“S’lip là-bas!” he said, pointing to a tepee across the stockade. Jules bowed his head. “Merci!” he said, and went to his new friend’s camp.
It was a big tepee; the circular interior was covered with skins, and wolf-hides were patched together for a floor. The light consisted of three fat candles held up by sticks; they fluttered and flickered at the draft the two men created on entering. In one corner was an Indian girl of the Ojibway type. She rose as they came in, and Jules sighed to himself as he saw two children asleep together. The girl was tall and graceful, with almond black eyes, like those of a deer; long, straight black hair fell away from each side of her small head, and the yellow, uncertain light shone dreamily over the delicately browned face; the high, straight nose threw a shadow on her cheek, and the small, well-shaped chin was gracefully poised over the slender throat. She stood shyly by her husband, and the small hand crept into his big one.
“Un ami!” he said, nodding toward Jules, who stood by the blanketed entrance.
“Ni-coun-is [Friend],” she repeated softly, and sat down by the children.
The man turned to Jules. “Mon nom Jean Cuchoise,” he said.
Verbaux looked at him keenly for a moment, then, “Mon nom Jules Verbaux!” His voice was quiet.
Cuchoise started violently. “Verbaux?” he asked, and a deep frown came over his heavy face. “Le Pendu he tell to me dat he keel Verbaux five day gon’ at Lac des Sables.”
“He no tell to le facteur dat,” Jules said.
“You tell to M’sieu’ Neelson ton nom Verbaux?” Cuchoise asked him.
Jules smiled and shook his head. “Non!”