On the day after the big storm old Missinabbee returned to the
southward, and the following day Wentworth arrived at the post, cursing
his guide, and the storm, and the snow that lay deep in the forest.
The half-breed refused to stop over and rest, but accepted his pay and
turned his dogs on the back-trail. And as Murchison accepted McNabb's
letter of introduction from Wentworth's hand in the door of the post
trading room, his eyes followed the retreating form of the guide. For
he had caught a malevolent gleam of hate that flashed from the narrowed
black eyes as the man had accepted his pay.
"Ye have not seen the last of yon," he said, turning to Wentworth with
a nod of his head toward the breed. "Alex Thumb is counted a bad man
in the North. I would not rest so easy, an' he was camped on my trail."
Wentworth scowled. "Worthless devil! Kicked on my bringing my trunk.
Wanted me to transfer my stuff into duffle bags and carry a pack to
ease up on his dogs; and then to top it off with, he wasn't going to
let me ride on the sled. But I showed him who was boss. I hired the
outfit and believe me, I rode whenever I felt like it. He may have you
fellows up here bluffed, but not me."
"Well, 'tis none of my business. I was only givin' ye a friendly
warnin'. Come on now till I get my glasses on, an' we'll see what
ye've got here."
Presently he folded and returned the brief note. "An' now what can I
do for ye? Will ye be makin' your headquarters here, or will ye have a
camp of your own down on the river?"
"I think I'll stay here if there's room. When I'm exploring the river
I can take a light outfit along."
"There's plenty of room. There's an empty cabin beside the storehouse,
an' I'll have a stove set up, an' your things moved in. Ye'll take
your meals with me. There's only a couple of Company Injuns, an' my
clerk." Murchison paused. "Sven!" he called. "Sven Larson! Where
are ye? Come down out of that fur loft! I've a job for ye."
Slow, heavy footsteps sounded upon the floor above, and a moment later
two feet appeared upon the ladder, and very deliberately the clerk
negotiated the descent.
"Sven Larson, this is Mr. Wentworth. He's from the States, an' he's
goin' to live in the cabin. Take Wawake an' Joe Irish an' set up a
stove in there, an' move the stuff in that lays outside."
Hedin acknowledged the introduction with a solemn bob of the head, and
as he stared straight into Wentworth's face he blinked owlishly.
"This stove?" he asked, indicating the huge cannon stove in which the
fire roared noisily.
"No! No! Ye numbskull! One of them Yukon stoves. An' be quick about
it."
"What stuff?"
"The stuff that lays outside the door--Wentworth's stuff, of course!'
"In the cabin?"
"Yes, in the cabin!" cried the factor impatiently. "Ye didn't think ye
was to put it in the stove, did ye?"
Hedin moved slowly away in search of the Company Indians, and Wentworth
laughed. "Hasn't got quite all his buttons, has he?" he inquired. "I
should say the Company had treated you shabbily in the matter of a
clerk."
"Well, I don't know," replied Murchison. "I could have had worse.
'Tis not to be gainsaid that he's slow an' heavy of wit in the matter
of most things, but the lad knows fur. More than forty years I've
handled fur, an' yet to-day the striplin' knows more about fur, an' the
value of fur, than I ever will know. An' then there's the
close-mouthedness of him. Ye tell him a thing, an' caution him to say
naught about it, an' no bribe nor threat could drag a word of it from
his lips. So, ye see, for the job he's got, I could scarce hope for
better."
"I presume he knows only raw furs," said Wentworth casually. "He
could, of course, have no knowledge of the finished product."
"An' there ye're wrong. Of his early life I know nothing except that
he's a foreigner, raised in the fur trade. He can spot topped or
pointed furs as far as he can see them, an' as for appraisin' them, he
can tell almost to a dollar the value of any piece ye could show him.
But----"
The door opened and Murchison turned to greet a newcomer. "Hello,
Downey!" he called. "'Tis a long time since ye've favored Gods Lake
with a visit. Come up to the stove, lad, an' meet Mr. Wentworth.
"Mr. Wentworth, this is Corporal Downey, of the Royal Northwest Mounted
Police." At the word police Wentworth started ever so slightly, but
caught himself on the instant. He searched the keen gray eyes of the
officer as he extended his hand, but if Downey noticed the momentary
trepidation he gave no sign.
"So you're Wentworth," he remarked casually, as he swung the light pack
from his shoulders.
"_Captain_ Wentworth."
"Oh," Downey accorded him a slanting glance, and entered into
conversation with Murchison.
"You knew my name, do you want to see me?" Wentworth interrupted after
a wait of several minutes.
"No, not in particular. Only if I was you I'd beware of a dark-haired
man, as the fortune-tellers say."
"What do you mean?"
"I met Alex Thumb a piece back on the trail."
"Well, what of it? What has that got to do with me?"
"I don't know. He mentioned your name, that's all. An' I just kind of
surmised from the way he done it that you an' him didn't part the best
of friends."
"I hired him for a guide, and he undertook to give me my orders on the
trail. But I soon showed him where he stood."