, outlaw, grounded his canoe on the sand beach at Ptarmigan Lake House, leaped into the water, and swung the woman in the bow to the shore. Leaving her to hold off with a whip the threatening post huskies from his own two dogs snarling defiance from the canoe, he went up to the trade-house. Entering the whitewashed log store, the tall Frenchman found Campbell, the factor, alone.
"Bon jour!" said Hertel, shaking hands.
"Good day!" coldly returned the Scotchman, eyeing the stranger with frankly curious gaze, for French trappers were rare so far north as the Ptarmigan Lake country. When Hertel offered Canadian paper money in payment for tea, sugar, and flour, the factor's interest was further aroused.
"You've come far," suggested Campbell, fingering the bill Hertel handed him.
"Yes, we travel sence June."
"Where are you headin'?"
"I t'ink I traverse dees countree for trappin'-groun'."
"Oh!" The thick eyebrows of Campbell rose.
"Ever travel this country before?"
"No, I alway' hunt de Height-of-Land countree. Saint M'rees water."
"What brought you so far north, then?" the factor quickly demanded, believing that he knew why this stranger had journeyed to the James Bay watershed, for in his desk lay a letter six months old warning the northern posts to keep a lookout for one François Hertel, wanted for murder at Coocoocache, on the Saint Maurice.
François Hertel shrugged his wide shoulders, looking Campbell fair in the eyes.
"I keel a man las' year at Coocoocache," he said quietly.
"You are François Hertel?" asked the factor, amazed at the admission.
"Yes, I keel de man who burn de cabane and tak' ma wife. Dey hunt me tru de long snow from de Saint M'rees to Grand Lac, but dey not tak' François Hertel. Dees spring I fin' her. She ees out dere wid de canoe."
Hertel pointed through the door to the shore, then turned fiercely upon the factor.
"De man I keel cum lak' de wolf in de night to tak' ma wife. Wat would you do?"
The frankness of the voyageur carried with it the aroma of truth. The factor knew men in the rough, and this one shaped up square; or else he was playing a game too subtle for the Scotchman's understanding. Still, the orders from Ottawa received in the Christmas mail were not to be lightly ignored.
"Hertel, if what you say is so, I don't blame you for getting your man and taking to the bush. But if it leaks out to Ottawa that you are trading here, I'm in a pretty mess."
"At Ottawa I am dead man," and Hertel handed the factor a soiled envelope. Campbell took from the envelope two folded sheets of paper. On the first was written:
Campbell was plainly mystified. Then he opened the other note. It was dated at Coocoocache on a letter-head of the Hudson's Bay Company, and ran as follows:
"Well, if Jock McCready says you're all right, Hertel, it's good enough for me," said Campbell, returning the envelope. "I've put in some good years with old Jock at Fort Chimo and the Fading Waters. But you'll have to pass as Pierre Chapleau at the post here, and keep away when the Crees are in for the trade. It won't do to have it leak out to Rupert House that you're here."
"T'anks, Meester Cameel, I understan'," and the Frenchman gripped the factor's hand.
"Now, you'll have to hurry to cruise out good trappin'-grounds and net whitefish for your dogs."
"De free fur-countree ees far from here?"
"The best of it is; some of my Crees trap clear over on Nottaway waters. You'll have to move lively to get your shack built before the freeze-up. And mind you keep off trapped grounds. The Crees will wipe you out if you don't."
Hertel smiled good-naturedly at the warning. He knew only too well the law of the fur-country that there shall be no trespass in another's valleys.
"Oh, by the way!" continued Campbell, "if you're not afraid of Windigo, Injun-devils, and such nonsense, there's a country over west that old Joe, my head man, can tell you about. You won't be running into any of the Crees over there; they won't go near it; they say it's full of evil spirits,"
Hertel's keen face lighted with interest.
"Were ees dees countree?"
"It lies four or five days' travel straight west, on Harricanaw waters. The Cree name for this branch is Devil's River. I'll call Tom; he started to trap it once, but was almost scared to death and quit."
Presently a wrinkled Cree, aged in the Company's service, was smoking a pipe with Hertel and the factor.
"You know the trail to the valley of the Windigo, Tom?"
The Indian looked suspiciously at the two men, then nodded gravely.
"Good huntin'-ground? No Injun trap that valley?"