“She ees gone h’up dere!” suggested Bossu, looking up at the star-brightened heavens.
“Oui, she gone leave h’on star!” Hibou answered gravely, and a far-away expression came to his eyes.
The group were quiet, watching the swift changes that took place in the position of the wood and coals.
“Un loup-cervier!” said Le Grand, pointing to a shape, visible to him, formed by three blackened sticks and some dull coals.
It was a cold night, and the steam from their wet trousers and moccasins rose in gray-white clouds and drifted away among the dark branches. A little wind breathed gently through the spruce, and curled the tops of the long flames as they shot up into nothingness.
Bossu slowly pulled out his pipe, and as slowly cut tobacco from a dirt-begrimed plug. He rolled and crushed the pieces between his hands and filled the bowl, carefully pushing them down with a stubby forefinger. Then he caught up a red-hot coal, dropped it on the tobacco, and puffed silently. The others watched the familiar operation with that unconscious attention which is born of a lack of anything of real interest to look at. “V’ere ees dat oglee Tritou dese taimes?” asked Hibou.
“Bah! Tritou he look, look h’all taime for Verbaux hees track!” said Le Grand.
“He ver’ beeg fool; Verbaux he keel Tritou somme taime certainement!” announced Bossu, speaking with slow precision, and with pauses between each word. The others nodded, and the conversation ceased.
Then, weirdly and noiselessly, a tall gaunt figure stepped into the edge of the firelight behind them, and stood there in silence, surveying the group in front of him. His snow-shoes were slung over his back, and the woollen muffler was tied loosely around the strong neck; the swarthy face was shining with sweat, and the massive chest rose and fell rapidly, as though in distress. He moved forward quietly, limping as he walked; when he was close to the four trappers he spoke softly, “Bon soi’!”
They leaped to their feet and stared at him. “Verbaux!” they said then.