“But listen, señora. I fought them in the sunlight once before. They know that ma petite can kill by day,” argued de Sancerre, hoping against hope that, for the sake of their scanty store of bullets, the girl was right.
“Believe me, señor, that I read their evil minds. They think their god, the sun, more powerful at dawn than later in the day. The Great Spirit, so the sun-priests say, is not unlike a man, and takes a long siesta at high noon. They have attacked you now at noon and in the night. They will not tempt your wizard gun again until their shining god is wide awake.”
“Ma foi, ma chère, your woman’s wit has wrought a miracle, I think!” exclaimed de Sancerre. “I owe an altar somewhere far from hence, if what you say is true. And so I’ll leave you, sweetheart, for a time. I must have speech with Barbier.”
“Welcome, monsieur,” cried the coureur de bois, as the Count approached him from behind. “I’ve watched the shore until my eyes are hot, and cannot see a sign of living thing. The river and the woods suggest that we were scared by ghosts.”
“Nay, Jacques, you’ll find our foes were made of flesh and blood! They will return in force at dawn!” exclaimed de Sancerre, throwing himself upon the long grass at Barbier’s side.
The coureur de bois glanced at the ragged, white-faced patrician at his side with a satirical gleam in his restless eyes.
“You’ve learned your woodcraft with great celerity, Monsieur le Comte,” he exclaimed, sarcastically. “Mayhap the saints have told you what would come to us.”
De Sancerre smiled coldly. “’Tis neither woodcraft nor the saints to whom I owe my thanks, Jacques Barbier,” he remarked, quietly. “I am a seer and prophet through the goddess Coyocop. And now, young man, I’ll let you watch awhile, and get a wink of sleep. I’ll need a steady hand at dawn. Arouse me in an hour, and I will take my turn at watching peaceful scenes. Good-night, Jacques Barbier. Bear this in mind. We’ll have to fight an army when the sun comes up.”
A moment later de Sancerre lay out-stretched beneath the moon in dreamless sleep, while the coureur de bois, pacing restlessly the little island, nursed his wounded pride, and wondered if the morning would teach him something new.