Conjurors House | Page 7

"You do not believe me?"
"Oh, if it amuses you," conceded the stranger.
"The thing is not even worth discussion."
"Remarkable sensation among our friends here for so idle a tale."
Galen Albret considered.
"You will remember that throughout you have forced this interview,"
he pointed out. "Now I must ask your definite promise to get out of this
country and to stay out."
"No," replied Ned Trent.
"Then a means shall be found to make you!" threatened the Factor, his
anger blazing at last.
"Ah," said the stranger softly.
Galen Albret raised his hand and let it fall. The bronzed and gaudily
bedecked men filed out.

Chapter Four
In the open air the men separated in quest of their various families or
friends. The stranger lingered undecided for a moment on the top step

of the veranda, and then wandered down the little street, if street it
could be called where horses there were none. On the left ranged the
square whitewashed houses with their dooryards, the old church, the
workshop. To the right was a broad grass-plot, and then the Moose,
slipping by to the distant offing. Over a little bridge the stranger idled,
looking curiously about him. The great trading-house attracted his
attention, with its narrow picket lane leading to the door; the storehouse
surrounded by a protective log fence; the fort itself, a medley of
heavy-timbered stockades and square block-houses. After a moment he
resumed his strolling. Everywhere he went the people looked at him,
ceasing their varied occupations. No one spoke to him, no one hindered
him. To all intents and purposes he was as free as the air. But all about
the island flowed the barrier of the Moose, and beyond frowned the
wilderness--strong as iron bars to an unarmed man.
Brooding on his imprisonment the Free Trader forgot his surroundings.
The post, the river, the forest, the distant bay faded from his sight, and
he fell into deep reflection. There remained nothing of physical
consciousness but a sense of the grateful spring warmth from the
declining sun. At length he became vaguely aware of something else.
He glanced up. Right by him he saw a handsome French half-breed
sprawled out in the sun against a building, looking him straight in the
face and flashing up at him a friendly smile.
"Hullo," said Achille Picard, "you mus' been 'sleep. I call you two t'ree
tam."
The prisoner seemed to find something grateful in the greeting even
from the enemy's camp. Perhaps it merely happened upon the
psychological moment for a response.
"Hullo," he returned, and seated himself by the man's side, lazily
stretching himself in enjoyment of the reflected heat.
"You is come off Kettle Portage, eh," said Achille, "I t'ink so. You is
come trade dose fur? Eet is bad beez-ness, dis Conjur' House. Ole' man
he no lak' dat you trade dose fur. He's very hard, dat ole man."

"Yes," replied the stranger, "he has got to be, I suppose. This is the
country of la Longue Traverse."
"I beleef you," responded Achille, cheerfully; "w'at you call heem your
nam'?"
"Ned Trent."
"Me Achille--Achille Picard. I capitaine of dose dogs on dat winter
brigade."
"It is a hard post. The winter travel is pretty tough."
"I beleef you."
"Better to take la Longue Traverse in summer, eh?"
"La Longue Traverse--hees not mattaire w'en yo tak' heem."
"Right you are. Have there been men sent out since you came here?"
"Bâ oui. Wan, two, t'ree. I don' remember. I t'ink Jo Bagneau. Nobodee
he don' know, but dat ole man an' hees coureurs du bois. He ees wan
ver' great man. Nobodee is know w'at he will do."
"I'm due to hit that trail myself, I suppose," said Ned Trent.
"I have t'ink so," acknowledged Achille, still with a tone of most
engaging cheerfulness.
"Shall I be sent out at once, do you think?"
"I don' know. Sometam' dat ole man ver' queek. Sometam' he ver' slow.
One day Injun mak' heem ver' mad; he let heem go, and shot dat Injun
right off. Noder tam he get mad on one voyageur, but he don' keel
heem queek; he bring heem here, mak' heem stay in dose warm room,
feed heem dose plaintee grub. Purty soon dose voyageur is get fat, is go
sof; he no good for dose trail. Ole man he mak' heem go ver' far off,
mos' to Whale Reever. Eet is plaintee cole. Dat voyageur, he freeze to

hees inside. Dey tell me he feex heem like dat."
"Achille, you haven't anything against me--do you want me to die?"
The half-breed flashed his white teeth.
"Bâ non," he replied, carelessly. "For w'at I want dat you die? I t'ink
you bus' up bad; vous avez la mauvaise fortune."
"Listen. I have