McElroy looked long upon him.
“'Tis a shame,” he said, his straight brows drawing together, “the dog is a better brute than Bois.”
“Aye,” flashed Francette, talking as though it were no uncommon thing for the factor to stop at the cabin of the Molines, “and no more shall the one brute serve the other. You have said, M'sieu.”
“Yes,” laughed the factor, “I have said and it shall be so. I will buy the dog from Bois if he speaks of the matter. Take good care of him, little one,” and McElroy turned down toward the gate. As he moved away, free of step and straight as an Indian, he filliped away a small budding twig of the saskatoon which one of the youths had brought in to show how the woods were answering the call of the warm sun, and which he had dandled in his fingers as he walked. It fell at the edge of the beaded skirt and quick as thought the hand of Francette shot out and covered it. A hot flush mounted under the silken black curls and she dropped her eyes, peering under their lashes to see if any observed. She drew the faded sprig toward her and hid it in her breast.
Before the cabin of the Baptistes, Jean Saville touched his cap and stopped.
“Yes?” said the factor; “what is it, Jean?”
“Assuredly, M'sieu, has the tide of the spring set in. Pierre but now reports the coming of a band of strangers down the river. They come in canoes, five of them, well manned and armed as if the country of the Assiniboine were bristling with dangers instead of being the abode of God's chosen. Within the hour they will arrive at the landing.”
“Thank you, Jean,” said McElroy; “I will prepare for the meeting.”
The trapper touched his cap and passed.
“Ah,” smiled the factor to himself, “I like this bustle of passage. It is good after the winter's housing, and who knows? There may be those among the strangers who bring word from Hudson Bay.”