He was not only a fool, but a coward.  Only a coward would have touched the hair of St. Pierre’s wife with his lips; only a coward would have let live the thoughts that burned in his brain.  She was St. Pierre’s wife—­and he was anxious now for the quick homecoming of the chief of the Boulains.  After that everything would happen quickly.  He thanked God that the inspiration of the wager had come to him.  After the fight, after he had won, then once more would he be the old Dave Carrigan, holding the trump hand in a thrilling game.

Loud voices from the York boats ahead and answering cries from Bateese in the stern drew him to the open deck.  The bateau was close to shore, and the half-breed was working the long stern sweep as if the power of a steam-engine was in his mighty arms.  The York boats had shortened their towline and were pulling at right angles within a few yards of a gravelly beach.  A few strokes more, and men who were bare to the knees jumped out into shallow water and began tugging at the tow rope with their hands.  David looked at his watch.  It was ten o’clock.  Never in his life had time passed so swiftly as that morning on the forward deck of the barge.  And now they were tying up, after a drop of six or eight miles down the river, and he wondered how swiftly St. Pierre was overtaking them with his raft.

He was filled with the desire to feel the soft crush of the earth under his feet again, and not waiting for the long plank that Bateese was already swinging from the scow to the shore, he made a leap that put him on the sandy beach, St. Pierre’s wife had given him this permission, and he looked to see what effect his act had on the half-breed.  The face of Concombre Bateese was like sullen stone.  Not a sound came from his thick lips, but in his eyes was a deep and dangerous fire as he looked at Carrigan.  There was no need for words.  In them were suspicion, warning, the deadly threat of what would happen if he did not come back when it was time to return.  David nodded.  He understood.  Even though St. Pierre’s wife had faith in him, Bateese had not.  He passed between the men, and to a man their faces turned on him, and in their quiet and watchful eyes he saw again that warning and suspicion, the unspoken threat of what would happen if he forgot his promise to Marie-Anne Boulain.  Never, in a single outfit, had he seen such splendid men.  They were not a mongrel assortment of the lower country.  Slim, tall, clean-cut, sinewy—­they were stock of the old voyageurs of a hundred years ago, and all of them were young.  The older men had gone to St. Pierre.  The reason for this dawned upon Carrigan.  Not one of these twelve but could beat him in a race through the forest; not one that could not outrun him and cut him off though he had hours the start!