“Whatever it be, I’ll do it—only let one live who is not prepared to die. Who are you?”
“Jules Bardue—the Yellow Bloodhound of the Ojibwas,” was the reply. “I do not ask your name—I know it. You are the most wretched man in these forests—John Williamson, Pontiac’s murderer.”
“Yes, God has cursed me with that name!” groaned the haunted trader.
A minute’s silence followed.
“I am hurt,” said Bardue, at last, “and you must carry me to the woods, when night comes. I dare not seek the forest now. In the gloom I can, by signals, bring trusty red people to my side.”
“But me?” groaned the haunted trader, from the depths of his craven heart. “They will torture me when they know who I am.”
“Only do my bidding, and they shall not harm you,” said Bardue, quickly. “I rule the savage hearts. Oh, now the hour of vengeance is at hand. They have stabbed Jules Bardue; they have shot him; they have nailed him to a rock; but the Yellow Bloodhound lives yet to bite. Here, John Williamson, stoop down and pick me up. I’ll tell you where to carry me.”
Tremblingly the miserable man obeyed, and the creole hoped that he would be strong enough to walk when he joined his red associates in the forest.
The trader bore the Bloodhound to a dark cavern, and soon a fire illumined the place.
Then, at the renegade’s request, Williamson related the story of his flight and wanderings from the jaws of justice.