His voice had risen, and suddenly there came a laugh from outside the door, and Concombre cut himself short and his mouth closed with a snap.  It was Joe Clamart who had laughed.

“I w’ip heem five time, an’ now I w’ip heem seex!” hissed Bateese in an undertone.  “Two time each year I w’ip zat gargon Joe Clamart so he understan’ w’at good fightin’ man ees.  An’ you will w’ip heem, eh, m’sieu?  Oui?  An’ I will breeng odder good fightin’ mans for you to w’ip—­all w’at Concombre Bateese has w’ipped—­ten, dozen, forty—­an’ you w’ip se gran’ bunch, m’sieu.  Eh, shall we mak’ ze bargain?”

“You are planning a pleasant time for me, Bateese,” said Carrigan, “but I am afraid it will be impossible.  You see, this captain of yours, Black Roger Audemard—­”

“W’at!” Bateese jumped as if stung.  “W’at you say, m’sieu?”

“I said that Roger Audemard, Black Roger, the man I thought was St. Pierre Boulain—­”

Carrigan said no more.  What he had started to say was unimportant compared with the effect of Roger Audernard’s name on Concombre Bateese.  A deadly light glittered in the half-breed’s eyes, and for the first time David realized that in the grotesque head of the riverman was a brain quick to grip at the significance of things.  The fact was evident that Black Roger had not confided in Bateese as to the price of the wager and the confession of his identity, and for a moment after the repetition of Audemard’s name came from David’s lips the half-breed stood as if something had stunned him.  Then slowly, as if forcing the words in the face of a terrific desire that had transformed his body into a hulk of quivering steel, he said: 

“M’sieu—­I come with message—­from St. Pierre.  You see windows—­ closed.  Outside door—­she locked.  On bot’ sides de bateau, all de time, we watch.  You try get away, an’ we keel you.  Zat ees all.  We shoot.  We five mans on ze bateau, all ze day, TOUTE la nuit.  You unnerstan’?”

He turned sullenly, waiting for no reply, and the door opened and closed after him—­and again came the snap of the lock outside.

Steadily the bateau swept down the big river that day.  There was no let-up in the steady creaking of the long sweep.  Even in the swifter currents David could hear the working of it, and he knew he had seen the last of the more slowly moving raft.  Near one of the partly open windows he heard two men talking just before the bateau shot into the Brule Point rapids.  They were strange voices.  He learned that Audemard’s huge raft was made up of thirty-five cribs, seven abreast, and that nine times between the Point Brule and the Yellowknife the raft would be split up, so that each crib could be run through dangerous rapids by itself.

That would be a big job, David assured himself.  It would be slow work as well as hazardous, and as his own life was in no immediate jeopardy, he would have ample time in which to formulate some plan of action for himself.  At the present moment, it seemed, the one thing for him to do was to wait—­and behave himself, according to the half-breed’s instructions.  There was, when he came to think about it, a saving element of humor about it all.  He had always wanted to make a trip down the Three Rivers in a bateau.  And now—­ he was making it!