fathead, Barney is. If he's guilty, it's not as a principal.
You'd much better send me up."

The officer laughed behind the hand that stroked the mustache. "Do you
want to be judge and jury as well as prisoner, my lad?"

"Thought perhaps my uncle would understand the spirit of your message
better if Barney went along with me, Inspector." The brown eyes were
open and guileless.

MacLean studied the Montanan deliberately. He began to recognize
unusual qualities in this youth.

"Can't say I care for your friend Barney. He's a bad egg, or I miss my
guess."

"Not much taken with him myself. Thought if I'd get him to travel
south with me it might save you some trouble."

"It might," the Inspector agreed. "It's his first offense so far as
I know." Under bristling eyebrows he shot a swift look at this
self-assured youngster. He had noticed that men matured at an early
age on the frontier. The school of emergency developed them fast.
But Morse struck him as more competent even than the other boyish
plainsmen he had met. "Will you be responsible for him?"

The Montanan came to scratch reluctantly. He had no desire to be bear
leader for such a doubtful specimen as Barney.

"Yes," he said, after a pause.

"Keep him in the States, will you?"

"Yes."

"Take him along, then. Wish you luck of him."

As soon as he reached Fort Benton, Tom reported to his uncle. He told
the story of the whiskey cargo and its fate, together with his own
adventures subsequent to that time.

The head of the trading firm was a long, loose-jointed Yankee who had
drifted West in his youth. Since then he had acquired gray hairs and
large business interests. At Inspector MacLean's message he grinned.

"Thinks it's bad business, does he?"

"Told me to tell you so," Tom answered.

"Didn't say why, I guess."

"No."

The old New Englander fished from a hip pocket a plug of tobacco, cut
off a liberal chew, and stowed this in his cheek. Then, lounging back
in the chair, he cocked a shrewd eye at his nephew.

"Wonder what he meant."

Tom volunteered no opinion. He recognized his uncle's canny habit of
fishing in other people's minds for confirmation of what was in his
own.

"Got any idee what he was drivin' at?" the old pioneer went on.

"Sorta."

C.N. Morse chuckled. "Got a notion myself. Let's hear yours."

"The trade with the North-West Mounted is gonna be big for a while.
The Force needs all kinds of supplies. It'll have to deal thr