“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?”

“Ba 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.

“Ba 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 nothing with me; but out at the front I am very rich.  I will give you a hundred dollars, if you will help me to get away.”

“I can’ do eet,” smiled Picard.

“Why not?”

“Ole man he fin’ dat out.  He is wan devil, dat ole man.  I lak firs’-rate help you; I lak’ dat hundred dollar.  On Ojibway countree dey make hees nam’ Wagosh—­dat mean fox.  He know everyt’ing.”

“I’ll make it two hundred—­three hundred—­five hundred.”

“W’at you wan’ me do?” hesitated Achille Picard at the last figure.

“Get me a rifle and some cartridges.”

The half-breed rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled a deep breath.

“I can’ do eet,” he declared.  “I can’ do eet for t’ousand dollar—­ten t’ousand.  I don’t t’ink you fin’ anywan on dis settlement w’at can dare do eet.  He is wan devil.  He’s count all de carabine on dis pos’, an’ w’en he is mees wan, he fin’ out purty queek who is tak’ heem.”

“Steal one from someone else,” suggested Trent.