“Oh, let him alone,” advised Kyle, whetting his new grouch. “If they ain’t running away with girls in this region, they’re running away from ’em!”
Felix swung around and faced the speaker. “Do you speak of me?” he asked, quietly.
“Take it that way if you want to.”
“Your tongue seems to be very busy, I have that to say to you. From up there on the hill I heard what you have to say about M’sieu Latisan, that he has run away with a girl.”
“And he has.”
“You lie!”
That retort snapped the trigger on Kyle’s inflamed temper. “You damnation squaw man!” he yelped, and drove a blow at the French Canadian; and Felix, following the fighting custom of his clan of the Laurentian Valley, ducked low, leaped high, and kicked Kyle under the hook of the jaw. It was the coup à pied. Kyle staggered and went down. When he struggled up and weakly attacked again, the antagonist met him face to face and smashed a stunning blow between Kyle’s eyes; he fell and remained on his back.
“One for me, and one for my wife he has insult’,” cried Felix. He spun around, searching their faces. “Do any of you like to back him up?”
“Not on your life,” said a spokesman. “He doesn’t belong in this crew.”
“I’m much oblige’,” said Felix, politely. He whistled, and the four Indians rushed out from the shadows. “If he is not of the crew, then if he goes away it does not matter.”