"'Tis none other—that last. But, man! Man! The first wan! Was it a human cry or from the throat of another of her hell-begotten breed?"
Without waiting to reply the Frenchman swung the big six-team in their tracks and headed them toward camp. But Irish Fallon reached for him as he fumbled at the clevis.
"Howld on, ye frog-eater! Be a man! If 'twas human tore loose that yell he'll be the bether fer help, notwithstandin' there was more av foight nor fear in th' sound."
"No, no, no! It's her! It's Diablesse!" He crossed himself.
"Sure, an' ut is; bad cess to her altogether. But Oi got a hear-rt in me ribs o'good rid blood that takes relish now an' agin in a bit av a foight. An', man or baste, Oi ain't particular, so 'tis a good wan. Oi'll be goin' down th' thrail a piece an' see phwat's to see. Oi ain't axin' ye to go 'long. Ye poor prayer-dhrivlin' haythen, wid yer limon av a hear-rt ye've got a yallar shtripe that raches to th' length an' width av ye. Ye'd be no good nohow.
"But 'tis mesilf ain't fearin' th' evil eye av th' werwolf—an' she is called be the name av th' divil's own.
"But listen ye here, ye pea-soup Frinchy! Ye'll not go shnakin' off wid thim harses. Ye'll bide here till Oi come back."
The other made a whimper of protest, but Irish Fallon reached out a great hairy hand and shook him roughly.
"Yez moind now, an' Oi mane ut! Here ye shtay. An' av ye ain't here, ye'd bether kape on goin'. F'r th' nixt toime Oi lay eyes on ye Oi'll br-reak ye in two! An' don't ye fergit ut!"
The big Irishman turned and swung down the tote-road, the webs of his rackets leaving a broad trail in the snow. LaFranz cowered upon the snow-plow and sought refuge in craven prayer and curses the while he shot frightened glances into the darkening forest.