Dunvegan turned to his friends, the light of unshakeable determination on his face.
"My men are the Company's!" he exclaimed. "My life is my own! I'm going to La Roche. There may be a way. Somewhere there must be a means. Either I'll carry Desirée Lazard over the stockades or the Nor'westers' guns will riddle me."
They did not doubt him. They knew a million protests would not avail.
"An' me," cried Basil, thrilled by his courage. "I go for de pacquet. De Company's trippers dey ain' nevaire lost wan yet. I ain' goin' be de first, me!"
"You lovable fools," reprimanded Brochet, tears in his eyes. "You have the stuff in you that makes the northmen great. But don't go alone on this mad mission! Let me go with you. For mark this, Bruce, where your strength or Dreaulond's cunning cannot prevail, my cloth may render some aid."
Thus across the chain of lakes and rivers three men went against La Roche.
Paddling Indian fashion with both elbows held rigid and shoulders thrusting strongly forward at the end of each stroke, the travelers threaded for miles the island channels of the Blazing Pine. Basil Dreaulond had the bow, Dunvegan the stern. Father Brochet sat amidships. They took advantage of the current and made rapid progress, their blades churning the water in long half-circular swirls. Skilled canoeists they accepted the aid of every shore-eddy, every rushing chute, every navigable cascade.
Down the Rapid Du Loup, a dangerous rock-split through which the river leaped rather than ran, their craft was snubbed with extreme care. The three shared the toil of portaging over to Lac Du Longe where a baffling head-wind blew.
"Ba gosh, I no lak dat, me," protested Basil, pointing to the great, white-crested combers which cannonaded the beach. "An' look at dose storm-clouds! Saprie! she goin' thundaire an' lightnin'!"
But the chief trader would hear of no delay. Into the brunt of the tempest the bow was forced. Shooting the sheer wave-slopes, poising dizzily on crests where momentum raised them, rocking sickeningly in the trough of the swinging seas, the men rode in the teeth of the gale. Half way across Du Longe the thunder and lightning Dreaulond had prophesied burst with raucous bellowing, with vivid flame. The wind increased. The lake became a boiling cauldron.