“Ye fule that ye are! Oh, ye fule! Canna ye see that I hae to obey arders? I hae to do as I am bid; ’tis na choice o’ mine. Wull ye help me straighten oop those damn things out there? Ye and me are near the only sober min on th’ place!” The Scotchman’s voice was anxious and eager.
Jules hesitated for an instant, then he spoke quietly. “Ah do vat Ah can pour vous, M’sieu’ le Facteur, parceque vonce you help Jules. Allons, dere ees no mooch taime.” He opened the door and stepped out. A big fire had been built in the yard, and the Indians looked like red fiends dancing and rolling about it. The light showed the buildings up sharply, and threw strong shadows in the corners where Flat Head, Chippewyan, Dog Rib Indians and Canadian voyageurs lurched and slept in their drunken orgy. Tom-toms still thrubbed monotonously, and the snow fell unheeded on everything. Unconsciously Jules looked across the yard, out into the black snowy night, then at the wild scene before him.
“Come queeck,” he said again, and the two plunged into the throng.
“Nan-to-bun-ne-win! [War!]” shouted MacTavish lustily, shaking every man he could reach. They laughed crazily in his face, yelling the louder. Then a murmur rose. “Way-mit-tic-goo-sh an-i-mou-che! [French dog!]” It grew fiercer! some one threw a hatchet, and the blade clipped Jules on the shoulder. “Oo-e! Oo-e! [Go!]”
One by one the Indians took up the cry and rushed at Verbaux, who tried to tell them of the danger. MacTavish heard the threatening roar, and saw the mass edging toward Jules. “Gang, mon! Gang awa’; ye can do nae mair!” he shouted to him from a group of voyageurs he was beating and kicking to make them understand. Jules faced the ugly cries, then with a powerful voice that rang loud above the clamour he called, “Les Crees du Hodson Baie comme queeck. Tak’ care!” Mocking laughter and insults answered him, and missiles of all sorts were hurled in his direction. He shrugged his big shoulders. “Bon! Jules have do vat he can; he go maintenant.” With long strides and thrusts from his massive hands, he fought his way to the gate and went out into the darkness.
“Sacré-é!” he muttered as he discovered that the tote-bag with his food had been taken from him. A few Indians followed, screaming curses at him for disturbing their dance, but they soon fell behind and returned to the post.
XII
THE MEETING
Jules went on. The sounds from the buildings faded gradually away. The snow was soft and deeper than ever, and he stopped in a thick patch of woods. His snow-shoes had not been taken, and he was grimly lacing their thongs round his ankles when he looked up and listened. From the direction of Isle la Crosse he heard the faint sounds of rifle-shots; dropping the snow-shoes, he climbed a tall pine, going up through its dense branches with speed and ease. When at the top he could see the lights of Isle la Crosse; the reports of guns multiplied, and the air crackled with detonations. As he watched, a lurid flame shot up; then more appeared, and countless red fire tongues curled and whipped in the wind. The glow was reflected in copper hues on the clouds, and Verbaux smelled the burning wood.
“Dat terrible,” he said. It seemed like a dream: the flames, the awful fight and massacre he knew were going on, and yet about him everything was silent save for the whispering of the wind. “Pauvre MaacTaveesh; Ah goin’ fin’ hout eef he ees keel.” He got down out of the tree, put on his snow-shoes, and hurried back.