?” she asked, quite suddenly.
And Jean’s retort was a repetition of her own words.
“It’s cursed–it’s blood-money!”
She took his meaning, and her cupidity cried out in revolt. But her protest was useless.
“You’re not goin’–” she began.
“It goes,” cried Jean fiercely, “wher’ he ain’t like to touch it, ’less Hell gits him. Father Lefleur, at the mission, says as gold’s Hell’s pavin’, an’ mebbe this’ll git back wher’ it come.” And with vengeful force he threw back the lid of the chest.