Victor sprang from his seat and his eyes shone furiously.
“You–you–” But his fury was baffled by the solemn, determined stare of the other. A moment more and he dropped back in his seat.
Then the great Jean lowered his eyes to the hewn chest upon the floor. The lid had been forced open and the bags of gold dust, so carefully arranged by the Westleys, were displayed within. Presently he looked back at the angry figure bending towards the stove.
“Guess I’ll git blankets out o’ your store,” he said.
Victor remained rapt in moody silence.
“Ther’ ain’t room fer two to sleep comfort’ble in that bed o’ yourn,” he added significantly, as the other showed no inclination to speak.
At last Victor looked up and the dark half-breed blood slowly mounted and flushed his narrow face.
“You’re goin’ to stop here–wher’ the stuff is?”
“I guess.”
The trader looked long into the cavernous moose-eyes of the Hooded Man while he choked down the rage which consumed him. He knew that he was a prisoner in his own store. Resistance would be utterly useless against such a man as Jean Leblaude.