"Ask him where she is," I whispered, "quick! He's going to sleep." For Louis wiped his beard on his sleeve and lay back hopelessly drunk.
"Here you, waken up," commanded the Nor'-Wester, kicking him and shaking him roughly. "Where's the gal?"
"Shioux—Pays d'En Haut," drawled the youth. "Take off your boots! Don't wear boots. Pays d'En Haut—moccasins—softer," and he rolled over in a sodden sleep, which defied all our efforts to shake him into consciousness.
"Is that true?" asked the Nor'-Wester, standing above the drunk man and speaking across to me. "Is that true about the Indian kidnapping a woman?"
"True—too terribly true," I whispered back.
"I'd like to boot him into the next world," said the trader, looking down at Louis in a manner that might have alarmed that youth for his safety. "I've bagged H. B. dispatches anyway," he added with satisfaction.
"What'll we do with him?" I asked aimlessly. "If he had anything to do with the stealing of Hamilton's wife——"
"He hadn't," interrupted the trader. "'Twas Diable did that, so Laplante says."
"Then what shall we do with him?"
"Do—with—him," slowly repeated the Nor'-Wester in a low, vibrating voice. "Do—with—him?" and again I felt a vague shudder of apprehension at this silent, uncompromising man's purpose.