“Him all burn up. Oh yes.”
Felice began to cry. In a moment her little chubby hands were beating her protest against the broad bosom of the trader. The sight of her rebellion somehow had a softening effect on the coloured man, and he spoke in a manner and in a tone of gentleness which must have seemed impossible in him a moment before.
But even his encouragement was without effect. The child’s cries rose to a fierce, healthly pitch of screaming which promptly called forth protest from the trail dogs about the camps within the stockade. For some moments pandemonium reigned, and in the midst of it the voice of Hesther, who had hurried from her bed, brought comfort to her helpless husband.
“For goodness’ sake!” she cried at the sight of the terrified child in her husband’s arms. “Are you crazy, Jim, havin’ that pore baby gal—Felice? Little Felice? Say, what—? Here, pass her to me.”
The trader made no demur. In a moment the distracted child was exchanged into his wife’s outstretched arms which tenderly embraced and snuggled her close to her soft motherly bosom.
The men looked on held silent by Hesther’s presence.
The child’s cries were quickly hushed, and the dogs abandoned their savage, responsive chorus. Hesther looked searchingly up into Jim’s troubled face. Then her gentle, inquiring eyes passed on to scrutinize the face of the Indian.
“Tell me,” she demanded. And her words were addressed to Usak, as she rocked the child to and fro in her arms.
But Usak was reluctant. He averted his gaze while the whiteman became pre-occupied with the broad expanse of the river beyond the gateway of the stockade.
“Something’s happened,” she went on urgently. “What is it? I’ve got to know. I shall know it later, anyhow, Jim!”