“Thanks. And where does this road go to?”
“Straight north to nowhere. Maybe ye’d find an old camp if ye went far enough.”
“Javet’s place for me,” said Akerley, turning and moving away.
“Watch out on yer left,” Ned Tone called after him. “The road to Gaspard’s clearin’s turns off jist past the next bend.”
The unexpected encounter with the heavy hitter had delayed the intruder’s plan by nearly an hour, so now he stepped forward briskly. But he did not feel very brisk. The mill with the big woodsman had been a more strenuous before-breakfast job than he liked or was accustomed to; and now his shoulder and neck felt even worse than when he had first opened his eyes in the young oats in the gray dawn. He decided to blame the imaginary accident in the rapids below Boiling Pot for the crippled condition of his left shoulder.
When he issued from the green shade of the forest into the wide light of Gaspard’s clearings he saw that the front door of the house stood open and smoke trailed straight up into the sunshine from the gray chimney. He moved slowly but unfalteringly toward the house.
He had not gone far before Catherine appeared in the doorway, only to vanish instantly. Then old Gaspard Javet appeared, with the rifle in the crook of his right arm. The devil-hunter stepped across the threshold and stood with a hand raised to shade his eyes.
Akerley thought of the extracted cordite and smiled. He was more than half-way to the house before the old man broke his dramatic attitude in front of the door and moved forward with the obtrusive rifle at the port.
“What are you doing with that gun?” cried Akerley, halting. “Do you take me for a moose? What’s the matter with you, anyhow?”
Old Gaspard Javet continued to advance with long and even strides. He came to a standstill within three paces of the intruder and regarded him searchingly for several seconds. The young man returned the gaze steadily.