They were all silent, trying to think of some way of killing Verbaux. “V’ere ees he maintenant?” asked an Indian who had hitherto not spoken. Tritou answered: “Ah see hees track near dose lignes two et t’ree las’ weeek; dat vas v’en Manou he go for to fin’ Verbaux hees cache. Manou he no yet comme back, no yet!”
There was an ominous shaking of fur-covered heads, and Tritou added in a whisper, “An’ Ah don’ t’ink Manou hee goin’ comme back.”
Silence fell on the men again as the possibility of Manou’s end was made so apparent.
“Allons!” suggested a trapper nicknamed Le Grand because of his great stature. “But vee svear to feenesh dat Verbaux, hein?”
“Bon!” agreed the rest. Tritou looked up from his work of adjusting his dog-collars. “You mans, you so svear, but me, Tritou, keel heem!” he said.
The men disentangled their huskies with sundry kicks and curses, and the party left the resting-place.
Jules came out on the little clearing, a smile of satisfaction on his swarthy face; the Indians’ voices had just faded away, and the forest was still. He carefully gathered the embers of the dying fire, and blew gently on the little flame that appeared; then he dropped bits of dry wood on it, and tenderly nursed the feeble blaze. From a pocket he drew a tin pannikin, filled it with snow, and set it on the fire; next he produced a stubby, blackened pipe, and lighted it with a flaming twig. He puffed and puffed; then an ugly glitter came to the gray eyes as he thought. “Sacré-é! Dey goin’ keel Jules, hein? Keel me, Jules Verbaux!” he went on, thumping himself on the chest, as though to emphasise the fact that he indeed was the person intended.
At that moment the pannikin shook, and almost upset, as the burning sticks settled to red-hot embers under it. “C’est bon, ça! Dat good signe,” he said as he noted that the pannikin did not upset, but hung on one side, the curling flames licking the surface of the now boiling water. “Dey goin’ try, dey goin’ comme near, mais dey no goin’ have success!” Jules was superstitious, as are all of his kind, and he felt relieved at the sign of the pannikin. Having put some tea in the water, he withdrew the receptacle from the fire, seeming not to feel its heat on his bare fingers. Then he cut some chunks from a piece of caribou-meat, which he got out of his fur tote-bag.[[7]] As he munched the tough provender and sipped the strong tea, his eyes were fixed on the smouldering fire in a thoughtful stare; of a sudden he laughed, not loudly, but heartily nevertheless, as proved by the shaking of his big shoulders. “Le bon Dieu merci, Ah play vone treek sur Tritou, Le Grand, an’ dose mans to-night!” The frugal meal finished, he tucked away his pipe, slung the bag over his shoulder, and departed by the way he had come, still chuckling.
[7]. Bag for carrying food, usually made of caribou or bear-skin.
Moose-birds and Canada jays fluttered down near the cooling ashes, and squawked angrily because they could not find any food. An owl, attracted by the smell of the fire, lit noisily, because of his day-blindness, in a spruce overhead. “Whoo-o-o-a-aa!” His harsh note frightened the jays, and they flew off, scolding and shrieking. The owl sat there a few minutes, turning his head slowly from side to side; then he spread his great wings and sailed away.