Back on the hill where Manou had rested was another man, keenly examining the scratches of the dogs’ nails on the crust. He was tall and gaunt, but with sinuous strength showing in every limb. At his feet were three dogs and a light sledge. He stood up, and, shading his eyes from the sun-glare, looked ahead and saw Manou hurrying onward.
“Ah-h-h!” he growled, “seex dog, hein? Sacré dam’! He t’ink he goin’ get mes skins sauf to de compagnie, an’ dat me, Jules Verbaux, let heem do heet sans bataille? We see! Mush! Allez!” The dogs leaped to their work, and he followed swiftly after, his snow-shoes sliding in long, easy strides.
Jules Verbaux was a “free” trapper in the Hudson Bay Company’s territory. He was a thorn in the factor’s side, as he stole fur from the traps of the Company’s Indians, and they could never catch him to send him over the “long trail.” Manou, a half-breed Indian, had heard of Jules’s cache,[[4]] where there was a lot of fur, and he had taken his dogs and sneaked off, hoping, for his own profit, to break the cache and get into one of the Company’s posts, where he would be safe to sell the skins.
[4]. Hiding-place where the trappers keep their furs.
Jules came up on a drift and saw Manou going, going. “Ah, diable,” he muttered; “he goin’ win avec seex dog! Vat you t’ink me do? Jules, Ah have vone leet’ plan; dat miserab’ he not know exactement la place; Ah goin’ fool heem! Musha! ai-i-i-ii!” His voice trailed off in a nasal whine, and the dogs whirled about to the right and raced on.
Manou was so far ahead that he thought it safe to stop again; he put his dogs under the shelter of an ice clump while he climbed up on it. He could not find his pursuer on the back trail, and he chuckled for a moment. “Toi, Verbaux! Manou goin’ show to toi ’Ow to mush.” Then he caught sight of Jules working off to the right. “Qu’est ça?” he muttered, and after fumbling about in his pockets he brought out a soiled and crumpled piece of paper. “Nor’ouest to ze hol’ trail, den directement nor’ to ligne two, den sud’est; cache marrke, cross hon piece of wood. V’y for he go dat chemin?” he asked himself, and looked again.
Sure enough, Jules was now far off to the right, and going on fast. “Zat dam’ femme! She no tell to Manou correctement! Ah go now cut heem hoff zis chemin.” He slid and tumbled down the clump. “Mush! ai-i-i-i!” and away he went in the direction calculated to bring him across the other’s trail. As he travelled he pulled out an old pistol and examined the cartridges carefully. “Ah feex dat Verbaux, den le facteur he mak’ me vone big gif’—mabbe five dollaires—eef Ah breeng hees head cut hoff to la poste!”
Meanwhile Jules passed over snow-barrens with tireless speed. Regularly his snow-shoes clicked as he lifted them, and unceasingly he plied the lash. “Allez—allez! Ho-o-o-p!” He shook his fist at the other when he saw that Manou had fallen into the trap and was trying to head him off. “Viens, scélérat! Ah goin’ lead you in la territoire du diable!” He shouted aloud. The sound of his voice was whisked away even as his lips moved; he shook his fist again. “You know, garçon, zat Jules he have no gun; mais he have somme t’ing for you, Manou!” And he felt for the knife that rested in his belt. “Now, Ah go fas’ et leeve ze beeg trail. You come, Manou, hein? You come!” And he darted on at even greater speed.
An hour later Manou came to Verbaux’s trail. “C’est bien ça. Ah go fas’ now; an’ to-night, v’en he stop, Ah get heem.” He caressed the pistol. “Mush! mush!” he screamed to the dogs, and twined the lash about their heads. “Musha!”
Manou had forgotten his aching feet, forgotten his direction, forgotten everything but the lust of gain and his hatred of the man he was now pursuing.