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The next moment a figure stepped out into the open. A figure, dressed in beaded buckskin and blanket clothing. It was Davia. She came in haste, yet wearily. She looked slight and drooping in her mannish garments, while the pallor of her drawn face was intense. She came up to where Jean stood and would have fallen but for his support.
As he watched he saw Davia pass a large pistol to the man; and then he knew that her love for her faithless lover was greater than any other passion that moved her. He knew that that weapon had been given for defence against himself. That evening the setting sun shone down upon a solitary camp-fire on the Northland trail, and beside it sat a large man crouching for warmth.
He had waited long for such an opportunity, and he was not the one to forego his advantage without enforcing his will. If Victor wanted his share of the proceeds of the robbery he must fulfil the promise, which, in a passionate moment, he had bestowed. Davia was as clay in his hands. Jean was different.
At last the giant stooped and removed the gag from his captive's mouth. The questioning eyes of Victor Gagnon looked from one to the other and finally rested upon Davia. "Wal?" he said. And Davia turned to Jean. "Loose him!" she said imperiously. And Jean knew that trouble had come for his plans. He shook his head.
"Ye owe us a deal more'n ye ken pay easy, but I'm fixin' the reckonin' my way. We're goin', an' the boodle goes wi' us. Savvee?" Davia watched her brother acutely. Nor could she help noticing that the great man was listening while he spoke. "I 'lows you'll git free o' this rope. I mean ye to after awhiles. Ye'll keep y'r monkey tricks till after we're clear o' here.
He was held prisoner by his greed, and it seemed as if, in the end, he would be forced to bend to the other's will. And no word came from Davia. No word that could cause alarm, or tell them of the dire tragedy being enacted in the mountains. And the two men, one for ever scheming and the other watching, passed their time in moody silence.
A man may not engage in crime with those whom he has wronged. Victor had sought to obtain good service, forgetting the manner in which he had treated the sister of Jean. The ways of the half-breed are loose in the matter of morals. Davia, he knew, loved him. She was a strong, passionate woman, therefore he had not bothered about Jean.
Jean waited; then he put a question with characteristic abruptness. "Who's on the trail?" "Who? Nick Westley. He's comin' for blood! Victor's blood!" Then Davia sprang to her feet with a look of wild alarm upon her beautiful face. "He's killed his brother!" she added. "He's mad ravin' mad." The man did not move a muscle. Only his eyes darkened as he heard the announcement.
I reckon ther's jest one thing fer us to do when a crazy man gits around with a gun. It's time to light out. Wher's Victor?" And her eyes fell upon the treasure-chest. "Him an' me's changed places. He's back ther'." Jean jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the huts in the wood. Davia was on her feet in an instant and her eyes sparkled angrily. "What d'ye mean, Jean?" The man shrugged.
Then his solemn eyes turned away indifferently, and he gazed out into the hazy distance. His gaunt face showed nothing of what was passing in the brain behind it. He rarely displayed emotion of any sort. The Indian blood in his veins preponderated, and much of the stoical calm of the Redskin was his. Now he could wait, undisturbed, for the return of Davia.
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