ough some
firm in Benton as a clearin' house. He's servin' notice that unless
C.N. Morse & Company mends its ways, it can't do business with the
N.W.M.P."

"That all?" asked the head of the firm.

"That's only half of it. The other half is that no firm of
whiskey-runners will be allowed to trade across the line."

C.N. gave another little chirrup of mirth. "Keep your brains whittled
up, don't you? Any advice you'd like to give?"

Tom was not to be drawn. "None, sir."

"No comments, son? Passin' it up to Uncle Newt, eh?"

"You're the head of the firm. I'm hired to do as I'm told."

"You figure on obeyin' orders and lettin' it go at that?"

"Not quite." The young fellow's square chin jutted out. "For instance,
I'm not gonna smuggle liquor through any more. I had my eyes opened
this trip. You haven't been on the ground like I have. If you want a
plain word for it, Uncle Newt--"

"Speak right out in meetin', Tom. Shouldn't wonder but what I can
stand it." The transplanted Yankee slanted at his nephew a quizzical
smile. "I been hearin' more or less plain language for quite a spell,
son."

Tom gave it to him straight from the shoulder, quietly but without
apology. "Sellin' whiskey to the tribes results in wholesale murder,
sir."

"Strong talk, boy," his uncle drawled.

"Not too strong. You know I don't mean anything personal, Uncle Newt.
To understand this thing you've got to go up there an' see it. The
plains tribes up there go crazy over fire-water an' start killin' each
other. It's a crime to let 'em have it."

Young Morse began to tell stories of instances that had come under his
own observation, of others that he had heard from reliable sources.
Presently he found himself embarked on the tale of his adventures with
Sleeping Dawn.

The fur-trader heard him patiently. The dusty wrinkled boots of the
merchant rested on the desk. His chair was tilted back in such a way
that the weight of his body was distributed between the back of his
neck, the lower end of the spine, and his heels. He looked a picture
of sleepy, indolent ease, but Tom knew he was not missing the least
detail.

A shadow darkened the doorway of the office. Behind it straddled a
huge, ungainly figure.

"'Lo, West! How're tricks?" C.N. Morse asked in his lazy way. He did
not rise from the chair or offer to shake hands, but that might be
because it was not his custom to exert himself.

West stopped in his stride, choking with wrath. He h