A flash of intelligence, when that name was mentioned, passed over the dark face of the other; but he shook his head in the negative.
“Not Lascelles. Know same though. Name Batiste Dupuy. Trapper, trader, voyageur from the North. Friend of Running Antelope, and the Cheyennes. They give right to hunt, trap all through this country. Paleface boys no business shoot elk. My game! Must have all or none. Ugh!”
If his name was Batiste Dupuy, as he claimed, the half-breed must have lived a good part of his life among the redmen, for he had copied many of their ways. His knowledge of English seemed rather meagre, for he could hardly find suitable means whereby to express himself; for, while he spoke, he made many violent gestures, that were intended to add vigor to his few words.
“Then make up your mind you’re going to have none,” said Roger, now growing angry himself at the arrogance of the fellow. “If you want your arrow, here it is; but not an ounce of the elk meat do you get.”
He jerked the shaft feathered with the quills of the gray goose from its lodging-place in the side of the dead elk, and handed it out toward the other. The man condescended to take it, but immediately broke it across his knee, as though by such violent means he expected them to understand that he intended to be their inveterate foe from that time forth.
“Go! Get out of this!” cried the impetuous Roger, pointing with his quivering finger. “And just remember, Monsieur Dupuy, we have long rifles here, and know how to drive a nail at thirty paces; so that, if you try to do us any harm, it will be at your peril. That is all.”
An Indian might have said, “I have spoken!” but Roger’s way was just as expressive, accompanied as it was by that sweep of the hand.
The man’s eyes narrowed until they seemed to be mere slits, as he glared at the bold young speaker. Then he flung his head in a disdainful gesture, and remarked with a sneer:
“Never before did Batiste Dupuy take orders from a cub. Huh! wait and see who laughs loudest. Mebbe Batiste, his hour will come soon. Lascelles, you said?—it may be I know same; and he much glad to hear of you! Sacre! that is all I say!”
With that he made them a mocking bow, showing that he surely had French blood in his veins, and, whirling on his moccasined heel, strode angrily away.