It was covered with a fine light wicker weave, of the
same pattern as that jug which De Courtenay had left at the post gate
that morning in early spring.
"Ridgar," said the factor, showing the thing to him, "our friend from
Montreal is taking a high hand with the country. The freedom of the
wild has gone to his head."
Indeed it seemed as though that were true, for the tales of the
reckless doings of that post of the Nor'westers on the Saskatchewan
over which De Courtenay presided became more frequent and always they
were characterised by a wildness and folly that were only exceeded by
their daring.
The young adventurer had already made a headlong sally into the fringes
of that country which came too near his Tom-Thumb garrison, and along
which roving bands of the sullen Blackfeet trailed with a watching eye
on the white men at the forts, and returned without two of those long
curls of which he was so proud, a spear-head pinning them in the trunk
of a tree which happened to form a convenient background.
To add to the small resentment against him which began to rankle in
McElroy's heart, and which had never really left it since that evening
in De Seviere when Maren Le Moyne had passed behind the cabin of the
Savilles with some voyageur's tot on her shoulder and the handsome
gallant from Montreal had lost his manners staring, one day in this
same week a Bois-Brules came to the post gates and asked for one Maren
Le Moyne.
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