“Yes, I remember that crowd,” said Dave. “They were certainly a bloodthirsty set.”
“Sixteen all told,” mused James Morris. “I am afraid they are too many for us.”
“Perhaps the Indians won’t fight,” suggested Henry.
“They’ll fight right enough,” answered Tony Jadwin. “They have just enough rum in them to make ’em ugly. I think Bevoir had been supplyin’ ’em with liquor.”
“His old trick,” murmured Dave. “And it always works—with such Indians as he gets to aid him in his dirty work.”
The matter was talked over, and James Morris said he would take a look at the enemy himself. Dave begged to be taken along, and his parent consented.
It was an easy matter to follow the trail Tony Jadwin had made. Walking through the snow, they made no noise, and soon reached the point of vantage the old trapper had occupied. They found the enemy encamped in the midst of a patch of wood, with some rocks on one side. Stationing themselves behind the rocks they readily saw and heard a good deal of what occurred.
The four Frenchmen spoke in French, while the Indians used their native language. As a consequence, Dave understood but little of what was said. But Mr. Morris could speak French fairly well, and understood much of the red men’s dialect. He took in every word that reached his ears, and as he listened his brow darkened.
At the end of an hour the talk came to an end, and Indians and French got ready to move. There were four horses in the camp, which Jean Bevoir and his countrymen rode, leaving the Indians to accompany them on foot. Bevoir was scarred from his wounds, and limped as he mounted his steed.
“I ought to put a bullet through that rascal’s head!” whispered James Morris. “He is not worthy to live.”