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Updated: June 26, 2025
It was Bois DesCaut, and he did not lift his evil eyes. The white lack on his temple gleamed with a sinister distinctness amid his black hair. "Double foe," thought McElroy; "I am to pay for my own words and Maren's blow." As the trapper passed he sidled swiftly near the Nor'wester and something dropped from a legstrap.
Silence of the young day hung in the palisade, a silence that cut the soul with its tragic portent. Even little Francette Moline, weeping openly, pressed close in the mass and jerked with unconscious savagery of spirit the short ears of the husky at her heels, that Loup whom no man dared to touch save only the master his fierce spirit must needs acknowledge. It had been DesCaut by brutality.
Scattered, here and there among the braves were many Bois-Brules, lean Runners of the Burnt Woods, belonging she knew to the North-west Company. Also in that moment she saw the frowning face and ugly eyes of Bois DesCaut beneath the white lock on his temple. Long afterward was the girl to recall that evening scene.
At the forks of Red River they passed the signs of a landing. Here had the Indians summarily sent ashore all of the Nor'westers who had been with De Courtenay and who had followed in the uncertainty of fear, not daring to desert lest they be overtaken and massacred. All, that is, save Bois DesCaut and the lean, hawk-faced Runners of the Burnt Woods.
At this there was commotion among the Indians. A hurried consultation took place, with indrawing of canoes under the flambeaux, waving arms, and angry gestures. "Then, M'sieu, we come, make way!" It was DesCaut, important and ugly. "No, ye don't, me lad. Shwing back The Little Devil, bhoys!"
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