“Jules Verbaux, M’sieu’ le Facteur; Ah hear you vant me; Ah come.” He moved quietly between the factor, who was at his desk, and a rifle that his keen eyes saw in a corner.
“Ye plundherin’ thafe!” the factor said, with an oath; “how’d ye know there wasn’t a man on the posht? I’ll—I’ll take ye wid me own hands, so I wull!” he shouted and leaped from his chair.
A long knife appeared suddenly in Jules’s hand, and an ugly glint came into the gray eyes as he answered:
“No so fas’, M’sieu’ le Facteur; no so fas’. Ah vant talk veet’ you vone leet’ first, s’il vous plait.”
The factor saw the glint on the knife and the glint in the eyes, and realised that both were dangerous, so he sat down again, looking round for some available weapon. “Go on,” he growled; “I’ll get the life-blood out o’ ye fer this, ye divil!”
“V’y you ’ave you’ Indians hont Jules lak’ a chien? V’y you no let Jules trap in peac’? V’y for you geeve hordaire’ zat les Indians zey burn mes leet’ huts? V’y for you vant ma vie?” Jules asked these questions slowly, as he faced the infuriated Irishman without a tremor.
“I’ll show ye whut fer, ye half-breed whelp!” And the factor started up again.
“Pas encore, M’sieu’ le Facteur! You bes’ rester tranquille an’ hear vat Jules Verbaux ’ave to say.” The insult—that he, Verbaux, a pure French-Canadian, had Indian blood in him—roused Jules to fierce though suppressed rage; the swarthy face paled under the bronze, and his breath came and went with little hissing sounds.
“Ah demand zat you veel geeve hordaire’ to your Indians to leave Jules halon’; la territoire du Nord ees zat h’of le bon Dieu. He geeve to us zat territoire to mak’ hont; he no geeve eet to la compagnie for deir h’own.”
The factor swore a string of horrible oaths, cursing the man before him.