"You found a deer. One I shot for the boat. You took it," he ominously accused.
Lander nodded toward the broiling venison.
"Who is the other man?" hissed Pinaud.
"Papa Clair, of New Orleans and St. Louis."
Had a rattlesnake sounded his warning between the hunter's moccasins the effect could not have been more pronounced. He leaped to one side and snatched his gaze from Lander long enough to reconnoiter in every direction, while he tilted his head and with his supernormal hearing sought to catch some sound of Clair returning.
"Curse him," he softly whispered. "Wanted me hung in St. Louis for killing a dog. But they didn't dare hang Pinaud, the hunter."
Lander held his lazy position, his hands clasping his knees, his right hand over the haft of the knife inside the bootleg, his attention concentrated on the man who had come to kill him.
"How far was he going?" snarled Pinaud, again betraying uneasiness.
"To the boat."
"You lie! I'm going to shoot you."
"Go ahead. Clair will get you before you can reload."
"I'll have your gun for him."
