till I
pay you well, richly,--generous always to mine enemy!"

"Very good! Pay when and where you will."

"Pay how I like," snapped Louis.

With that strange contract, his embarrassment seemed to vanish and his
English came back fluently.

"You'd better leave before the warriors return," he said. "They come
home to-morrow!"

"Is Diable among them?"

"No."

"Is Diable here?"

"No." His face clouded as I questioned.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"Will he be back?"

"Dammie! How do I know? He will if he wants to! I don't tell tales on a
man who saved my life."

His answer set me to wondering if Diable had seen me hold back the
trader's murderous hand, when Louis lay drunk, and if the Frenchman's
knowledge of that incident explained his strange generosity now.

"I'll stay here in spite of all the Sioux warriors on earth, till I find
out about that knave of an Indian and his captives," I vowed.

Louis looked at me queerly and gave another whistle.

"You always were a pig-head," said he. "I can keep them from harming
you; but remember, I pay you back in your own coin. And look out for the
daughter of L'Aigle, curse her! She is the only thing I ever fear! Keep
you in my tent! If Le Grand Diable see you----" and Louis touched his
knife-handle significantly.

"Then Diable _is_ here!"

"I not say so," but he flushed at the slip of his tongue and moved
quickly towards what appeared to be his quarters.

"He is coming?" I questioned, suspicious of Louis' veracity.

"Dolt!" said Louis. "Why else do I hide you in my tent? But remember I
pay you back in your own coin afterwards! Ha! There they come!"

A shout of returning hunters arose from the ravine, at which Louis
bounded for the tent on a run, dashing inside breathlessly, I following
close behind.

"Stay you here, inside, mind! Mon Dieu! If you but show your face; 'tis
two white men under one stone-pile! Louis Laplante is a fool--dammie--a
fool--to help you, his enemy, or any other man at his own risk."

With these enigmatical words, the Frenchman hurried out, fastening the
tent flap after him and leaving me to reflect on the wild impulses of
his wayward nature. Was his strange, unwilling generosity the result of
animosity to the big squaw, who seemed to exercise some subtle and
commanding influence over him; or of gratitude to me? Was the noble
blood that coursed in his veins, directing him in spite of his
degenerate tendencies; or had the man