He answered the creole’s whisper with an Ojibwa “here,” and, as the villain moved forward, he shot upward and struck him with all the strength he could summon.
So sudden and unexpected was the assault, that the knife dropped from Jules Bardue’s hand, and when he struck the earth he found the scout upon his breast, and saw his own glittering blade in dangerous proximity to his craven heart.
“I’ve got the upper hand now, Jules Bardue!” hissed Somerville, glaring upon his enemy with the ferocity of the tiger; “and no doubt there’ll be a dead Frenchman hereabouts when I stand erect again. Now, sir devil, answer what questions I choose to put.”
The creole did not reply; but smiled sardonically in his foeman’s eyes.
“In the first place, where is the girl—Kate Blount?”
No answer.
The question was repeated, and the knife flew aloft—drawn upward by deadly intent.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the Yellow Bloodhound, with forced gayety. “How sweet it is to die revenged! The girl is hidden forever from your eyes—she never meets her father again. She refused to become Madame Bardue once, and old Blount slashed my back till it bled like a deer’s throat. Now I’m almost even with him; but I’d like to get the old hound into my clutches again.”
“He is out of them now?”
“Yes, curse him!”