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For an instant Crossman's impulse was to rush out and ring the alarm on the shrieking steel gong, but the next instant he laughed at himself. Yes, surely, he was a sick man of many imaginings. The gang boss was gone about his business. The log-brander had called upon his woman to accompany him. That was all. Her angry words were mere threats best forgotten.
She struck a provocative pose, her hand on her hip, her head thrown back, while her eyes changed colour as alexandrite in the sun. The Curé turned on Crossman. "What is this woman to you?" Her eyes defied him. "Tell him," she jeered. "What am I to you?" "She is here with Antoine Marceau, the log-brander," Crossman answered unsteadily. "She takes care of our cabin, Jakapa's and mine."
The huge form of the log-brander towered above him. He could not read the expression of the eyes behind the square-cupped snow spectacles. "She tell me, Aurore," he rumbled, "that I am to come. We have the company." "Yes, the Curé of Portage Dernier." Crossman watched him narrowly. Antoine took off the protecting wooden blinders and thrust them in his pocket. Crossman stood aside, hesitating.
And to find her, he must find Antoine and then, without warning, the door gaped and Antoine stood before him, like a coloured figure pasted on the black ground of the night. Then he entered, quiet and matter-of-fact. He nodded, closed the door against the biting cold, pulled off his cap, and stood respectfully. "It is no use to wait for the Boss; he will not come," said the log-brander.
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