ild-cat of yours lost her head when I jollied her and Morse broke the
door down like the jackass he is."

The dressing-down that Angus McRae gave Whaley is still remembered
by one or two old-timers in the Northwest. In crisp, biting words he
freed his mind without once lapsing into profanity. He finished with a
warning. "Tak tent you never speak to the lass again, or you an' me'll
come to grips."

The storekeeper heard him out, a sneering smile on his white face.
Inside, he raged with furious anger, but he did not let his feelings
come to the surface. He was a man who had the patience to wait for
his vengeance. The longer it was delayed, the heavier would it be. A
characteristic of his cold, callous temperament was that he took fire
slowly, but, once lit, his hate endured like peat coals in a grate. A
vain man, his dignity was precious to him. He writhed at the defeat
Morse had put upon him, at his failure with Jessie, at the scornful
public rebuke of her father. Upon all three of these some day he would
work a sweet revenge. Like all gamblers, he followed hunches. Soon,
one of these told him, his chance would come. When it did he would
make all three of them sweat blood.

Beresford met Tom Morse later in the day. He cocked a whimsical eye at
the fur-trader.

"I hear McRae's going to sue you for damages to his house," he said.

"Where did you hear all that?" asked his friend, apparently busy
inspecting a half-dozen beaver furs.

"And Whaley, for damages to his internal machinery. Don't you know you
can't catapult through a man's tummy with a young pine tree and not
injure his physical geography?" the constable reproached.

"When you're through spoofin' me, as you subjects of the Queen call
it," suggested Tom.

"Why, then, I'll tell you to keep an eye on Whaley. He doesn't love
you a whole lot for what you did, and he's liable to do you up first
chance he gets."

"I'm not lookin' for trouble, but if Whaley wants a fight--"

"He doesn't--not your kind of a fight. His idea will be to have you
foul before he strikes. Walk with an eye in the back of your head.
Sleep with it open, Don't sit at windows after lamps are lit--not
without curtains all down. Play all your cards close." The red-coat
spoke casually, slapping his boot with a small riding-switch. He was
smiling. None the less Tom knew he was in dead earnest.

"Sounds like good advice. I'll take it," the trader said easily.
"Anything more on your chest?"