The wolves yowled throughout the night on the barrens, but they feared this living thing of fire and did not approach it again. In the morning Jules waked, stood up, stretched himself, and swung on in the dim hours of daylight. The snow was deep, and he put on the snow-shoes; they clicked dully and were ever laden with the flying drift. On and on Verbaux went till he came out on a high hill. The gale pushed him here and there, but he smiled as he saw. Below him in the distance were the twinkling lights of the Northwest Company’s post, Isle la Crosse. “Dat bon!” he said. “Ah no too lat’ encore!” and he hastened toward them.
Soon he entered the clearing, and stopped at the stockade gate. There was riotous noise and life within; he listened to the shouts of the Indians and the tom-tom of their drums, then he went in quietly. In the yard were crowds of Dog Rib (Plats Côtes de Chiens) and Slave Indian trappers; they danced round an empty wine-keg, reeling and screaming with drunken energy; the squaws stood in groups about the men, chanting in minor tones; the factor’s house was dark, but as Jules watched he saw MacTavish moving among the howling crowd. Verbaux elbowed his way through the sweating, drink-reeking Indians to the factor’s side.
“M’sieu’ MaacTaveesh,” he said quietly, touching the big Scotchman’s arm, “Ah vant spik to you.”
The factor turned quickly.
“Ah, Verba’, ’tis glad I am to see ye! Wull ye drink?”
“Non, M’sieu’ le Facteur, Jules mus’ spik wid you, important,” Verbaux answered.
MacTavish noticed the serious note in the deep voice.
“Coom into the house,” he said, and led the way through the shrieking crowd to his log house. Jules followed. The factor got a light, and then faced his guest. “Whut is ’t, mon? Can I do aught for ye?”
“Non pour moi, M’sieu’ le Facteur; Ah comme warrn vous dat les Crees f’om hoddaire Compagnie goin’ hattack here ver’ queeck!”
The factor’s face turned white. “Attack us here, mon!” he cried, and began pacing up and down the little room. “How d’ye know?”