“I thought so,” said Bob, quietly. “Larue, what did you want to burn us out for?”
“Surely you didn’t start the fire!” cried Carl, staring.
“Voila!” said the half-breed, contritely. “It was one rotten treek. But, you see, you catch me in bear trap. Your bees sting my cow, kill my hen, sting my dog, sting me mos’ to death. So I see ze bee-boxes up there all alone, and I say, ‘He sting me no more, by gar!’ So I light fires—here, dere, many places at once.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it of you, Larue!” cried Carl indignantly.
“Sure, I sorry I do it now. But, you know, I have ze viskey in me yesterday. I get turned round in ze smoke, nearly get caught by ze fire myself. I see you rafting off ze bee-boxes, and I guess you see me too. And then—ze fire spread and spread, and ze wind he rise, and go clear to ze slough and burn my house.”
“I guess you’re punished for it,” said Bob. “But we never meant to quarrel with you or do you any harm. You took our honey, you know, and you got stung when the bees went to bring it back. And we didn’t set the trap to catch you. We thought it was some wild animal, from the tracks you made.”
The half-breed grinned, shamefacedly, yet with just a touch of pride as well.
“Good treek, eh?” he said. “I learn him from a man in ze lumber woods. He steal hogs zat way—make track like bear.”
“Fine trick, yes,” agreed Bob. “Only you got the worst of it. In fact, you’ve come out worst in all your tricks, I believe.”
“Serve me right, eh!” Larue admitted. “For ze honey, I steal him when I need ze money bad. But nevaire mind. Zat is all over, and we forget. I ask your pardon for all ze trouble I make you. You save ma petite, and I never forget zat. After now, I am yours. You say to me, ‘Larue, come!’ and I come. You say, ‘Larue, do zis—do zat!’ and I do zis, do zat. No money, no pay. I can never pay you for what you do for me.”