“I’ll show ye whut fer, ye half-breed whelp!” And the factor started up again.
“Pas encore, M’sieu’ le Facteur! You bes’ rester tranquille an’ hear vat Jules Verbaux ’ave to say.” The insult—that he, Verbaux, a pure French-Canadian, had Indian blood in him—roused Jules to fierce though suppressed rage; the swarthy face paled under the bronze, and his breath came and went with little hissing sounds.
“Ah demand zat you veel geeve hordaire’ to your Indians to leave Jules halon’; la territoire du Nord ees zat h’of le bon Dieu. He geeve to us zat territoire to mak’ hont; he no geeve eet to la compagnie for deir h’own.”
The factor swore a string of horrible oaths, cursing the man before him.
“I’ll have the hearrrt from your dirty carcass to pay fer this, see if I don’t!” he finished.
“You no haccep’ vat Jules say, M’sieu’ le Facteur?”
There was a note of warning in the low-spoken words, but the factor was too wild with fury to notice it.
“I’ll accept nawthing but your life,——ye!—your life; an’ I’ll get it if I have to hound ye outen the country to do it!” he screamed.
“Ver’ good! How’ hup your han’s!” In a second Jules had seized the rifle behind him and was pointing it at the factor’s heart.
“Ye would n’t murther me in cowld blood, would ye?” The cowardly bully was afraid, as he held his hands over his head.
“Non, M’sieu’ le Facteur; mais Ah ’m goin’ show your Indians ’Ow Jules tak’ deir facteur, ’stead of deir facteur tak’ Jules! Stan’ hup an’ marche!” Jules motioned to the door.
With the abject fear of death in his eyes, the Irishman stumbled to the door and lowered his hands to open it.
“How’ hup han’s! Call Maquette!” came the sharp order.
The captive refused to speak, so Jules called the Indian himself. Maquette came and opened the door.
“Quick, Maquette! Hit him with an axe; he can’t watch the both of us!” said the factor.
Jules spoke again: “Maquette, your faddaire an’ my faddaire dey mak’ la chasse togedder lon’ before dees compagnie she comme een our territoire; Maquette, Jules no vant hurrt the son h’of hees faddaire’s fr’en’. You go h’out, Maquette, n’est-ce pas?”
The old man turned, and went out of the store.
“Marche, M’sieu’ le Facteur; en avant!” The incongruous pair went down the steps and out into the yard; Jules deftly picked up his snow-shoes, and the factor tried to turn off at the gate.