stood between the boots and his client, and responded with
open cordiality. A voyageur who gave flesh and bone and sometimes life
itself for a hundred dollars a year, and drank that hundred dollars up
during his month of semi-civilization on Mackinac, seldom had much about
him with which to pay for his necessary mending.

Leon Baudette swore at the price, being a discontented engage. But the
foot-wear he was obliged to have, being secretly determined to desert
to Canada before the boats went out. You may see his name marked as a
deserter in the Fur Company's books at Mackinac Island. So, reluctantly
counting out the money, he put on his shoes and crossed his legs to
smoke and chat, occupying the visitor's seat. Owen put his kettle to
boil, and sat down also to enjoy society; for why should man be hurried?

He learned how many fights had been fought that day; how many bales
of furs were packed in the Company's yard; that Etienne St. Martin was
trying to ship with the Northern instead of the Illinois Brigade,
on account of a grudge against Charle' Charette. He learned that the
Indians were having snake and medicine dances to cure a consumptive
chief. And, to his surprise, he learned that he was considered a
medicine-man among the tribes, on account of his living unmolested in
the Devil's Kitchen.

"O oui," declared Leon. "You de wizard. You only play you mend de shoe;
but, by gar, you make de poor voyageur pay de same like it was work! I
hear dey call you Big Medicine of de Cuisine Diable."

Owen was compelled to smile with pleasure at his importance, his long
upper lip lifting its unshaven bristles in a white curd.

"Do ye moind, Leen me boy, a haythen Injun lady by the name of
Blackbird?"

"Me, I know Blackbird," responded Leon Bau-dette.

"Is the consoompted chafe that they're makin' the snake shindy for
married on her?"

"No, no. Blackbird she wife of Jean Magliss in de winter camps."

"John McGillis? Is it for marry in' on a haythen wife he is?"

"O oui. Two wives. One good Cat'olique. Jean Magliss, he dance every
night now with Amable Morin's girl. The more weddings, the more dancing.
Me," Leon shrugged, "I no want a woman eating my wages in Mackinac. A
squaw in the winter camps--'t assez."

"Two wives, the bog-trotter!" gulped Owen. "John McGillis is a
blayguard!"

"Oui, what you call Irish," assented Leon; and he dodged, but the
cobbler threw nothing at him. Owen marked with the awl on his own
leath