Out of these dreams he was awakened by a sound that had slowly and
persistently become a part of his mental consciousness. It was a
tap, tap, tap at his window. At last he sat up and listened. It
was in the gray gloom of dawn. Again the sound was repeated: tap,
tap, tap on the pane of glass.
He slipped out of bed, his hand seeking the automatic under his
pillow. He had slept with the window partly open. Covering it with
his pistol, he called:
"Who is there?"
"A runner from Jean Croisset," came back a cautious voice. "I have
a written message for you, M'sieur."
He saw an arm thrust through the window, in the hand a bit of
paper. He advanced cautiously until he could see the face that was
peering in. It was a thin, dark, fur-hooded face, with eyes black
and narrow like Jean's, a half-breed. He seized the paper, and,
still watching the face and arm, lighted a lamp. Not until he had
read the note did his suspicion leave him.
This is Pierre Langlois, my friend of the Pipestone. If anything
should happen that you need me quickly let him come after me. You
may trust him. He will put up his tepee in the thick timber close
to the dog pit. We have fought together. L'Ange saved his wife
from the smallpox. I am going westward.