VIII
“SOMME T’ING FOR HEEM”
Le Grand, Dumois, Hibou, and Bossu were camped fifty miles beyond Rivière Noire. They had their trap-lines set out like spokes of a wheel from the main camp, and were having great luck. Fur was plenty, and bait easy to get because of the numerous herds of caribou.
It was night, and the four men sat about a roaring-hot fire. The dogs had a shed for themselves, and the sledges were pushed under the bough cover.
“Ah vould lak’ to know ’Ow Verbaux he ees!” said Dumois. “Ah vant t’ank heem for dat las’ taime!”
The others stared thoughtfully at the leaping, dancing flames, that crackled and snapped, casting a warm red sheen over each figure.
“Lavalle he say dat Verbaux he gone Ouest!” finally said Bossu.
“He ees très beeg hear-rt, dat Jules,” Hibou said quietly, and his black eyes softened and shone suspiciously in the reflected light.
“Ai-hai!” answered the rest, nodding solemnly.
Le Grand brought more wood for the fire; as he threw it on, piece by piece, showers of scintillating sparks were born and scurried up to their brief existence in the cold air, gleamed brightly for a moment, then disappeared. The fresh logs sang merrily, and their rough bark curled and reddened in the fierce heat of the glowing embers underneath.
“De fairées!” said Dumois, smiling, when a loud pop, then a shrill pi-i-ing, came from a flaming log.