“Bon jou’, Verbaux!”
A hoarse voice spoke at the door of the little bark hut. Jules opened his eyes, and looked into the muzzle of a rifle in the hands of an Indian trapper.
“Ah-ha, mon gar! Ah track you t’ree day in la forêt, an’ you aire prisonnier to me, Le Grand. Stan’ h’up, an’ comme à moi.”
Jules thought quickly, and realised that the slightest deviation from orders would mean instant death; he got up slowly and walked over to his captor, who watched him like an animal.
“C’est ça; hol’ hout you’ han’s!”
Jules did so, but held them low in front of him; Le Grand, keeping the rifle cocked and pointed in one hand, drew a thong with a noose in it from his belt with the other hand, and threw it over Jules’s wrists; then he stooped forward to draw the noose tight. Quick as a flash, Jules’s right knee flew up and struck the other’s face with tremendous force. The rifle dropped to the Indian’s feet, and he staggered; Jules was on him in an instant, hitting him a fearful blow with his fist. Le Grand groaned and fell limply. Hurriedly Jules bound the fallen man’s wrists and ankles; then a knife gleamed in his hand.
“Maintenant, Le Grand, you go far ’way.” He lifted the blade, but hesitated, and his arm dropped without having accomplished its purpose. “Non, pas encore. Ah vant talk vone leet’ veet’ heem.”
He went outside and gathered some snow; this he rubbed vigorously on the Indian’s face and neck; when it had melted he got more and repeated the operation. Finally Le Grand moved and looked up.
“Ah, b’en, Verbaux,” he said; “Ah should keel you v’en Ah had ze chance, onlee le facteur he vant you ver’ bad. He say feefty dollaires to man who breeng Verbaux to ze post alive; so Ah track you many day, fin’ you haslip, et maintenant you keel me, hein?”
Jules played with his knife a few minutes before he answered; then he said: “You got vone leet’ girrrl, n’est-ce pas, Le Grand?”