“Tritou,” went on the other in a thick tone, “Ah tr-y to keel Verbaux yest’da-y; ma-is Ah don’ know eef Ah do heet when Ah was woun’. You kno-w, he-in?”
A long pause, then Jules decided. “Oui,” he answered again, still more gruffly.
“Ah ’m please’. Le facteur he gee-ef to me two hond’ed dollaires, hein?”
“Oui,” Jules answered for the third time.
The tea was ready, and he went over to Lavalle, and using the skin horn again, poured the warm liquid down his throat.
“C’est b-on; me-rci;” and he became comatose again.
All that day Jules stayed in the camp; he fed the dogs and watched them fight and snarl over their rations; he gave Lavalle some tea three times, and he cut bits of meat very fine, softened them in warm water, and pushed them between the helpless lips. The throat swallowed, and Lavalle was strengthened. In the evening Jules unbound the terrible wounds, washed them with tepid water in which he had steeped some pine-bark, and then tied them up again with fresh strips from his shirts.
And thus day after day passed; Lavalle growing stronger with each twenty-four hours. His face was still in a frightful condition, and the eyes remained puffed and unopened. Jules rarely spoke, and the hurt man begged petulantly to be talked to; but Verbaux kept silent, or answered in monosyllables, and then gruffly, rudely. In the daytime he would take the dogs and go off through the forest, coming back at night with his furs, sometimes with many, sometimes with only a few skins.
Three weeks came and went, and Jules still fed and cared for Lavalle. One night, as Jules sat thinking, thinking, before the fire, the other man spoke. “Ha, Tritou! Ah can see de flame at las’!” Verbaux sprang to his feet, and scattered the blaze with swift kicks.
“Vat you do dat for? Ah van’ see,” Lavalle said crossly.