“But are you certain the others were all killed—that my father was killed?” asked Dave.
“He must be dead, Dave—although I didn’t see him go down. I was outside of the tradin’ post. But I heard a Frenchman and an Indian speak about it. They were more than anxious to kill me too.”
“Oh, I cannot believe that father is dead!” burst out the youth, and had to turn away to hide his tears.
Henry did what he could to comfort his cousin, but was himself much downcast. That evening the pair talked the matter over for several hours, but the discussion did not appear to help the situation.
“I wish we could get Colonel Bouquet or Captain Ecuyer to march against Jean Bevoir,” said Dave. “That Frenchman and his associates ought to be shot down or hanged.”
“I don’t think either the colonel or the captain will want to go out during the winter,” answered Henry, which was a correct conclusion. The season was proving so severe that the idea of sending a body of soldiers on a trail that was then but little known was out of the question, in the opinion of both the colonel and the commandant of the fort. Both said nothing could be done until spring.
“I don’t believe they will ever send the soldiers out there,” said Dave to Henry, with much bitterness in his tone. “They think they have their hands full taking care of matters as far west as this fort.”
“Well, we can’t exactly blame them, Dave. They have had some hard times here, during the past few years.”
“But do you want to stay here and let Bevoir and his crowd escape punishment?”
“I certainly do not. But what can we do? It would be foolhardy for us to dream of going out there alone.”