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 halfbreed 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.
