“I’ll have the hearrrt from your dirty carcass to pay fer this, see if I don’t!” he finished.
“You no haccep’ vat Jules say, M’sieu’ le Facteur?”
There was a note of warning in the low-spoken words, but the factor was too wild with fury to notice it.
“I’ll accept nawthing but your life,——ye!—your life; an’ I’ll get it if I have to hound ye outen the country to do it!” he screamed.
“Ver’ good! How’ hup your han’s!” In a second Jules had seized the rifle behind him and was pointing it at the factor’s heart.
“Ye would n’t murther me in cowld blood, would ye?” The cowardly bully was afraid, as he held his hands over his head.
“Non, M’sieu’ le Facteur; mais Ah ’m goin’ show your Indians ’Ow Jules tak’ deir facteur, ’stead of deir facteur tak’ Jules! Stan’ hup an’ marche!” Jules motioned to the door.
With the abject fear of death in his eyes, the Irishman stumbled to the door and lowered his hands to open it.
“How’ hup han’s! Call Maquette!” came the sharp order.
The captive refused to speak, so Jules called the Indian himself. Maquette came and opened the door.