His discovery had been incredible—almost. But not quite. Subconscious doubts of Murray had always been his. Bill Brudenell's doubts of the man had been more than subconscious. The growth of his own subtle antagonism towards the trader had always disturbed him. But its growth had gone on while he remained powerless to check it. He had set it down to rivalry for a woman's love. He had accepted it as such. But now it possessed a deeper significance. He believed it to have been instinctive distrust. But a murderer. No. The reality was beyond his wildest imaginings.
He left the embankment and passed back to the shanty where the council of peace had been held.
Bill was within. He was seated on his bunk contemplating the automatic pistol which Kars had taken from Murray McTavish. It was lying across his knee, and one hand was gripping its butt. The Indian reek still permeated the atmosphere, and Kars exhaled in noisy disgust as he entered.
"Gee! It's a stinking outfit," he exclaimed, in tones that left no doubt of his feelings, as he flung himself on his bunk and began to fill his pipe.
Bill glanced up. His gaze was preoccupied.
"Neches do stink," he admitted.
Kars struck a match.
"I wasn't worrying about the neches. The neches don't cut any ice with me. It's Murray."
Bill shook his head while he watched Kars light his pipe.
"Then it's more than a stinking outfit. Maybe I should say 'worse.'" His eyes were twinkling. It was not with amusement. It was the nature of them.