For Ronald the Indian fishing camp had no particular attraction, and he started to walk around the bay to the place where Jean's canoe was beached. On the way he climbed a bluff a little back from the water, and lingered to eat his fill of the ripe wild raspberries that grew along the top. As he pushed his way through the brush, he heard the sound of voices from the beach below and recognized the harsh, rough tones of Le Forgeron. Just why he turned and went to the edge of the bluff in the direction of the voices, Ronald did not know. Instinct seemed to tell him that the Twisted Blacksmith was up to some mischief. Parting the bushes, he looked down on an Indian lodge. He was surprised to see a wigwam in that place, for it was at least a quarter of a mile from the point where the temporary village stood. Near the wigwam Le Forgeron was sitting cross-legged on a blanket, smoking at his ease, while a squaw, bending over a small cooking fire, was preparing food for him, venison, the boy's nose told him, as the savory odor rose on the wind.
"Make haste there, thou daughter of a pig," the Blacksmith was saying roughly, "and take care that the meat is not burned or underdone or I will burn thee alive in thine own fire."
The Indian woman shrank back as if frightened, and, as she turned her head, Ronald saw that she was old and withered, and, from the way she groped about, he judged her to be nearly if not quite blind. She made a motion to withdraw from the fire the piece of venison she was broiling on a wooden spit, that rested on two sticks driven into the ground, but, whether through fear or blindness, she struck the stick with her hand instead of grasping it, and spit and meat went into the fire.
Le Forgeron uttered an ugly oath and sprang to his feet. "I'll teach you how to broil meat, old witch," he cried. Before Ronald could free himself from the bushes, the Blacksmith had seized the frightened old woman and had thrust her moccasined foot and bare ankle, for she wore no leggings, into the fire. She gave a scream of pain and terror, and Ronald, without pausing to think, launched himself over the edge of the bluff in a flying leap. He landed on the sand close to where the old squaw was struggling in Le Forgeron's grasp, and brought a stout stick, that he had used a few moments before to kill a snake, down on the Blacksmith's neck and shoulder. Surprised at the attack, Le Forgeron flung the squaw from him and turned on the boy, reaching for his knife as he did so. He made a quick lunge at Ronald, who jumped aside just in time and seized him by the arm that held the knife. At the same moment he heard a shout from beyond the lodge and recognized Jean's voice. Ronald, though a strong and sturdy lad, was no match for Le Forgeron, but he hung on to the Frenchman's right arm like a bulldog. The Blacksmith flung his left arm out and around the boy's waist, to crush him in his iron grasp. Ronald heard Jean's shout close by, and then, just as he thought his body would be crushed in the Blacksmith's terrible grip, there came from the top of the bluff a roar like that of a mad bull, and Benoît le Gros launched his great body down on the struggling pair as if to bury them both.