"You hear maybe dat de government hunt for man in dees countree; offair beeg monee for heem?"
"Yes!" Bolton's face went stone-hard.
"Wal"—the clerk took from his pocket the despatch which had reached the post with the Christmas packet—"dem papier say one t'ousand dollar for de man dat catch Hertel."
McIntyre started to speak, but a look from the older man silenced him.
"Well, what's your point?" asked Bolton dryly, after an interval, still holding the weasel eyes of the clerk with steady gaze.
"Have you not guess, Meester Bolton?"
"No; what is there to guess about?"
The clerk looked quickly to see that they were alone, then said: "Pierre, your Pierre"—the half-breed finished in a whisper—"ees dees François Hertel!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated McIntyre; but John Bolton's expression did not change a hair.
"He cum in before de winter mail arrive and get grub. Haig don' know he killed a man on de St. Maurice. But now we know, Meester Bolton. Now we know. I been trading for grub wid heem jus' now. He leave to-day—queek.
"Half dees monee ees mine, half yours, Meester Bolton; but he ees ver' bad man, and you weel have care to tak' heem. Shoot heem in de leg, I t'ink. He ees bad man wid knife."
The last words were uttered in a whisper, for foot-
