Just for an instant it was in the man’s mind to move out and investigate. But the thought passed. He remained where he was, and turning gave a sharp word of command to his patient team, which promptly moved off in the direction of the barn.
There was no doubt in the farmer’s mind; there was also no undue concern. But as his horses moved off he removed the fur mitt from his right hand, and plunged it deeply into the pocket of his capacious leather coat. It was a movement of instinct. It was a movement that was the outcome of existence in a territory where survival depended upon the capacity of the individual in defence. His muscular hand was gripping the gun that he never failed to carry somewhere secreted about his person.
The silent moments prolonged. Then the sound broke again.
The next instant George Marton found himself gazing upon the unkempt, haggard face of a fellow-creature. The face was peering out, framed by the boughs of snow-laden spruce which had been thrust aside. And a pair of hungry blue eyes were staring at him out of deep, hollow sockets.
“Well? What’s the game?” Marton spoke quietly, but there was an incisive note in his challenge. “You’re covered. Move hand or foot till I say, an’ you’re surely a dead man.”
The stranger’s reply was a laugh. But he obeyed very literally.
“Well? I’m waiting.”
Marton had not moved a muscle. But the understanding behind the stranger’s wild eyes was plain enough. The man in the bluff knew the farmer’s gun was levelled at him in the depths of his pocket.
It was a wofully hoarse voice that replied as the laugh died out.
“I’m lost. I’m starving. Another night in the open without a feed and I’ll be dead.”