The scowling half-breed emitted a flood of mingled Cree and English, which Denis rightly imagined to be a profane refusal, so he barred the door and left Smoking Duck to his own reflections.
A pot of coffee stood on the tiny fish-shanty stove, and in a couple of moments Denis had a fire going, for he had not eaten since the previous evening. Keeping one eye on the edge of the clearing, he swallowed some half-warmed coffee and a cold sour-dough biscuit—and looked out to see the figure of Cowley coming at a run, rifle in hand.
Denis cocked his own rifle, drew to one side of the doorway, and waited. On his way across the clearing, Cowley let out a roar for Smoking Duck, but the half-breed had not the presence of mind to call out a warning, or else he had not yet comprehended the full situation of affairs.
Thus Cowley came leaping into the trap. At sight of the man’s brutal face, Denis saw that he had been badly frightened; but that would further his own ends.
“Hands up—hurry!”
That snappy, curt command stopped Cowley as if shot. He was looking squarely into the muzzle of the Ross rifle.
For a moment he was paralyzed. His undershot jaw dropped in blank amazement, and the ragged mustache drew back from his yellow teeth in a snarl. Over the rifle sights the blue eyes of Denis were blazing at him, and with a single curse Cowley dropped his rifle and lifted his hands. As he did so, he took a backward step toward the door.
“Stop that!” snapped Denis. “Walk this way and put out your hands, wrists together. I mean business, Cowley, and you’d better believe it.”
Cowley flung a hunted look over his shoulder at the clearing, then slowly obeyed the command, advancing toward Denis.
His heavy face showed mingled fear, bewilderment, and fury. But when Denis took the handcuffs from his pocket Cowley cried out sharply: