' arrow. Dat's not beeg chance. You mus' geev dose
_coureurs de bois_ de sleep w'en you arrive. _Voila_, I geev you my
knife!"

He glanced rapidly to right and left, then slipped a small object into
the stranger's hand.

"_Ba_, I t'ink does ole man is know dat. I t'ink he kip you here till
tam w'en dose _perdrix_ and duck is all grow up beeg' nuff so he can
fly."

"I'm not watched," said the young man in eager tones; "I'll slip away
to-night."

"Dat no good," objected Picard. "W'at you do? S'pose you do dat, dose
_coureurs_ keel you _toute suite_. Dey is have good excuse, an' you is
have nothing to mak' de fight. You sleep away, and dose ole man is
sen' out plaintee Injun. Dey is fine you sure. _Ba_, eef he _sen'_ you
out, den he sen' onlee two Injun. Maybee you fight dem; I don' know.
_Non, mon ami_, eef you is wan' get away w'en dose ole man he don'
know eet, you mus' have dose carabine. Den you is have wan leetle
chance. _Ba_, eef you is not have heem dose carabine, you mus' need
dose leetle grub he geev you, and not plaintee Injun follow you, onlee
two."

"And I cannot get the rifle."

"An' dose ole man is don' sen' you out till eet is too late for mak'
de grub on de fores'. Dat's w'at I t'ink. Dat ees not fonny for you."

Ned Trent's eyes were almost black with thought. Suddenly he threw his
head up.

"I'll make him send me out now," he asserted confidently.

"How you mak' eet him?"

"I'll talk turkey to him till he's so mad he can't see straight. Then
maybe he'll send me out right away."

"How you mak' eet him so mad?" inquired Picard, with mild curiosity.

"Never you mind--I'll do it."

"_Ba oui_," ruminated Picard, "He is get mad pret' queeck. I t'ink
p'raps dat plan he go all right. You was get heem mad plaintee easy.
Den maybee he is sen' you out _toute suite_--maybee he is shoot you."

"I'll take the chances--my friend."

"_Ba oui_," shrugged Achille Picard, "eet is wan chance."

He commenced to roll another cigarette.

_Chapter Five_

Having sat buried in thought for a full five minutes after the traders
of the winter posts had left him, Galen Albret thrust back his chair
and walked into a room, long, low, and heavily raftered, strikingly
unlike the Council Room. Its floor was overlaid with dark rugs; a
piano of ancient model filled one corner; pictures and books broke the
wall; the lamps and the windows were shaded; a woman's work-basket and
a tea-set occupied a large table.