From across the southern border something more than rumor had reached him. The Americans down south were talking Prohibition. They were not only talking of it, they were moving on towards it in that thorough fashion in which they did most things. Well, Prohibition had served him more than well at different times in the Western Territories of Canada. It would be a poor bet if he could not turn this new trend of American politics to good account for himself. So, as he saw the end of his present traffic approaching, he was well enough satisfied.
His sister Luana had served her purpose. She had raised Annette for him with the boy he had long since dubbed “the Wolf.” She had done her best. She had taught them both to read, and write, and to figure simple sums, to the limit of her own stock of education. Then she had taught them to work, which was what Pideau most desired. The only thing that had offended him had been her partiality for the Wolf. But even that, he had been able to counter-balance in his own cruel way.
But the boy was approaching manhood now. He had outgrown Luana’s care, while Annette was still of an age to come under her controlling hand, which was often enough unsparing.
These things, however, were of no real concern to the boy and girl. They were inseparable playmates and had little enough thought for Pideau’s affairs. Besides Pideau was away on his trade. And Luana was sick—very sick with mountain fever.
Annette turned at last from the dogs to the boy.
“I said you’re to send ’em to home—you Wolf!” she cried, with that imperiousness which her sex and age seemed to justify. Then she became more vehement and her voice shrilled. “They’re curs, anyway. They ain’t dogs. Only curs.” Then as the boy’s eyes smiled with deeper derision she became still more furious. She stamped her bare brown foot on the grass. “So’re you!” she screamed at him. “Send ’em right back, or—or I’ll tell Pideau when he gets back to home, an’—an’ he’ll rawhide you for not letting me fish right.”
The Wolf glanced unconcernedly at the whimpering dogs.
“You got plenty fish. Wot’s worryin’ you?”
He snapped the breech of his rifle into place, and gathered up his tools and crammed them into the pockets of his breeches and stood up.
He was tall. The Wolf had developed far beyond his fourteen years. He was already taller than Pideau. But that which was far less usual was the fact that his physical strength had more than kept pace with his growth. He was lean, rawboned, and possessed of the activity of a wildcat. He was keen of mind and nimble-witted, and he possessed that which was denied to all his half-breed companions. His humor was the happiest thing imaginable.