She looked at him, nonplussed. What indeed did she want? Nothing.
She told him so. Plainly he did not believe her.
“My name,” he said stolidly, “Pierre Andres. Trapper, me.” He jingled a bundle of traps hanging from his arm. “You want white fox skin? All right. I geeve heem you.”
“No! No!” she persisted stoutly. “I want nothing. I am looking for some one.”
“Some one look for gold.” He placed a hand above his eyes. “Allee time look. No find. Eh?” He tried to smile, and his face became uglier than before. “Oh, you find. Bye and bye. Not know mine.” He chuckled deep down in his throat.
“See! Look!” he exclaimed suddenly. He made a motion as if to drop on all fours. “Buffalo.” He sent out a curious snort. “You!” He made a face. “’Fraid, you. Up tree. Then, boom! Buffalo gone! Is it not so?
“And now I gotta say good-bye.”
“Good—good-bye.” The words stuck in her throat. Speaking to her dogs, she sent them spinning back over the trail.
Her mind was in a whirl. Who was this man? What had he been doing about their camp? Had he been near when she was treed by the buffalo? Had he fired that shot?
She thought, of his traps. “Hope he hasn’t set any near our cabin.”