Through the muffling snow he pushed on until the faint glow of a fire came to him through the mist of snowflakes. A shadow flitted in front of it, and he stopped to chuckle evilly and mutter. Then he dismounted and walked up to the camp, where Solange busied herself in preparing supper.
“That you, Monsieur David?” she called cheerily, as Jim’s boots crunched the snow.
Jim chuckled. “It’s just me—old Jim, ma’am,” he said, his voice oily and ingratiating. “Old Jim, come to see the gal of his old friend, Pete.”
Solange whirled. But Jim had sidled between her and the tent, where, just inside the flap, rested the rifle that Sucatash had left her.
“What do you wish?” she asked, angrily. Her head was reared, and in the dim light her eyes glowed as they caught reflections from the fire. She showed no fear. 222
“Just wants to talk to you about old times,” whined Banker. “Old Jim wants to talk to Pete’s gal, ma’am.”
“I heard a shot a while ago,” said Solange sharply. “Where is Monsieur Dave?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about Dave, ma’am. Reckon he’ll be back. Boys like him don’t leave purty gals alone long—less’n he’s got keerless and gone an’ hurt hisself. Boys is keerless that a way and they don’t know the mount’ins like old Jim does. They goes and dies in ’em, ma’am—but old Jim don’t die. He knows the mount’ins, he does! He, he!”
Solange took a step toward him. “What do you wish?” she repeated, sternly. Still, she did not fear him.
“Just to talk, ma’am. Just to talk about French Pete. Just to talk about gold. Old Jim’s been a-huntin’ gold a many years, ma’am. And Pete, he found gold and I reckon he told his gal where the gold was. He writ a paper before he died, they say, and I reckon he writ on that paper where the gold was, didn’t he?”