"'E weel leave weeth W'itey Lewees word of w'ere 'e go," Courvoiseur
reassured her. "An' my man, w'ich ees my bruzzer-law, w'ich I can mos'
fully trus', 'e weel follow 'eem. So Beel 'e ees arrange. 'E ees say
mos' parteecular if madame ees come or weesh for forward message, geet
heem to me queeck. _Oui_. Long tam Beel ees know me. I am for depend
always."
Courvoiseur kept a trader's stock of goods in a weather-beaten old log
house which sprawled a hundred feet back from the street. Thirty
years, he told her, he had kept that store in Fort George. She guessed
that Bill had selected him because he was a fixture. She sat down at
his counter and wrote her message. Just a few terse lines. And when
she had delivered it to Courvoiseur she went back to the hotel. There
was nothing now to do but wait. And with the message under way she
found herself impatient to reach the cabin, to spend the waiting days
where she had first found happiness. She could set her house in order
against her man's coming. And if the days dragged, and the great, lone
land seemed to close in and press inexorably upon her, she would have
to be patient, very patient.
Jake was held up, waiting for supplies.
Pages:
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398