Yet, David scarcely noticed him.  He met St. Pierre, faced him, and stopped—­and he had gone swiftly to this meeting, so that the chief of the Boulains was within earshot of all his men.

St. Pierre was smiling.  He held out his hand as he had held it out once before in the bateau cabin, and his big voice boomed out a greeting.

Carrigan did not answer, nor did he look at the extended hand.  For an instant the eyes of the two men met, and then, swift as lightning, Carrigan’s arm shot out, and with the flat of his hand he struck St. Pierre a terrific blow squarely on the cheek.  The sound of the blow was like the smash of a paddle on smooth water.  Not a riverman but heard it, and as St. Pierre staggered back, flung almost from his feet by its force, a subdued cry of amazement broke from the waiting men.  Concombre Bateese stood like one stupefied.  And then, in another flash, St. Pierre had caught himself and whirled like a wild beast.  Every muscle in his body was drawn for a gigantic, overwhelming leap; his eyes blazed; the fury of a beast was in his face.  Before all his people he had suffered the deadliest insult that could be offered a man of the Three River Country—­a blow struck with the flat of another’s hand.  Anything else one might forgive, but not that.  Such a blow, if not avenged, was a brand that passed down into the second and third generations, and even children would call out “Yellow-Back—­ Yellow-Back,” to the one who was coward enough to receive it without resentment.  A rumbling growl rose in the throat of Concombre Bateese in that moment when it seemed as though St. Pierre Boulain was about to kill the man who had struck him.  He saw the promise of his own fight gone in a flash.  For no man in all the northland could now fight David Carrigan ahead of St. Pierre.

David waited, prepared to meet the rush of a madman.  And then, for a second time, he saw a mighty struggle in the soul of St. Pierre.  The giant held himself back.  The fury died out of his face, but his great hands remained clenched as he said, for David alone,

“That was a playful blow, m’sieu?  It was—­a joke?”

“It was for you, St. Pierre,” replied Carrigan, “You are a coward —­and a skunk.  I swam to the raft last night, looked through your window, and saw what happened there.  You are not fit for a decent man to fight, yet I will fight you, if you are not too great a coward—­and dare to let our wagers stand as they were made.”

St. Pierre’s eyes widened, and for a breath or two he stared at Carrigan, as if looking into him and not at him.  His big hands relaxed, and slowly the panther-like readiness went out of his body.  Those who looked beheld the transformation in amazement, for of all who waited only St. Pierre and the half-breed had heard Carrigan’s words, though they had seen and heard the blow of insult.

“You swam to the raft,” repeated St. Pierre in a low voice, as if doubting what he had heard.  “You looked through the window—­and saw—­”