The Saint smiled and shook his head.
“I forgot that you were a stranger. It is north of here. I am a trapper; a free trader, they call me. There were three of us on Moose River—no, four. But there were only three of us went in there. The baby was born that winter.
“The fur was plentiful and our catch was large. My wife—” The Saint stopped and stared at the floor, as though unable to continue.
“It was a hard life for a woman, away from her own kind. I trusted my partner.” The Saint’s manner seemed to change, and he cursed witheringly in a mixture of English, French and another language, which Duke had never heard. It seemed to relieve him, for he continued:
“The fur was ready to take out in the spring, and my partner was to make the voyage alone. On the day he left, I was going to take up a few traps which had not been lifted. Somehow, my wife seemed nervous, and I questioned her. She confessed that she was afraid of my partner.
“I laughed. My friend, it seemed a huge joke. The load of furs was launched and my partner waved adieu. I watched him pole away and went to my wife, laughing at her grave expression.
“‘He is gone,’ I said, ‘and anyway it is foolish of you to feel as you do about him. Has he ever been anything except a good friend to us?’
“‘I do not know,’ she replied, as she hugged the baby and went into the cabin. I laughed and went on the trail. But a man’s mind is the devil’s garden, where seeds of suspicion take root easily, and I grew uneasy. I would go back to the little cabin and stay with my wife until she was no longer afraid.
“I reached the cabin just in time to see my partner, who had returned, forcing my wife into the canoe. He had come back, evidently with the intention of stealing my wife along with the furs.