“I haf done no wrong,” returned the Frenchman, stubbornly. “This post ees mine; I shall keep heem.”
“You killed my brother.”
“It ees not so,—I did not touch heem.”
“But he is dead, is not that true?” demanded the planter, with a sudden hope swaying in his heart.
“Yees, he ees dead. But I did it not, no. An Indian shot heem down—who, I know not. He vas badly wounded, an’ I, yes, I hees enemy, took care of heem, oui, until he died. Zen I gif heem a good burial. Vat can I do more? He not do so much for Jean Bevoir, no! no!”
“You caused his death—the attack on him and his companions was your work,—it is useless to deny it. And this post is not yours. Since my brother is dead it belongs to his son, David Morris,—and he shall have it, be the cost what it may. Jean Bevoir, you must surrender, or take the consequences.”
At this plain speech the Frenchman grew slightly pale. But he quickly recovered.
“Ha! Take care how you threaten Jean Bevoir!” he exclaimed. “Ve are vell armed here an’ ve can shoot! Haf I not told you zat zis post ees mine? I haf ze papers, wid ze signature of James Morris, oui! Ze law ees as good for me as for you, an’ I snap my fingair at you!” Jean Bevoir suited the action to the word. “Go avay, an’ nevair come here again!”
“You have my brother’s signature? Impossible! It must be a forgery! He would never deal in that way with such as you.”
“Eet ees true, an’ I warn you avay. Come back again at your peril!” answered Jean Bevoir, and then disappeared from view.