Dunvegan's acute ear distinguished the rustling movement. A vivid tongue of flame leaped out of the shade from his rifle's muzzle, and the missile, twanging sharply through the branches, smote Dreaulond's shielding granite with a wicked thud. Following their leader's cue, the men let loose a volley which filled the forest with uproar. Twigs whitened instantly to the bullet-scars. Chipped rocks split with a pop and scuffled through the underbrush. Dreaulond chuckled dryly.
"Hol' on dere, M'sieu's," he advised. "Kip dat good powdaire."
"Who speaks?" shouted Dunvegan, the chief trader.
"Basil Dreaulond," came the laughing answer. "He wan fren', aussi."
Dunvegan knew the voyageur's voice, and he and his band quitted their cover.
"Come out, Basil," he ordered. "What trick are you playing now?"
The courier's face, a clean-cut mask of brown cunning, grinned at them from the fringing tamarack.
"You be waste dose balls," he laughed. "Who you t'ink eet was? Black Ferguson, of de Nor'westaires, mebbe?"
"You rascal," reproved Dunvegan, "your jokes will some day get you a roasting over the wrong fire."
"Non! I tak' de good care of maself. Black Ferguson an' hees men dey don' catch me wit' ma eyes shut."