"Ah yais," replied the Frenchman, and removed his pipe from his
mouth. He trimmed the bowl fastidiously with his thumb, smiling the
while. Of a sudden he looked up, and the smile was gone. He gave
Mills back a look as purposeful as his own.

"I'm the man that save' you in the river," he said meaningly.

"Well," began the trader hotly, but stopped.

"That's true," he answered thoughtfully, as though speaking to
himself. "Yes, that's true. You've got me, Frenchy."

"Yais," went on the Frenchman, leaning forward across the table, and
speaking with an emphasis that was like an insult. "You sink there in
the sand. I stop and save you. I stop, you see, although the men from
Macequece coom after me and want to kill me."

"But I don' run away; I don' say to you, 'I can' stop. You go down;
you die.' I don' say that. I stop. I save you. An' now you say to me,
'Frenchy, 'oo the 'ell are you?' Yais."

Mills shrugged protestingly. The appeal was to the core of his
nature; the demand was one he could not dishonor.

"I didn't say just that," he urged. "But what are the chaps from
Macequece after you for?"

"Tha's all right," replied the Frenchman with a wave of his hand.
"You say, 'Frenchy, I don' like you. Dam' you, Frenchy!' Ver' well.
The men coom, you give me to them. They shoot me. Tha's all right;