Just as Iowaka had called
upon him to stop and get a second wind, the Malemutes dropped back
upon their haunches where Jan Thoreau lay, twisted and bleeding, in
the snow.
"What is this?" cried Jean.
He caught Jan's limp head and shoulders up in his arms, and called
shrilly to Iowaka, who was disentangling herself from the thick furs
in which he had wrapped her.
"It is the fiddler I told you about, who lives with Williams at Post
Lac Bain!" he shouted excitedly in Cree. "He has been murdered! He has
been choked to death, and torn to pieces in the face, as if by an
animal!" Jean's eyes roved about as Iowaka kneeled beside him. "What a
fight!" he gasped. "See the footprints--a big man and a small boy, and
the murderer has gone on a sledge!"
"He is warm," said Iowaka. "It may be that he is not dead."
Jean de Gravois sprang to his feet, his little black eyes flashing
with a dangerous fire. In a single leap he was at the side of the
sledge, throwing off the furs and bundles and all other objects except
his rifle.
"He is dead, Iowaka. Look at the purple and black in his face. It is
Jean de Gravois who will catch the murderer, and you will stay here
and make yourself a camp. Hi-o-o-o-o!" he shouted to the Malemutes.
The team twisted sinuously and swiftly in the trail as he sped over
the edge of the mountain.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79