“Vat for?” Jules asked again.
“Porter hordaires to les Indians là-bas h’of de war; hordaires to keel dose mans of odder Compagnie!”
“Mak’ fight?” Verbaux questioningly repeated, and the other continued, “Dat Compagnie du Nor’ouest she t’ink she have ever’t’ing for hersel’; she t’ink dat h’all dis territoire ees to elle, an’ dat nous autres, ve can go hongree! Ve goin’ mak’ bataille, an’ den you, Verbaux, go wid nous, hein?” The man leaned forward slightly as he finished.
Jules was silent; the candle-flame guttered and flickered between them.
“Non,” Verbaux said gravely, “Ah no tak’ life h’of mans v’en Ah no have to.” His voice was decisive and strong. Le Pendu rose, turned to the door, and disappeared. Jules sat still. Then, with a slight whirring sound, something flashed past his eyes and thudded on the logs; he looked up and saw a knife quivering there, buried deep in the wood. With one puff he blew out the light and crouched low; then he stole out to the cold air. Le Pendu was gone. Jules watched and listened a long time, but heard nothing.
“Dat traître!” he ejaculated, “Ah see heem trois month’ h’ago h’at Lac la Pluie. Somme taime Ah see heem haga’n, mabbe!”
He relighted the candle and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the hafted blade that stuck viciously from the logs.
“Ah vondaire vat eet ees wid Compagnie Nor’ouest? Ah mus’ go to-mor’ fin’ h’out.” He got up, took his blankets from the boughs, and went out into the deep shadows, leaving the candle glimmering on the table. Some distance away from the hut he curled up between the rough, gnarled roots of a spruce and slept.
The long night passed; then the light grays of dawn stole through the woods. Verbaux woke, listened a minute, and went back to the hut. Everything was as he had left it. The candle was a lump of grease on the table, and the early morning wind disturbed the cold ashes on the hearth. He looked for the knife, but it was gone. “He comme back après,” Jules said; “he t’ink he catch me, hein?” then he laughed softly. He lighted the fire and had his breakfast; then he cleaned up the cabin, took down the wide snow-shoes, slung them over his back, and put the child’s cap in a pocket. “Maintenant Jules he go Isle la Crosse, warrn Facteur Maac Taveesh h’of dose Cree Indiens.” He filled his tote-bag with pemmican and bread, and struck off into the forests, travelling southwest.
It was a cold, dark day; the skies were dull, and the wind murmured restlessly through the tall spruce and pine. Jules went on steadily, swinging along with even strides. He came out on a small lake; there was a light covering of snow on the ice, and many tracks of moccasins led down to the river beyond (Petite Rivière la Biche). He stopped and examined them. “C’est bien Indiens!” he muttered as he moved ahead carefully. “Bon comme ça!” he thought as it began to snow. The flakes came thicker and thicker, deadening the sound of his steps, and hiding the landscape in a falling white shroud. There was little wind, and Verbaux went on faster, keeping his direction with unerring instinct. He followed the course of the river and reached the next lake; at the edge of the timber he stopped. Figures were moving to and fro, like shadows in the veiled light, just across from him; he saw the gleam of a fire, and every now and then he could faintly hear rough voices. He watched, but was not sure who the men were. “Ah mus’ see eef dose les Crees,” he whispered to himself. Taking the snow-shoes from his back, he hid them under a little thick spruce, and stole forward, crouching as he advanced, his eyes keen and bright. Yard by yard the distance lessened, and he stopped often, listening.