Side by side, Jan and his Indian ran to their canoe. Jackpine was
stripped to the waist, like O'Grady and his Chippewayan. Jan threw off
only his caribou-skin coat. His dark woolen shirt was sleeveless, and his
long slim arms, as hard as ribbed steel, were free. Half the crowd
followed him. He smiled, and waved his hand, the dark pupils of his eyes
shining big and black. Their canoe shot out until it was within a dozen
yards of the other, and those ashore saw him laugh into O'Grady's sullen,
set face. He was cool. Between smiling lips his white teeth gleamed, and
the women stared with brighter eyes and flushed cheeks, wondering how
Marie Cummins could have given up this man for the giant hulk and
drink-reddened face of his rival. Those among the men who had wagered
heavily against him felt a misgiving. There was something in Jan's smile
that was more than coolness, and it was not bravado. Even as he smiled
ashore, and spoke in low Cree to Jackpine, he felt at the belt that he
had hidden under the caribou-skin coat. There were two sheaths there, and
two knives, exactly alike. It was thus that his grandfather had set forth
one summer day to avenge a wrong, nearly seventy years before.
The agent had entered the cabin, and now he reappeared, wiping his
sweating face with a big red handkerchief. The recorder followed. He
paused at the edge of the stream and made a megaphone of his hands.
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