The trader glanced angrily at the man with the hood.
“See here, Jean Leblaude, you allus had a crank in yer head, an’ I don’t cotton to cranks anyhow.”
“But you’ll cotton to this,” replied Jean drily.
“Eh?”
“It’s nigh on to three year since you an’ sister Davi’ took on together,” he went on, ignoring the interruption, and speaking with great feeling. “Guess you said as you’d marry her when you was independent o’ the company. It was allus the company. Didn’t want no married traders on their books. An’ you hadn’t no cash pappy. That’s how you sed. Mebbe it’s different now. Wal? When are you goin’ to make her a de–your wife?”
There was a look in Jean’s eyes that brooked no denial or evasion. He had driven straight to the point, nor was there any likelihood of his drawing back.
“You’re pretty rough,” said Victor, with an unpleasant laugh. He was inwardly raging, but, like all men of no great moral strength, feared the direct challenge of the other.
“We ain’t polished folk hereabouts,” retorted Jean. “We’ve played the dirty game o’ the White Squaw for you’ clear out. Davi’s most as dead sick of it as me, but wher’ she went into it fer a frolic an’ to please you, I had my notions, I guess. I come clear away down from Peace River nigh on two summers ago jest fer to see that you acted squar’ by that misguided girl. An’ that’s why I done all your dirty work in this White Squaw racket. Now we’ve got the boodle you’re goin’ to hitch up wi’ Davi’, or–”
“Or–what?” broke in Victor contemptuously.
“Or not one blazin’ cent o’ the stuff in this chest’ll you touch.”