THE VALLEY OF THE WINDIGO
François Hertel, outlaw, grounded his canoe on the sand beach at Ptarmigan Lake House, leaped into the water, and swung the woman in the bow to the shore. Leaving her to hold off with a whip the threatening post huskies from his own two dogs snarling defiance from the canoe, he went up to the trade-house. Entering the whitewashed log store, the tall Frenchman found Campbell, the factor, alone.
"Bon jour!" said Hertel, shaking hands.
"Good day!" coldly returned the Scotchman, eyeing the stranger with frankly curious gaze, for French trappers were rare so far north as the Ptarmigan Lake country. When Hertel offered Canadian paper money in payment for tea, sugar, and flour, the factor's interest was further aroused.
"You've come far," suggested Campbell, fingering the bill Hertel handed him.
"Yes, we travel sence June."
"Where are you headin'?"
"I t'ink I traverse dees countree for trappin'-groun'."
"Oh!" The thick eyebrows of Campbell rose.
"Ever travel this country before?"
"No, I alway' hunt de Height-of-Land countree. Saint M'rees water."
