Bitter with the discovery, Marcel drove Fleur over the trail to the
camp. Opening the slab-door he surprised the half-breeds gorging
themselves from a steaming kettle of trout. But hunger had driven them
past all sense of shame. Looking up sullenly, they waited for him to
speak.

"Bon soir, my friends! I see you have had luck at de lines," he
surprised them with. "I have three nice fat beaver for you."

The hollow eyes of Joe and Antoine met in a questioning look. Then
Piquet brazened it out.

"Beaver, eh? Dat soun' good, fat beaver!" and he smacked his thin lips
greedily.

"W'ere you get beaver, Jean?" asked Antoine, now that the tension due to
Jean's appearance had relaxed.

"W'ere I tell you I would fin' dem, nord, een de valley of de spirits,"
he laughed.

Marcel heaped a tin dish from the kettle, and slipping outside, fed
Fleur.

"Here, Fleur!" he called, "ees some of feesh dat Joe has boiled for you.
Wat, you lak' eet bettair raw? Well, Joe he lak' eet boiled."

Returning, Jean ate heartily of the lake trout. When he had finished and
lighted his pipe, he said: "You weel fin' de beaver on de cache. I leeve
een de morning for Salmon riviere country."

"W'at, you goin' leave us, Jean?" cried Antoine visibly disturbed.

"Oui, I don't trap wid t'ief!" The cold eyes of Marcel bored into those
of Beaulieu which wavered and fell. But Piquet accepted the challenge.

"W'at you t'ink, Jean Marcel, you geeve dose feesh to de dog w'en we
starve?" he sullenly demanded. "We eat de dog, also, before we starve."

"You eat de dog, eh, Joe Piquet? Dat ees good joke. You 'av' to keel de
dog and Jean Marcel first, my frien'," sneered Marcel. "I net feesh for
my dog and you not help me but laugh; now you tak' dem from my dog.
Bien! I am tru wid you both! I geeve you de beaver and bid you, bon
jour, to-morrow!"

Antoine was worried, for he knew too well what the loss of Marcel would
mean to them in the days to come. But the sullen Piquet in whom toil and
starvation were bringing to the surface traits common to the half-breed,
treated Marcel's going with seeming indifference.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MARK OF THE BREED

Deep in the night, Marcel waked cold. Lifting his head from the
blankets, his face met an icy draft driving through the open door of the
shack which framed a patch of sky swarming with frozen stars.

Wondering why the door was open, he rose to close it, when the starlight
fell on Piquet's empty bunk