the camp-fire beside
Peigan Charley.

The first sign of dawn saw the camp astir. Kars was accommodated with
one of the Alaskan ponies under pressure from Bill, as the doctor. The
whole outfit was on the move before daylight had matured. Neither the
scout, nor the two white men were deceived. Each knew that they were
not likely to make the headwaters of Snake River without molestation.

How right they were was abundantly proved on the afternoon of the
second day.

They were passing through a wide defile, with the hills on either side
of them rising to several hundreds of feet of dense forest. It was a
shorter route towards their objective, but more dangerous by reason of
the wide stretching tundra it was necessary to skirt.

Half-way through this defile came the first sign. It came with the
distant crack of a rifle. Then the whistle of a speeding bullet, and
the final "spat" of it as it embedded itself in an adjacent tree-trunk.
Everybody understood. But it took Peigan Charley to sum up the
situation, and the feeling of, at least, the leaders of the outfit.

"Fool neche!" he exclaimed, with a world of contemptuous regard flung
in the direction whence came the sound. "Shoot lak devil. Much shoot.
Plenty. Oh, yes."

CHAPTER XIII

THE FALL TRADE

The fall trade of the post was in full swing, and gave to the river,
and the approaches of the Fort, an air of activity such as it usually
lacked. Murray McTavish seemed to blossom under the pressure of the
work entailed. His good humor became intensified, and his smile
radiated upon the world about him. These times were the opportunity he
found for the display of his abounding energies. They were healthy
times, healthy for mind and body. To watch his activities was to
marvel that he still retained the grossness of figure he so deplored.

A number of canoes were moored at the Mission landing. Others were
secured at piles driven into the banks of the river. These were the
boats of the Indians and half-breeds who came to trade their summer
harvest at the old post. A few days later and these same craft would
be speeding in the direction of distant homes, under the swift strokes
of the paddle, bearing a modicum of winter stores as a result of their
owner's traffic.

And what a mixed trade it was. Furs. Rough dried pelts, ranging from
bear to fox, from seal to Alaskan sable. Furs of thirty or forty
descriptions, each with its definite market val