Jules went on. The sounds from the buildings faded gradually away. The snow was soft and deeper than ever, and he stopped in a thick patch of woods. His snow-shoes had not been taken, and he was grimly lacing their thongs round his ankles when he looked up and listened. From the direction of Isle la Crosse he heard the faint sounds of rifle-shots; dropping the snow-shoes, he climbed a tall pine, going up through its dense branches with speed and ease. When at the top he could see the lights of Isle la Crosse; the reports of guns multiplied, and the air crackled with detonations. As he watched, a lurid flame shot up; then more appeared, and countless red fire tongues curled and whipped in the wind. The glow was reflected in copper hues on the clouds, and Verbaux smelled the burning wood.

“Dat terrible,” he said. It seemed like a dream: the flames, the awful fight and massacre he knew were going on, and yet about him everything was silent save for the whispering of the wind. “Pauvre MaacTaveesh; Ah goin’ fin’ hout eef he ees keel.” He got down out of the tree, put on his snow-shoes, and hurried back.

Between the tops of the spruce, as he went along, he could see the glowing sky dim shade by shade; at last just their own gray-black colour remained. Then he heard voices coming through the dark woods; he stepped swiftly to one side and crouched behind a big log. Shadowy forms passed him, many of them in single file; some carried heavy loads, and he heard a woman’s stifled crying. One of the party spoke. “Mis-ta-bou-tah-kse! [Very good work!]”

“Ah-ha,” answered another figure.

“Bon t’ing, dat; ha-ree-no-os-kit-chip! [I am glad!]” some one else said.

“Annaotaha h’aga’n!” Jules growled softly to himself. He counted forty-two men. They had all gone by, but Verbaux waited a little while, then started on fast. He came to the ruins of the post, and his eyes hardened at what they saw. Not a building remained standing; bright masses of coals marked their places, and the black, pungent smoke floated off heavily and noiselessly, laden with tiny sparks. The falling snow showed very white against it.

Jules listened, but there was no sound of living thing; the coals hissed and spluttered, and the dull crashes of the charred logs sounded thickly as they fell in on one another. There was a grim feeling of solitude over it all, and Verbaux’s face was stern as he moved forward carefully. A little light, given out by a few feeble spurts of flame, intensified the desolate and mournful scene.

Parts of the stockade were standing, but every log house, fur and supply-shed was gone. Verbaux took off his show-shoes and walked slowly towards the remains of the factor’s house; suddenly he stumbled over something; he looked down, and felt of the obstruction. It was a body, still warm. He listened a moment, then got a small flaming brand from one of the fires and held it over the face. It was one of the voyageurs, hacked and disfigured.

“Ah vondaire ’Ow many get sauf ’vay?” and Jules sighed as he rose and hunted further. At the ruin of the voyageurs’ house were the scorched forms of three men resting on the hot coals beneath; the odour of burning flesh was sickening, but Verbaux turned all the bodies over, trying to identify them.

“Non, pas MaacTaveesh!” He prodded and searched among the ruins for two hours, and found the bodies of eleven men and seven women; all were mutilated. “Bien!” Jules said when he had finished the gruesome search; “le facteur no keel; maintenant did he get ’vay sauf, ou Était il capture?” He went out to the edge of the ruins. “Notting to h’eat; Jules have to go queeck deux jours hongree for arriver home!” he said to himself. Accordingly, he started out of the stockade to the northeast; he had gone but a little way, and was kneeling, putting on his snow-shoes, when a bigger blaze than the others caught his eye; he looked, and saw a figure pass between him and it.

“Dat somme vone. Vat he vant lÀ-bas, hein?” Jules asked himself.

He worked his way back closer and closer to the now brightly burning fire; keeping under cover of the upright portion of the stockade, he approached to within twenty yards of the flames, and peered through a chink between the logs. He could see the dark form moving rapidly among the ruins, searching here, there, everywhere. Verbaux felt for his knife and loosened it in its caribou-hide sheath, then he stepped forward noiselessly and went to the fire. The stranger was back toward him, and Jules waited silently; the man turned. “Verbaux!” he said, with awe in his voice. Jules’s face brightened, and a faint smile drew up the corners of the mouth. “Le Grand!” he said. The two stared at each other; the light of the leaping flames between them played over their figures, and still both were silent. The wind was coming, and it whirled the snow and cold ashes hither and thither; then Le Grand came forward, a step at a time.

“C’est b’en toi, Verbaux?” he asked hoarsely, his face gray under the tan.

“Jules Verbaux!” the other answered.

“La femme, Verbaux, you have see la femme?” Le Grand asked then in low tones.

“Y’h’our wife? Non, pauvre Le Grand, Ah have no see. She vas ici?” Jules pointed to the ruins.

“Ta femme, Verbaux!” Le Grand spoke solemnly.

An awful look came on Jules’s face; the gray eyes narrowed to gleaming slits, the mouth was rigid, and the nostrils quivered and dilated; the muscles of his temples surged and played under the edges of the fur cap, and his whole body contracted like a steel spring about to be released; his breath came and went with a hissing sound. Le Grand stared, fascinated; the fire crackled sharply, and the howling of wolves suddenly broke the silence of the black timber beyond. The sounds rose and fell in lonely cadence, now carried by the wind, then weakened by it. Neither of the men spoke, and the tension between them was terrible.

“Ma femme?” Jules said at last, speaking with difficulty and in a strange, hollow voice.

“Oui,” answered Le Grand as though hypnotised by the flashing gray eyes that stared into his soul; “la vieille poste v’ere you vas vonce destroi lak’ dees; Maquette, Hibou, Bossu, le facteur, an’ mes petits—keel! Ah, Le Grand, go ’way fas’ an’ fin’ votre femme, Verbaux, hongree, near to dead, dans la forÊt; she h’ask me to breeng elle to fin’ toi, Verbaux. H’aftaire toi leave dose Indians h’at Lac de la Petite Hache Ah see your track go nord direct; den w’en Ah fin’ dat fille hongree, h’alon’, Ah t’ink h’of dat track an’ breeng ta femme for to fin’ toi, Verbaux. Ah lef’ Marie ici t’ree day’ gone, an’ den Ah loook, loook pour toi; dey tell to me dat ils ne savaient pas v’ere you leeve, alors Ah chercher partout, ev’ place. To-night Ah come back, an’—” his stoicism broke down and silent sobs shook him.

Jules spoke no word, but a spasm of agony crossed the strong face. The wolves’ voices drew nearer, and the dismal sounds echoed vaguely through the storm; then Jules held out his hand.

“Le Grand,” he said brokenly, “you h’aire good mans!” The other took it, and they stood thus with hands clasped, looking steadfastly at each other; the yellow light flickered about them, blurring their shadows into one across the ash-begrimed snow.

“Verbaux, ve go, you an’ moi, for to fin’ Marie?” Le Grand asked, with a pitiful note of hope in the words. His black eyes were wet with tears, and their moisture was reflected by the flames. Silence came on the two again; Jules’s face changed swiftly from mood to mood, now hope, then despair, and old memories with their stabs of pain pictured themselves, and his sombre eyes dulled. Le Grand watched, leaning toward Verbaux and quivering with eagerness. Jules spoke at last, but the voice that sounded monotonously in the snow-laden air was not his.

“Non, Le Grand, she lef’ Jules pour Manou; je suis content!” His face twitched as if in mortal stress, his hands clenched, and sweat broke out on his forehead, but he stood fast.

“No—go—fin’—Marie?” Le Grand whispered as he and Jules drew apart, and his voice was tremulous. “She loove toi, Verbaux; Ah, Le Grand, say so, an’ Ah know h’of vat Ah say!” he continued, and held out his arms appealingly to Jules.

The wind blew hard through the trees, and the fire at the men’s feet roared fitfully. Verbaux moved as though to take the outstretched hands again, then he stopped and shuddered.

“Non!” he said slowly.

“Alors, Verbaux, eef you no go avec moi to fin’ Marie, to sauf dat leetle fille, Ah, Le Grand go h’alon’ fin’ her; an’ rememb’, Jules Verbaux, vat Ah tell to toi, dat Marie she loove you; somme taime you veel t’ink of vat Ah tol’ À toi dees night, le bon Dieu leesten!” Le Grand held up his right hand to the dark heavens as he finished.

Jules shook his head. “Je suis content,” he whispered, drawing a long breath. “She lef’ me for Manou!”

“B’en, Verbaux, Ah go! Au revoir; mabbe adieu forhevaire!” Le Grand bowed his head for an instant, then shook hands with Jules silently, fastened on his snow-shoes, strapped the food-bag to his back, and went off in the darkness and snow.

“Le Gr—” Verbaux called and started after him, but he was gone. Nothing was to be heard but the yelping and quarrelling of the wolves, scenting the bodies and coming very near. Jules returned to the fire and stood before it, his eyes fixed in an unseeing, heedless stare. The snow fell very thickly and fast, the gale dashed wildly now in the forests, and the stench of the burning dead was eddied about among the ruins and carried away into the black timber-lands.

Jules looked in the direction that Le Grand had taken. “Ah ’ope dat—” He stopped. “Non, Le Grand, Jules no ’ope so!” he finished, and slowly wound his snow-shoe thongs round his ankles; once more he looked over the lonely scene, then struck off to the northeast, leaving the hungry wolves to their feast undisturbed.

He went steadily on through the dense forests, where the blasts of wind shrieked in the spruce, pine, and hemlock; down by frozen brooks, where the snow was banked in deep drifts; up over hills, where the full force of the storm struck him, hurling the biting frost in his face and eyes; across the big barrens, where he had to lean against the fierce gusts that swept everything from their path except him. On a rise of land he stopped, breathing hard from his fast pace. He looked back. Nothing but hurtling masses of white met his eyes. “Bon Dieu!” he groaned and faced his course again. The woollen muffler about his neck was damp with sweat, and his body was as if on fire; nature rebelled, the powerful legs weakened and trembled slightly, but his iron will overcame all and it forced the weary body on and on. He did not stop again, either for food or rest, but raced ahead as though escaping some awful fate. His face was blotched with the gray of the cold; the eyes shone with undimmed strength. “Allez! Allez!” Jules said to himself when he felt his strength lagging. The physical pain alleviated the agony of his mind, dulled it into semi-consciousness. All the next day he travelled ceaselessly; the shoe thongs wore their way through the heavy moccasins into the flesh, but Jules did not know it.

At last he crossed Petite RiviÈre la Biche, and went through the forests that surrounded his home. Staggering, he came into the little clearing, hungry, faint, exhausted body and soul, and stopped, leaning against a tree.

The camp had been destroyed. The walls were pulled down and the logs scattered about; ashes here and there showed how an attempt had been made to burn it, but had failed. Jules looked and scarcely understood; then a new vigour came to him, and he searched among the fallen logs, and found the child’s woollen cap crushed under the snow. He kissed it. “Marie! Marie!” he groaned, then the will overpowered the body again. “Non! Je suis content,” he whispered. There was no pemmican or food of any kind among the ruins. The gnawing pangs of hunger forced themselves on him; he held up his hand and looked at it; it shook strangely. “Verbaux, you do vat Ah say!” The will spoke aloud to the worn body. “Ah go maintenant to Poste Fond du Lac for somme t’ing to h’eat; dat ees l’autre compagnie; but mabbe dey not know Jules!” And he went on to the westward. The storm was dying away; the snow fell in smaller flakes and less thickly, but it lay deep on the ground, and Jules dragged his wide snow-shoes painfully along, stopping often. The strong face was drawn with pain, great shadows had grown about the eyes, and deep lines scarred the under lip and high forehead. The gray eyes themselves were undimmed, and the will master as always. He crossed one of his trap-lines and went along it, looking, hoping for something to satisfy the wild cravings of his stomach. In one trap he found a wolverine; he tore the throat open and sucked the cold, sluggish blood. “C’est—bon!” he said as he felt a little strength creeping over him. He cut off the haunches and chewed the red meat as he travelled on. At night he stopped and rested for the first time in three days. He lay down uncovered and slept in an instant. It was broad daylight when he hastened on. All day he travelled, his snow-shoes rising and falling ceaselessly, though his ankles were raw and bleeding. That night he saw the lights of the Hudson Bay Company’s post, Fond du Lac, before him. He watched them for an instant from a hill-barren. “Eef dey know Jules dere, alors—c’est—finis,” he said, and went on slowly to the post. The gate was closed; he listened, but heard only subdued voices within. Then he knocked heavily with his fist. Some one came across the yard and the gate swung open; a big Slave Indian looked at him.

“Has-sa-tch? [Your name?]” he inquired. “Le ChassÈ’,” answered Jules. “Facteur?” he continued. Silently the Indian closed the gate and led the way across to a big log building. He went in, Jules following. “Sa-ner,” the Indian said briefly to a tall white man, and turned away.

“Who air ye?” the factor asked.

“Canadien, Le ChassÈ’.”

“What do ye want?” The factor’s questions were sharp and curt.

“Somme t’ing to h’eat—am hongree,” Jules answered.

“Where did ye come from?”

“Poste Reliance.”

“Two hundred and twenty miles, mon?” The factor was incredulous.

“Oui,” came the steady answer.

“Did ye pass À la Crosse?”

“Oui, heet destroy!” Jules said quietly, looking at the big Scotchman.

“Ah-ha! that’s fine; we’ll show that Nor’west Company that we can push ’em out. Did ye see any pairson gettin’ awa’?” he asked then.

“Non, M’sieu’ le Facteur.”

“Weel, tell me, did ye know aught o’ a mon somewhaire downe in that deestrict called—Let me see; Le Pendu was here last week and told me his name—Verbox, Verbax, something like that?”

“Oui, Ah know heem; he leeve au sud long way h’off,” Jules answered, and the gray eyes snapped.

“Weel, ye go an’ get ye summat to eat, but ye’ll have to pay me in furs!” The factor looked keenly at the big French-Canadian before him.

“Certainement!” Jules answered, and went out of the store. A voyageur showed him to the supply-house, and he got some pemmican, tea and bread, and a blanket. Then he cooked himself a meal at one of the tepee fires and ate long, but slowly and carefully. When he had finished, he went over and squatted silently with a group of Indian trappers and Canadian voyageurs. He was tired out, but his long sufferings seemed dulled; he rested and listened to the low, monotonous hum of the rough voices about him, rarely speaking himself. A French trapper took pity on the haggard face, and when one by one the crowd turned in, he touched Jules on the arm.

“S’lip lÀ-bas!” he said, pointing to a tepee across the stockade. Jules bowed his head. “Merci!” he said, and went to his new friend’s camp.

It was a big tepee; the circular interior was covered with skins, and wolf-hides were patched together for a floor. The light consisted of three fat candles held up by sticks; they fluttered and flickered at the draft the two men created on entering. In one corner was an Indian girl of the Ojibway type. She rose as they came in, and Jules sighed to himself as he saw two children asleep together. The girl was tall and graceful, with almond black eyes, like those of a deer; long, straight black hair fell away from each side of her small head, and the yellow, uncertain light shone dreamily over the delicately browned face; the high, straight nose threw a shadow on her cheek, and the small, well-shaped chin was gracefully poised over the slender throat. She stood shyly by her husband, and the small hand crept into his big one.

“Un ami!” he said, nodding toward Jules, who stood by the blanketed entrance.

“Ni-coun-is [Friend],” she repeated softly, and sat down by the children.

The man turned to Jules. “Mon nom Jean Cuchoise,” he said.

Verbaux looked at him keenly for a moment, then, “Mon nom Jules Verbaux!” His voice was quiet.

Cuchoise started violently. “Verbaux?” he asked, and a deep frown came over his heavy face. “Le Pendu he tell to me dat he keel Verbaux five day gon’ at Lac des Sables.”

“He no tell to le facteur dat,” Jules said.

“You tell to M’sieu’ Neelson ton nom Verbaux?” Cuchoise asked him.

Jules smiled and shook his head. “Non!”

The two men faced each other; the girl watched with stoic eyes, and the children slept on peacefully.

“Bon!” Cuchoise said at last. “Verbaux, you confie en moi, Jean Cuchoise, Ah no tell heet to le facteur.”

When he had finished, the voyageur stretched himself on a bed of skins. “Bon soi’, Verbaux,” he said, and was soon asleep.

Jules unfolded his blanket, spread it across some boughs, and in a few minutes he too slept. The girl arranged her bed beside the little ones, blew out the candles, and silence came on everything.