When Jules left Fond du Lac he intended to strike off south of east back to his own country, but something forced him to go across Bear Lake. He reached the wooded island and looked back. At the edge of the lake, four miles away, he saw many specks coming toward him fast. “Dat fille, she tell!” he ejaculated, and thought a moment, then hurried on round the base of the woods, keeping on the ice and making a broad trail. Half-way round he took off his snow-shoes under a big pine, then pulled himself up carefully in the branches. He worked his way, swinging from tree to tree, for a hundred yards, then dropped lightly, ran to the other side of the island, and crawled under some thick young spruce.

Voices came in a few minutes, and he saw the Indians stop in front of him and wait for those that came on behind. When all were together, they crept forward carefully in a mass on his trail, and disappeared round the point of the woods.

Jules waited a few moments longer, then darted with wonderful speed across to the mainland, half a mile away. Under cover of its protecting shadows he laughed, put on the snow-shoes again, and travelled on, following the dense timber by the edge of the lake. He looked across and saw the Indians hunting about and gesticulating under the pine that he had climbed. He laughed again. “You h’all no catch Jules Verbaux,” he said grimly.

In a little while Petite RiviÈre de l’Ours (Little Bear River) twined its way at his feet to the southward. The cold roar of rushing waters filled the quiet air. Just below, a quick water was open, and the freezing current dashed on among rocks and ice banks, the silver crest of each rapid wavelet shining with a thousand sparkles in the afternoon sunlight. Jules went down on the ice to where the live water came from under the snow, took the thonged hoops from his feet, slung them over his back, and stepped into the chilling flow.

“Ugh!” he said as it penetrated instantly to the bone with numbing effect. It was not deep,—just over his knees,—and he walked on down, keeping close to the banks, out of the strongest current. The water was ice free for a quarter of a mile, and when he stepped out of it and put on his snow-shoes his legs ached with the cold. “B’en! Comme den, vous autres, fin’ Jules’s track, hein?” he said aloud, and went on into the forests, stamping his feet vigorously and sending up myriads of snow particles that eddied lightly in his wake, then settled again on the crust.

Meanwhile Cuchoise hurried over toward the island; the others had disappeared on the far side. “Ah sauf Verbaux!” he muttered, and changed his course, going straight up the lake instead of across the lower end. He travelled on fast, looking often over his shoulder; no one in sight, he slowed up.

“Sa-ner!” shouted a Cree. He had come through the upper end of the woods on the island, and saw the figure in the distance on the lake. The cry was taken up by a score of throats; the rest gave up the search for tracks and raced on madly after Cuchoise. He saw them coming at last, and took off his tasselled cap. “Ah t’ink dey know dat,” he said, and laughed to himself as he thought how easily he had drawn the pursuit upon himself and given Verbaux a chance to get away.

He increased his speed, edging toward the forest on the left. When he came to it he stopped. Behind him, a mile away, came the Indians, travelling swiftly over the snow-covered ice. Cuchoise chuckled and went into the sombre depths. The afternoon light was fading and it was dim there under the shadowing trees. He kept on for another mile, then sat down on a log. “VoilÀ! V’en dey comme, Jean Cuchoise he mak’ rire!” he said, and waited. It grew darker and darker; the tree trunks lost their shapes at fifty yards. A faint clicking came from beyond, and Jean smiled broadly as he thought of his companions’ discomfiture. Then the sound ceased, all was still. “Serpent! TraÎtre!” Cuchoise said to himself as he thought of the girl.

Then an awful pain came; he fell from the log, writhing and doubling on the snow, that reddened slowly under him. “Finis!” he groaned weakly; his head fell limp, blood gushed from his mouth, the kindly eyes dulled and became set. The heavy, strong body quivered a moment, then relaxed inertly.

An Indian strode up, rifle in hand; behind him came others, sneaking closer and closer. They stopped when they saw the dim shape lying on the blood-blackened white.

“Me-on-wash-in! [Good!]” said the Cree who had fired. A voyageur went forward and turned the stiffening body over with his foot. “Dieu!” He started in alarm. The rest crowded about, saw, took off their caps slowly, and were silent. Everything was quiet; the men stood about the dead form; the Cree shivered and shook, but no one spoke. The northern twilight was at its height and the distant light shone but little on the death scene. Then somewhere in the black woods a lynx shrieked; the rasping, curdling sound echoed and re-echoed in the crisp air. A Canadian spoke slowly. “No tell le facteur dees!” he said, looking at his companions. They shook their heads, and the Cree who had done the killing was still. Silently the men knelt and dug a hole through the crust and deep into the snow, boring it out with their bare hands. They dug till the hard, frozen ground was reached, then reverently they lifted the body of Jean Cuchoise, lowered it carefully, pushed the cold white feathery sod over it, and stamped it down. Then they dragged up logs and big branches and piled them over the freezing grave, so that the wolves should not dig where they had dug and find what they had buried there. Each man crossed himself and muttered the Ave Maria; then they made off silently through the dense shadows.