“Bien!  Then I tell you w’at Concombre Bateese ees goin’ do wit’ you, M’sieu Sergent de Police!  Ma belle Jeanne she mak’ wan gran’ meestake.  She too much leetle bird heart, too much pity for want you to die.  Bateese say, ’Keel him, so no wan know w’at happen t’ree day ago behin’ ze rock.’  But ma belle Jeanne, she say, ’No, Bateese, he ees meestake for oder man, an’ we mus’ let heem live.’  An’ then she tell me to come an’ bring you feesh, an’ tell you w’at is goin’ happen if you try go away from thees bateau.  You compren’?  If you try run away, Bateese ees goin’ keel you!  See—­ wit’ thees han’s I br’ak your neck an’ t’row you in river.  Ma belle Jeanne say do zat, an’ she tell oder mans-twent’, thirt’, almos’ hundre’ GARCONS—­to keel you if you try run away.  She tell me bring zat word to you wit’ ze feesh.  You listen hard w’at I say?”

If ever a worker of iniquity lived on earth, Carrigan might have judged Bateese as that man in these moments.  The half-breed had worked himself up to a ferocious pitch.  His eyes rolled.  His wide mouth snarled in the virulence of its speech.  His thick neck grew corded, and his huge hands clenched menacingly upon the table.  Yet David had no fear.  He wanted to laugh, but he knew laughter would be the deadliest of insults to Bateese just now.  He remembered that the half-breed, fierce as a pirate, had a touch as gentle as a woman’s.  This man, who could choke an ox with his monstrous hands, had a moment before petted a cat, straightened out rugs, watered the woman’s flowers, and had dusted.  He was harmless—­now.  And yet in the same breath David sensed the fact that a single word from St. Pierre’s wife would be sufficient to fire his brute strength into a blazing volcano of action.  Such a henchman was priceless—­under certain conditions!  And he had brought a warning straight from the woman.

“I think I understand what you mean, Bateese,” he said.  “She says that I am to make no effort to leave this bateau—­that I am to be killed if I try to escape?  Are you sure she said that?”

“Par Les Mille Cornes Du Diable, you t’ink Bateese lie, m’sieu?  Concombre Bateese, who choke ze w’ite bear wit’ hees two ban’, who pull down ze tree—­”

“No, no, I don’t think you lie.  But I am wondering why she didn’t tell me that when she was here.”

“Becaus’ she have too much leetle bird heart, zat ees w’y.  She say:  ‘Bateese, you tell heem he mus’ wait for St. Pierre.  An’ you tell heem good an’ hard, lak you choke ze w’ite bear an’ lak you pull down ze tree, so he mak’ no meestake an’ try get away.’  An’ she tell zat before all ze BATELIERS—­all ze St. Pierre mans gathered ‘bout a beeg fire—­an’ they shout up lak wan gargon that they watch an’ keel you if you try get away.”

Carrigan reached out a hand.  “Let’s shake, Bateese.  I’ll give you my word that I won’t try to escape—­not until you and I have a good stand-up fight with the earth under our feet, and I’ve whipped you.  Is it a go?”