In the open air the men separated in quest of their various
families or friends. The stranger lingered undecided for a moment
on the top step of the veranda, and then wandered down the little
street, if street it could be called where horses there were none.
On the left ranged the square white-washed houses with their
dooryards, the old church, the workshop. To the right was a broad
grass-plot, and then the Moose, slipping by to the distant offing.
Over a little bridge the stranger idled, looking curiously about
him. The great trading-house attracted his attention, with its
narrow picket lane leading to the door; the storehouse surrounded
by a protective log fence; the fort itself, a medley of
heavy-timbered stockades and square block-houses. After a moment
he resumed his strolling. Everywhere he went the people looked at
him, ceasing their varied occupations. No one spoke to him, no one
hindered him. To all intents and purposes he was as free as the
air. But all about the island flowed the barrier of the Moose, and
beyond frowned the wilderness--strong as iron bars to an unarmed
man.
Brooding on his imprisonment the Free Trader forgot his
surroundings. The post, the river, the forest, the distant bay
faded from his sight, and he fell into deep reflection. There
remained nothing of physical consciousness but a sense of the
grateful spring warmth from the declining sun. At length he became
vaguely aware of something else. He glanced up. Right by him he
saw a handsome French half-breed sprawled out in the sun against a
building, looking him straight in the face and flashing up at him a
friendly smile.
"Hullo," said Achille Picard, "you mus' been 'sleep. I call you
two t'ree tam."
The prisoner seemed to find something grateful in the greeting even
from the enemy's camp. Perhaps it merely happened upon the
psychological moment for a response.
"Hullo," he returned, and seated himself by the man's side, lazily
stretching himself in enjoyment of the reflected heat.
"You is come off Kettle Portage, eh," said Achille, "I t'ink so.
You is come trade dose fur? Eet is bad beez-ness, dis Conjur'
House. Ole' man he no lak' dat you trade dose fur. He's very hard,
dat ole man."
"Yes," replied the stranger, "he has got to be, I suppose. This is
the country of _la Longue Traverse_."
"I beleef you," responded Achille, cheerfully; "w'at you call heem
your nam'?"
"Ned Trent."
"Me Achille--Achille Picard. I capitaine of dose dogs on dat
winter _brigade_."
"It is a hard post. The winter travel is pretty tough."
"I beleef you."
"Better to take _la Longue Traverse_ in summer, eh?"
"_La Longue Traverse_--hees not mattaire w'en yo tak heem."
"Right you are. Have there been men sent out since you came here?"
"_Ba oui_. Wan, two, t'ree. I don' remember. I t'ink Jo Bagneau.
Nobodee he don' know, but dat ole man an' hees _coureurs du bois_.
He ees wan ver' great man. Nobodee is know w'at he will do."
"I'm due to hit that trail myself, I suppose," said Ned Trent.
"I have t'ink so," acknowledged Achille, still with a tone of most
engaging cheerfulness.
"Shall I be sent out at once, do you think?"
"I don' know. Sometam' dat ole man ver' queek. Sometam' he ver'
slow. One day Injun mak' heem ver' mad; he let heem go, and shot
dat Injun right off. Noder tam he get mad on one _voyageur_, but
he don' keel heem queek; he bring heem here, mak' heem stay in dose
warm room, feed heem dose plaintee grub. Purty soon dose
_voyageur_ is get fat, is go sof'; he no good for dose trail. Ole
man he mak' heem go ver' far off, mos' to Whale Reever. Eet is
plaintee cole. Dat _voyageur_, he freeze to hees inside. Dey tell
me he feex heem like dat."
"Achille, you haven't anything against me--do you want me to die?"
The half-breed flashed his white teeth.
"Ba non," he replied, carelessly. "For w'at I want dat you die? I
t'ink you bus' up bad; _vous avez la mauvaise fortune."
"Listen. I have nothing with me; but out at the front I am very
rich. I will give you a hundred dollars, if you will help me to get
away."
"I can' do eet," smiled Picard.
"Why not?"
"Ole man he fin' dat out. He is wan devil, dat ole man. I lak
firs'-rate help you; I lak' dat hundred dollar. On Ojibway
countree dey make hees nam' _Wagosh_--dat mean fox. He know
everything."
"I'll make it two hundred--three hundred--five hundred."
"Wat you wan' me do?" hesitated Achille Picard at the last figure.
"Get me a rifle and some cartridges."
The half-breed rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled a deep
breath.
"I can' do eet," he declared. "I can' do eet for t'ousand
dollar--ten t'ousand. I don't t'ink you fin' anywan on dis
settlement w'at can dare do eet. He is wan devil. He's count all
de carabine on dis pos', an' w'en he is mees wan, he fin' out purty
queek who is tak' heem."
"Steal one from someone else," suggested Trent.
"He fin' out jess sam'," objected the half-breed, obstinately.
"You don' know heem. He mak' you geev yourself away, when he lak'
do dat." The smile had left the man's face. This was evidently
too serious a matter to be taken lightly.
"Well, come with me, then," urged Ned Trent, with some impatience.
"A thousand dollars I'll give you. With that you can be rich
somewhere else."
But the man was becoming more and more uneasy, glancing furtively
from left to right and back again, in an evident panic lest the
conversation be overheard, although the nearest dwelling-house was
a score of yards distant.
"Hush," he whispered. "You mustn't talk lak' dat. Dose ole man
fin' you out. You can' hide away from heem. Ole tam long ago,
Pierre Cadotte is stole feefteen skin of de otter--de
sea-otter--and he is sol' dem on Winnipeg. He is get 'bout
thousand beaver--five hunder' dollar. Den he is mak' dose longue
voyage wes'--ver' far wes'--_on dit_ Peace Reever. He is mak' heem
dose cabane, w'ere he is leev long tam wid wan man of Mackenzie.
He is call it hees nam' Dick Henderson. I is meet Dick Henderson
on Winnipeg las' year, w'en I mak' paddle on dem Factor Brigade,
an' dose High Commissionaire. He is tol' me wan night pret' late
he wake up all de queeck he can w'en he is hear wan noise in dose
cabane, an' he is see wan Injun, lak' phantome 'gainst de moon to
de door. Dick Henderson he is 'sleep, he don' know w'at he mus'
do. Does Injun is step ver' sof' an' go on bunk of Pierre Cadotte.
Pierre Cadotte is mak' de beeg cry. Dick Henderson say he no see
dose Injun no more, an' he fin' de door shut' _Ba_ Pierre Cadotte,
she's go dead. He is mak' wan beeg hole in hees ches'."
"Some enemy, some robber frightened Away because the Henderson man
woke up, probably," suggested Ned Trent.
The half-breed laid his hand impressively on the other's arm and
leaned forward until his bright black eyes were within a foot of
the other's face.
"Wen dose Injun is stan' heem in de moonlight, Dick Henderson is
see hees face. Dick Henderson is know all dose Injun. He is tole
me dat Injun is not Peace Reever Injun. Dick Henderson is say dose
Injun is Ojibway Injun--Ojibway Injun two t'ousand mile wes'--on
Peace Reever! Dat's curi's!"
"I was tell you nodder story--" went on Achille, after a moment.
"Never mind," interrupted the Trader. "I believe you."
"Maybee," said Achille cheerfully, "you stan' some show--not
moche--eef he sen' you out pret' queeck. Does small _perdrix_ is
yonge, an' dose duck. Maybee you is catch dem, maybee you is keel
dem wit' bow an' arrow. Dat's not beeg chance. You mus' geev dose
_coureurs de bois_ de sleep w'en you arrive. _Voila_, I geev you
my knife!"
He glanced rapidly to right and left, then slipped a small object
into the stranger's hand.
"_Ba_, I t'ink does ole man is know dat. I t'ink he kip you here
till tam w'en dose _perdrix_ and duck is all grow up beeg' nuff so
he can fly."
"I'm not watched," said the young man in eager tones: "I'll slip
away to-night."
"Dat no good," objected Picard. "Wat you do? S'pose you do dat,
dose _coureurs_ keel you _toute suite_. Dey is have good excuse,
an' you is have nothing to mak' de fight. You sleep away, and dose
ole man is sen' out plaintee Injun. Dey is fine you sure. _Ba_,
eef he sen' you out, den he sen' onlee two Injun. Maybee you fight
dem; I don' know. _Non, mon ami_, eef you is wan' get away w'en
dose ole man he don' know eet, you mus' have dose carabine. Den
you is have wan leetle chance. _Ba, eef you is not have heem dose
carabine, you mus' need dose leetle grub he geev you, and not
plaintee Injun follow you, onlee two."
"And I cannot get the rifle."
"An' dose ole man is don' sen' you out till eet is too late for
mak' de grub on de fores'. Dat's w'at I t'ink. Dat ees not fonny
for you."
Ned Trent's eyes were almost black with thought. Suddenly he threw
his head up.
"I'll make him send me out now," he asserted confidently.
"How you mak' eet him?"
"I'll talk turkey to him till he's so mad he can't see straight.
Then maybe he'll send me out right away."
"How you mak' eet him so mad? inquired Picard, with mild curiosity.
"Never you mind--I'll do it"
"_Ba oui_," ruminated Picard, "He is get mad pret' queeck. I t'ink
p'raps dat plan he go all right. You was get heem mad plaintee
easy. Den maybee he is sen' you out toute suite--maybee he is
shoot you."
"I'll take the chances--my friend."
"_Ba oui_," shrugged Achille Picard, "eet is wan chance."
He commenced to roll another cigarette.