One by one, tired out and disheartened, the trappers gave up the search. As they came back, the factor interviewed each one, inquiring eagerly even for tracks of the man he wanted. The answers were all the same—nothing, absolutely nothing. Then he cursed them for a pack of lazy brutes, and swore that they had not hunted. Nothing more could be done in the matter, so it was dropped.
Whenever there were any Indians on the post, solemn meetings to talk over Verbaux’s strange disappearance took place about the fires in the tepees outside of the stockade. The participants in these meetings would squat in a half-circle, and smoke, smoke, smoke, conversing in low tones. On a certain evening, Tritou, Le Grand, old Maquette, Le Hibou, and a new-comer at the post named Le Bossu because of the hump on his back, were sitting in Le Grand’s tepee. Outside it was snowing hard; the great white flakes dropped so fast that at a distance of twenty feet a man was invisible. The air had a heavy, damp feeling, and Le Grand pulled the blanket which served as a door closer over the tepee entrance.
“Ce Verbaux Ah hear so mooch tell, he beeg homme?” asked Le Bossu, after a long silence.
Le Grand nodded, and the Indians puffed on.
“He know h’all zis territoire, an’ he go fas’ on de snow, hein?” asked Le Bossu again, and they all nodded.
“He ees vone beeg t’ief; he keel Manou, he steal, he ver’ bad!” said Tritou.
“Vone lie, ça!” contradicted Le Grand when Tritou had finished speaking.
The latter looked up quickly. “Vat dat you say, Le Grand?”
“V’y for you say dat moi, Tritou, mak’ vone lie?”
“Nev’ min’ vat for. Ah say you mak’ beeg lie v’en you parler dat vay de Verbaux. Ah say, an’ Ah know vat Ah say.”
Tritou made no comment upon Le Grand’s emphatic speech, and so the conversation lapsed.
Le Bossu stared hard at the fire; then he shook himself, as though waking up.
“Ah goin’ catch dees Verbaux,” he said quietly.
“C’est mon affaire,” answered the new man; “but Ah’m goin’ breeng heem h’alive to la poste.”
Le Grand looked keenly at the speaker; then, as though satisfied with his scrutiny, he chuckled. Nothing more was said, and one by one the trappers got up, wrapped their blankets round them, and passed out into the night and the snow, muttering, “Bon soi’, Le Grand!”