And Barreau, when he had found a box to his liking and seated himself on it beside the fire, proceeded to tell him very much as he had told me. The two of them eyed each other a few seconds. Then Montell bit the end off the cigar he had tucked in one corner of his thick-lipped mouth and spat it viciously into the fireplace. “God damn ’em!” he snarled. But whether the Company or the two Frenchmen he did not specify—perhaps both. Barreau laughed softly. “Don’t let your angry passions rise,” he sneered. “Temper always induces apoplexy in fat people. A man of your beefy tendency should be very careful.” Montell’s heavy jowl quivered slightly, and his jaws clamped together. Aside from that he kept an impassive front. With that last shot Barreau turned his gaze to the fire, and as Montell stood staring intently before him there was an interval of silence. In the hush a scuffling sound arose in the rear of the store. “Them darned rats,” Montell muttered. He cocked his head aside and stood in a listening attitude, I, watching him unobtrusively, saw his glance flit furtively from me to Barreau and then to a table standing just back from the hearth. For the first time I noticed then that a rifle lay upon it, the general direction of the muzzle toward Barreau. Again he looked swiftly from me to George, and then stared straight away into the black shadows that shrouded the far end of the long room. Once more the rustling and scraping sounds could be heard. “Them darned rats,” he repeated. “They’ll eat us out before spring.” He left the fire and stole softly back among the shadows, whence presently came the noise of something being thrown, followed by Montell’s voice cursing the rats. Barreau had not once turned his head. But I had watched Mr. Simon Montell as much because his actions interested me as because I expected anything to happen. And I distinctly saw the rifle shift its position when he passed the table end; as if he had accidentally brushed against the projecting stock. Accidentally or otherwise, the muzzle then pointed straight at Barreau. I have a deep-rooted aversion to seeing the business end of a gun directed at a man unless such is the intention of the man behind it. Loaded or empty, my father taught me, never point a gun at anybody unless you mean to hurt him. And so I reached over and gave the rifle a hitch that pointed it toward the opposite wall, just as Montell returned from his rat hunting. “By thunder, I’d oughto took that to ’em,” he declared—as if he had but noticed the rifle. He placed himself before the fire again. In a minute or so came the subdued rustling of the rats. Montell winked at me, picked up the Winchester, cocked it, and went tip-toeing toward the rear. Barreau came out of his study at the click of the hammer. He flashed a quick glance after Montell. Then quietly he moved his box backward till his body, when he seated himself, was no longer clearly outlined in the firelight.