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Updated: June 19, 2025
"So Buck Moncrossen sint ye afther me, did he?" "Yes. He said you were a good cook, and I can certainly bear him out in that; but he said that you would only work if you damn good and felt like it, and if you didn't you wouldn't." The old man grinned.
Steadily he plodded onward, and a smile came to his lips as he formulated his plans for the summer, which included the removal of Jeanne from her dangerous proximity to Moncrossen. He would change his hunting-ground, move his lodge up the river, and next season he would supply the camp of M's'u' Bill, whose heart was good, and who would see that no harm came to the girl.
"We are going to beat Moncrossen this year, and every man in the crew has got to help do it and next winter well, Mr. Appleton will have an eye peeled for a man to take Moncrossen's job see?"
The men stared blankly from the speaker to Moncrossen and into each other's faces. Suddenly, one stepped forward. "Look in the storeroom!" he cried. "A little while back it was at night I seen 'em drag somethin' in him an' Larson of the van." At the words, Moncrossen sprang toward the speaker with an inarticulate growl of rage.
At last, with his face beaten to a crimson pulp, Moncrossen sagged to his knees, tried to rise, and crashed limp and lifeless to the ground. And over him stood Bill Carmody, smiling down at the broken and battered wreck of the bad man of the logs.
See! It is not the face of Moncrossen, but of the great chechako of whom Jacques told us. The man who is hated of Moncrossen. Who killed Diablesse, the loup-garou, with a knife.
When I am through, Moncrossen, you won't be worth licking no ten-year-old boy will think it worth his while to step out of his way to slap your dirty face." With a hoarse bellow, Moncrossen launched himself at the speaker. And just at that moment swarming over the bank at the rollways came the men of the upper drive. The leaders paused, and sizing up the situation, came on at a run.
"An' ye say Misther Appleton sint ye up to wor-rk in Moncrossen's camp?" The two were seated on the log bunk at the back of the sled while the Frenchman drove, keeping a fearful eye on the white wolf. For old man Frontenelle had been his uncle. "Yes, he told me to report here." "D'ye know Moncrossen?" "No." "Well, ye will, ag'in' shpring," Irish replied dryly. "What do you mean?" asked Bill.
You may trust Jacques as you trust me. For we are your friends, and his hatred of Moncrossen is a real hatred." She raised her eyes to his. "Do you know why Jacques hates Moncrossen, and why Wa-ha-ta-na-ta hates all white men?" she asked. Bill shook his head and listened as the girl, with blazing eyes, told him of the death of Pierre, and then, of the horror of that night on Broken Knee.
In the framing of Bill Carmody, Stromberg had no part. Moncrossen could not fathom the big Swede, upon whose judgment and acumen he had come to rely in the matter of handling and disposing of the stolen timber. Several times during the winter he had tentatively broached plans and insinuated means whereby the Swede could "accidentally" remove his swamper from their path.
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