"Brochet," he spoke darkly, "I'm jealous of that fellow. I hate his cursed good looks, his woman's eyes, his easy manners! And mark this, Father, I could have him drafted in a minute to our farthest post. Often I'm tempted to do it!"

The kindly priest laid a hand on Dunvegan's arm, feeling the chief trader's muscles tighten under his inward emotions.

"Son," Brochet observed, "these are strenuous hours with the agents of two great companies striving for the overlordship. But in the midst of all the conflicts, the defeats, the triumphs, who is the real victor?"

"The Hudson's Bay Company," declared Dunvegan loyally.

The priest laughed. "Not the material conqueror," he explained. "I mean what sort of spirit holds the real supremacy?"

"The man with the heaviest hand," was the chief trader's practical answer.

"No," Brochet contradicted, "the man who rules himself! If you sent away this handsome Edwin Glyndon out of envy, you would be only indulging your own petty hate. Conquer your pa.s.sions, my son. That is the true kingship! If you cannot win a woman's will on your merits, don't win it at all. No benefit ever came of such a victory gained by nothing but strength or craft."

Dunvegan paced uneasily in front of his trading room, his eyes glancing furtively toward the blank doorway of the store through which Glyndon and Desiree had disappeared.

"Yet I go this afternoon with my men to build Kamattawa, leaving a free field to him," he brooded. "Is that not giving Glyndon an advantage which you advise me not to take myself. The rule works both ways it seems to me."

"That," Brochet declared judicially, "is the natural course of things.

The other is quite different. Have you any objection to his work as a clerk?"

"None! He handles the books and the pen better than any we ever had."

"Then it would be an injustice," the priest concluded. "Glyndon deserves his chance. How about his vice?"

"There is no opportunity to pamper his appet.i.te here," laughed Dunvegan.

"If he were alongside the Nor'wester's free rum barrel, I would not answer for him. But I trust your judgment, Brochet. Things stay as they are. Now I must finish my trading with the Indians or I shall not get away on schedule."

"I intend paddling with you a little way to bid you farewell," the priest announced as he started over the trail. "It may be I shall have someone with me in my canoe."

His brown eyes twinkled. The suspicion of a smile curved his lips.

Dunvegan, looking sharply at him, flushed, and a hopeful gleam lighted his countenance.

"Father," he said slowly, "you have wisdom beyond all years. That would please me very much."

He watched the portly form pa.s.s on and wondered at the big heart that beat under the black ca.s.sock.

"Dunvegan!" called the deep voice of Malcolm Macleod.

The chief trader turned about to see the Factor standing on the veranda of his house, the sunlight flooding his broad shoulders. "How many Indians have yet to get their debt?" he asked.

"Twenty," Bruce replied. "Eight Ojibways and a dozen Wood Crees."

"Are they all in?"

"All but Running Wolf's tribe! The other Indian camps are ready to strike their tepees. The twenty men are waiting outside the yard."

"Run them off as fast as possible," the Factor ordered. "I'll attend to the preparations of your brigade myself in order that nothing may be lacking. Noon should see you started."

Dunvegan ascended the steps with a sigh.

"Oh, yes!" shouted Macleod, halting him. "What about Beaver Tail the Iroquois who failed to return the required value of pelts in the spring?"

"I cut him off the Company's book as you ordered."

"Give him his full debt," the Factor said. "The poor devil has been sickly, I understand, and not up to his usual prowess as a hunter. We'll let him have another chance!"

It was an unexpected freak of generosity in Macleod's adamant nature.

The chief trader raised his eyebrows, expressing involuntary surprise, but he made no comment. From his trading room door he beckoned to the a.s.sembled group of Indian trappers beyond the tall palings enclosing the yard. A pair of Ojibways stalked forward, Big Otter, the great old hunter who had been on the Company's list for thirty years, and Running Fire, on the trail a scant three winters and just beginning to acquire fame as a trapper. In friendly fashion Dunvegan looked into their spare, smoky faces and hawk-like eyes which seemed to hold only surface lights.

"Running Fire, my brother," he commenced, "your debt on the Company's books is three hundred beaver. Here I give you three hundred castors to trade in what you will. Take them, my brother, and because you are so faithful on the hunt I add ten castors more. Does it satisfy you, Running Fire?"

"Surely," spoke the Ojibway. "Strong Father has the kind heart. Behold when the snows melt will I bring him a pack mightier than ever."

He took the string of wooden castors Dunvegan offered and, nodding his satisfaction, strode off to the store where he would barter the counters which represented half-dollars in money value for the supplies he would require during his winter's hunt. There he would buy powder and ball, clothing, blankets. He would stock up with sugar, tea, and flour. A wonderful knife or axe might take his fancy. And what remained of his purse would be squandered on fascinating, but useless, finery.

Big Otter traded next. The way he leaned over Dunvegan's counter showed that they were old friends.

"Now comes my weak brother, he of the old limbs, the aged bones, the waning strength," bantered the chief trader. "For him there is a debt of one hundred castors recorded."

But Big Otter smiled at Dunvegan's joke, knowing that his limbs were sound as any young buck's, remembering that his catch ran well over three hundred.

"Strong Father's tongue makes merry," he returned. "Where is the youthful brave who can follow my tracks?"

"I don't know him," admitted the chief trader, laughing, "but Running Fire is making a mighty name. Some fine day he may follow you."

Big Otter sniffed in contradiction. "Let us wait and see," he suggested.

Dunvegan pa.s.sed over a string of castors longer than the previous one.

"Three hundred and fifty castors is your debt, great one," he smiled, "and to them I add twenty. Thus you stand high with us. But in return for the present you must tell me how you manage to keep your peace of mind, your strength of body."

The unweakened Ojibway chuckled quietly.

"I love not," he answered. "I hate not. I dream not."

Abruptly he strode out.

And Dunvegan, pondering, wondered if ever was born the white man who could thus get his debt in life.

All the long forenoon the Indian trappers came to get their credit. The six remaining Ojibways filed up. Appeared the twelve Wood Crees. The emaciated Iroquois Beaver Tail came humbly and in grat.i.tude. But Running Wolf's band from the Katchawan failed to arrive. Not a hunter of his tribe showed face in the palisaded yard. No canoe from his camps touched prow on Oxford sh.o.r.e.

Although Malcolm Macleod had before boasted his unconcern at such an issue, the confronting of the stern truth weighed upon his taciturn spirits. The Cree chief had fallen in with Black Ferguson's party and joined it, because he had been seen fighting in their ranks but a few nights earlier. The fact that none of his kind had reported showed that Running Wolf had reached them by messenger. Doubtless by now the fiery Three Feathers and his brethren had swelled the Nor'west forces.

This knowledge plunged Macleod in a black mood. He rushed the preparations for the departure of the brigade. He commanded. He rebuked.

He disciplined. He rated and cursed till even the hardy voyageurs sweated under the yoke. But when the noon hour was come, he had them marshalled on the beach all ready for their journey.

Loaded to the water's edge with supplies, dunnage, and arms, the big fleet of canoes pointed over Oxford's waters. The crowd cheered madly, dinning farewells and firing continual _feu-de-joies_. They thrilled at the sight of the brawn going forth to build Kamattawa to shut out the Nor'westers from the Valley. These looked able to do it; brown-armed white men; swarthy post Indians; the hardy _metis_; the dashing voyageurs. The watchers' pulses leaped with admiration for the indefatigable leader who had travelled thus at the head of countless brigades on some stern mission for the Company. For him they raised a stormy cry of appreciation which was heartily echoed back by the men of the fleet.

But Dunvegan heeded not the uproarious approbation. The last glance he cast back centered on one handsome, smiling face in the throng, the face of Edwin Glyndon. Two other faces he missed, and his eyes looked ahead, searching the island-dotted expanse of water.