Short Stories
BATARD
by Jack Lo nd on
Batard was a devil. This was recognized throughout the North-
land. "Hell's Spawn" he was called by many men, but his master,
Black Leclere, chose for him the shameful name "Batard." Now
Black Leclere was also a devil, and the twain were well matched.
There is a saying that when two devils come together, hell is to
pay. This is to be expected, and this certainly was to be expected
when Batard and Black Leclere came together. The first time
they met, Batard was a part-grown puppy, lean and hungry,
with bitter eyes; and they met with snap and snarl, and wicked
looks, for Leclere's upper lip had a wolfish way of lifting and
showing the white, cruel teeth. And it lifted then, and his eyes
glinted viciously, as he reached for Batard and dragged him out
from the squirming litter. It was certain that they divined each
other, for on the instant Batard had buried his puppy fangs in
Leclere's hand, and Leclere, thumb and finger, was coolly chok-
ing his young life out of him.
"Sacredam," the Frenchman said softly, flirting the quick blood
from his bitten hand and gazing down on the little puppy chok-
ing and gasping in the snow.
Leclere turned to John Hamlin, storekeeper of the Sixty Mile
Post. "Dat fo' w'at Ah lak heem. 'Ow moch, eh, you, M'sieu'? 'Ow
moch? Ah buy heem, now; Ah buy heem queek."
And because he hated him with an exceeding bitter hate,
Leclere bought Batard and gave him his shameful name. And for
five years the twain adventured across the Northland, from St.
Michael's and the Yukon delta to the head-reaches of the Pelly
and even so far as the Peace River, Athabasca, and the Great
Slave. And they acquired a reputation for uncompromising