Jules advanced more warily now; he came to the big clearing, and saw the post buildings before him. He watched long and carefully. The smoke from the long chimneys rose lazily in the still air, and the company flag drooped listlessly at its mast. A few children played and romped in and out of the stockade gate, which stood wide open. Outside the yard was a group of Indian _tepees_, picturesque and silent. At intervals he heard the sound of women’s voices coming from the buildings, but the place was deserted of men and dogs.
Jules watched some time longer; then he advanced boldly across the open, entered the yard, took off his snow-shoes, went up the steps of the store, opened the door, and walked in. An old Indian was arranging some blankets on the counter with shaking hands; hearing the door open, he looked up, then started back in dismay. “Ju-ules Ver-baux!” he whispered.
“Bon jou’, Maquette,” said Jules, quietly. “Le facteur, où est-il?”
The old man nodded to a door in the rear. “Là-bas.” He followed Jules with frightened eyes as the latter rapped on the indicated door.
“Coom in, Maquette. Whut the divil ails ye now, ye dodderin’ old—Verbaux!” The factor ended with a snarl as Jules stepped in, closing the door after him.
“Jules Verbaux, M’sieu’ le Facteur; Ah hear you vant me; Ah come.” He moved quietly between the factor, who was at his desk, and a rifle that his keen eyes saw in a corner.
“Ye plundherin’ thafe!” the factor said, with an oath; “how’d ye know there wasn’t a man on the posht? I’ll—I’ll take ye wid me own hands, so I wull!” he shouted and leaped from his chair.
A long knife appeared suddenly in Jules’s hand, and an ugly glint came into the gray eyes as he answered:
“No so fas’, M’sieu’ le Facteur; no so fas’. Ah vant talk veet’ you vone leet’ first, s’il vous plait.”
The factor saw the glint on the knife and the glint in the eyes, and realised that both were dangerous, so he sat down again, looking round for some available weapon. “Go on,” he growled; “I’ll get the life-blood out o’ ye fer this, ye divil!”
“V’y you ’ave you’ Indians hont Jules lak’ a chien? V’y you no let Jules trap in peac’? V’y for you geeve hordaire’ zat les Indians zey burn mes leet’ huts? V’y for you vant ma vie?” Jules asked these questions slowly, as he faced the infuriated Irishman without a tremor.