For the first time St. Pierre’s placidity seemed to leave him. His brow became clouded, a moment’s frown grew in his face, and there was a certain disconsolate hopelessness in the shrug of his shoulders. It was as if Carrigan’s words had suddenly robbed the day of all its sunshine for the chief of the Boulains. His voice, too, carried an unhappy and disappointed note as he made a gesture toward the window.
“M’sieu, on that raft out there are many of my men, and they have scarcely rested or slept since word was brought to them that a stranger was to fight Concombre Bateese. Tonnerre, they have gambled without ever seeing you until the clothes on their backs are in the hazard, and they have cracked their muscles in labor to overtake you! They have prayed away their very souls that it would be a good fight, and that Bateese would not eat you up too quickly. It has been a long time since we have seen a good fight, a long time since the last man dared to stand up against the half-breed. Ugh, it tears out my heart to tell you that the fight can not be!”
St. Pierre made no effort to suppress his emotion. He was like a huge, disappointed boy. He walked to the window, peered forth at the raft, and as he shrugged his big shoulders again something like a groan came from him.
The thrill of approaching triumph swept through David’s blood. The flame of it was in his eyes when St. Pierre turned from the window.
“And you are disappointed, St. Pierre? You would like to see that fight!”
The blue steel in St. Pierre’s eyes flashed back. “If the price were a year of my life, I would give it—if Bateese did not eat you up too quickly. I love to look upon a good fight, where there is no venom of hatred in the blows!”
“Then you shall see a good fight, St. Pierre.”
“Bateese would kill you, m’sieu. You are not big. You are not his match.”
“I shall whip him, St. Pierre—whip him until he avows me his master.”
“You do not know the half-breed, m’sieu. Twice I have tried him in friendly combat myself and have been beaten.”
“But I shall whip him,” repeated Carrigan. “I will wager you anything—anything in the world—even life against life—that I whip him!”
The gloom had faded from the face of St. Pierre Boulain. But in a moment it clouded again.
“My Jeanne has made me promise that I will stop the fight,” he said.
“And why—why should she insist in a matter such as this, which properly should be settled among men?” asked David.
Again St. Pierre laughed; with an effort, it seemed, “She is gentle-hearted, m’sieu. She laughed and thought it quite a joke when Bateese humbled me. ’What! My great St. Pierre, with the blood of old France in his veins, beaten by a man who has been named after a vegetable!’ she cried. I tell you she was merry over it, m’sieu! She laughed until the tears came into her eyes. But with you it is different. She was white when she entreated me not to let you fight Bateese. Yes, she is afraid you will be badly hurt. And she does not want to see you hurt again. But I tell you that I am not jealous, m’sieu! She does not try to hide things from me. She tells me everything, like a little child. And so—”