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Updated: May 23, 2025
He by no means gave credence to all of it, but it was not without effect upon his personal attitude towards him. "I'm not wise to your instructions," Garstaing went on as Steve offered no further comment, "but mine are pretty clear, and they are straight from my Commissioner." "I've to place myself entirely at your disposal." Steve's reply came without any hesitation. His tone suggested unconcern.
Instead he spat again into the fire and gave himself up to a luxurious hate of Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, whom all Indians hated. Julyman was only a shade removed from his original savagery. There were times when he was not removed from savagery at all. This was such a moment.
He passed out, and his "So long" came back to the man in the doorway as the night swallowed him up. Steve moved back to the table. In his deliberate fashion he leant over the lamp chimney and blew the light out. Then he passed out of the room and closed the door gently. He paused for a moment outside, and stood gazing in the direction which he knew Garstaing had taken.
He saw no reason to admit anyone to the secret of that which had transpired in the store-house. He waited for the approach of an accompanying outfit, he searched to discover the supporters of Hervey Garstaing in his attempt on his life, and, failing all further development, he saw no use in sounding a note of alarm to disturb those who looked to him for leadership and protection.
Well, there were men in their world who constituted just one of those grave subtle dangers to Steve in Steve's absence. Ian Ross shared with everybody else the hatred of Hervey Garstaing. He had seen Garstaing and Nita together at the dance. He had seen them together at other times. Oh, he had never seen anything that was not perhaps perfectly legitimate.
His name broke from Nita in a world of relief. Then reaction set in. "You you scared me to death. Why didn't you speak, or or something?" Hervey Garstaing stood smilingly before her. His dark eyes hungrily devouring her flushed face and half-angry eyes. "You wouldn't have me hollering your dandy name, with him only just clear of Ross's house? I'm not chasing trouble." "Has Steve only just gone?"
The man had spoken with as much indifference as if he had been contemplating a trip of two days. Garstaing drew a deep breath, and, returning his pipe to his capacious mouth ignited a match over the lamp chimney and re-lit it. Then, with a quick, nervous movement he picked up a separate bunch of the papers on the table before him and flung them across to his host.
Steve rose from his seat with a nod. "I shall know when to start," he replied shortly. Then he raised his arms above his head and stretched himself luxuriously while Garstaing sat watching him, endeavouring to penetrate the man's tremendous barrier of reserve. But it remained impenetrable, and there was nothing left for him but to comply with his host's tacit invitation.
Hervey Garstaing!" The words sounded faintly in the heavy atmosphere. It was Steve's voice hushed to something like a whisper. It was a passionless whisper. There was neither contempt nor hatred in it. Neither was there a shadow of pity. He turned back to the lamp. He picked it up, and brought it towards the door. The body of his would-be murderer lay sprawled across the floor barring his way.
They were both smoking, and Garstaing was doing the talking. At all times Steve preferred that his visitors should do most of the talking. "I guessed I best come right along," he said, regarding the other closely. "You see, I'll be handin' out Treaty Money to the darn neches to-morrow morning. It'll take me best part of the day."
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