"Achille, you haven't anything against me--do you want me to die?"

The half-breed flashed his white teeth.

"_Bâ non_," he replied, carelessly. "For w'at I want dat you die? I
t'ink you bus' up bad; _vous avez la mauvaise fortune_."

"Listen. I have nothing with me; but out at the front I am very rich.
I will give you a hundred dollars, if you will help me to get away."

"I can' do eet," smiled Picard.

"Why not?"

"Ole man he fin' dat out. He is wan devil, dat ole man. I lak
firs'-rate help you; I lak' dat hundred dollar. On Ojibway countree
dey make hees nam' _Wagosh_--dat mean fox. He know everyt'ing."

"I'll make it two hundred--three hundred--five hundred."

"W'at you wan' me do?" hesitated Achille Picard at the last figure.

"Get me a rifle and some cartridges."

The half-breed rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled a deep
breath.

"I can' do eet," he declared. "I can' do eet for t'ousand dollar--ten
t'ousand. I don't t'ink you fin' anywan on dis settlement w'at can