The Dumonts, however, did not trouble him.  After all, Tannis’ four years in Prince Albert had not been altogether wasted.  She knew that white girls did not mix their male relatives up in a vendetta when a man ceased calling on them—­and she had nothing else to complain of that could be put in words.  After some reflection she concluded to hold her tongue.  She even laughed when old Auguste asked her what was up between her and her fellow, and said she had grown tired of him.  Old Auguste shrugged his shoulders resignedly.  It was just as well, maybe.  Those English sons-in-law sometimes gave themselves too many airs.

So Carey rode often to town and Tannis bided her time, and plotted futile schemes of revenge, and Lazarre Merimee scowled and got drunk—­and life went on at the Flats as usual, until the last week in October, when a big wind and rainstorm swept over the northland.

It was a bad night.  The wires were down between the Flats and Prince Albert and all communication with the outside world was cut off.  Over at Joe Esquint’s the breeds were having a carouse in honor of Joe’s birthday.  Paul Dumont had gone over, and Carey was alone in the office, smoking lazily and dreaming of Elinor.

Suddenly, above the plash of rain and whistle of wind, he heard outcries in the street.  Running to the door he was met by Mrs. Joe Esquint, who grasped him breathlessly.

“Meestair Carey—­come quick!  Lazarre, he kill Paul—­they fight!”

Carey, with a smothered oath, rushed across the street.  He had been afraid of something of the sort, and had advised Paul not to go, for those half-breed carouses almost always ended in a free fight.  He burst into the kitchen at Joe Esquint’s, to find a circle of mute spectators ranged around the room and Paul and Lazarre in a clinch in the center.  Carey was relieved to find it was only an affair of fists.  He promptly hurled himself at the combatants and dragged Paul away, while Mrs. Joe Esquint—­Joe himself being dead-drunk in a corner—­flung her fat arms about Lazarre and held him back.

“Stop this,” said Carey sternly.

“Let me get at him,” foamed Paul.  “He insulted my sister.  He said that you—­let me get at him!”

He could not writhe free from Carey’s iron grip.  Lazarre, with a snarl like a wolf, sent Mrs. Joe spinning, and rushed at Paul.  Carey struck out as best he could, and Lazarre went reeling back against the table.  It went over with a crash and the light went out!

Mrs. Joe’s shrieks might have brought the roof down.  In the confusion that ensued, two pistol shots rang out sharply.  There was a cry, a groan, a fall—­then a rush for the door.  When Mrs. Joe Esquint’s sister-in-law, Marie, dashed in with another lamp, Mrs. Joe was still shrieking, Paul Dumont was leaning sickly against the wall with a dangling arm, and Carey lay face downward on the floor, with blood trickling from under him.