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"Who are you?" he demanded. Abrupt as was the challenge the tone of it had no roughness. "Louis Creal." "Belong here?" Kars' steady eyes were compelling. A flush of anger surged in the half-breed's mutilated cheeks. His eyes snapped viciously. "This ain't a catechism, is it?" he cried hotly. Then in a moment he moderated his tone.
The new white man was very pleased. After a very long time Murray McTavish and Louis Creal held a big council with the young men. The white man told them they were in very great danger. He said that Allan Mowbray was no longer to be trusted. He was a traitor. He assured them that Allan Mowbray was going through the country telling the Indians and white folk of the yellow dust on the river.
These he explained with the technicalities necessary between experts. He dwelt upon his estimate of the quality of the auriferous deposits as he had been able to make it in the darkness, and from his sense of touch. The final story of his encounter with Louis Creal only seemed to afford him amusement in the telling. "You see, Bill," he added, "that feller must have been sick to death.
I figger we've lit right on top of a big secret here, and well, I don't fancy being bluffed out of it by any low-down bum of a half-breed. That feller wants to be quit of us. He's bluffing. We've hit the camp with the neches out. Do you get that? If they'd bin around we wouldn't have seen any Louis Creal. We'd have had all the lead poisoning the neches could have handed us.
Guess that old guy ain't had a shake up like that since he first choked himself with gravel when his momma wa'n't around. I allow Louis Creal, whoever he is, is going to get an earful that'll nigh bust his drums." But Kars had no responsive smile. "They'll be on us by nightfall," he said quietly. "We need to get busy." Then he suddenly called out. His voice was stern and threatening.
He told the Indians so, and showed them how to find it, and promised them, if they would collect all they could, and trade it with him, they would never want for anything. He sent the half-breed, Louis Creal, to see they did the work right, and fitted him out a store. Louis Creal was a servant of Allan Mowbray. He was not a partner.
With a brief explanation the Indian yielded up his command. "Him Louis Creal," he said pointing. Then he swung his arm away to the right. "Him Indian lodge. Much teepee. Much dog." He paused. "Charley him finish yes?" he added almost regretfully. Kars promptly led the way back to the cover of the woods. "Guess we'll sit around," he said, in a low voice. "I'll hand out the talk."
The emotions of the moment before had fallen from him. "Good!" he exclaimed. "Now for Mister Louis Creal." Bill turned, and his twinkling eyes were thoughtful as they regarded his friend. "Ye-es." But Kars was paying small attention. His eyes were shining with a light such as is only seen in those who contemplate the things their heart is set upon. In his mind there was no doubt, only conviction.
He stood staring out in a southwesterly direction. For a while he remained silent. Kars and Bill squeezed the water from their stout moleskin trousers. Suddenly Charley flung out an arm. He was pointing with a lean forefinger. "Neche lodge," he said. "Louis Creal him shack." Kars and Bill were at either side of him searching the dark horizon. A light was shining dimly in the distance.
He had him by the body, and his own great bulk lay atop of him. But the man's arms were free. There was a moment's desperate pause as they fell, and it was that pause which robbed the gunman of his chance of accomplishing the murder he had designed. Kars knew his man on the instant. The voice was the voice of Louis Creal, the half-breed who had warned him of the danger of Bell River.
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