Joe found the usual group of gossipers in the store of the French outfit. Beside the two traders, there were two of the latest arrivals from the outside, a policeman off duty, and young Mattison, of the surveying party, who had ridden in on a message from Graves, and was taking his time about starting back.

Up north it is unfashionable to be in a hurry. Of them all only Stiffy, in his little compartment at the back, was busy. He was totting up his beloved figures.

Joe found them talking about the night before, with references to Sam in no friendly strain. Joe had the wit to conceal from them a part of the rage that was consuming him, though it was not easy to do so. He sat down in the background, and for the most part kept his mouth shut. Anything that anybody could say against Sam was meat and drink to him.

"Blest if I can see what the girl sees in him," said Mahooley. "There are better men for her to pick from."

"He's spoiled our fun, damn him!" said another. "The place won't be the same again."

"Who is this fellow Sam?" asked one of the newcomers.

"A damn ornery little cook who's got his head swole," muttered Joe.

"He kept his place till he got a team to drive," said Mattison.

"We kep' him in it, you mean."

"What for did you want to give him the job of teaming, Mahooley?" asked Mattison.

"Matter of business," replied the trader carelessly. "He was on the spot."

"Well, you can get plenty more now. Why not fire him?"

Mahooley looked a little embarrassed.

"Business is business," he said. "I don't fancy him myself, but he's working all right."

Joe's perceptions were sharpened by hate. He saw Mahooley's hesitation, and began speculating on what reason the trader could have for not wanting to discharge Sam. He scented a mystery. Casting back in his mind, he began to fit a number of little things together.

Once, he remembered, somebody had told Mahooley one of the black horses had gone lame, and Mahooley had replied unthinkingly that it was not his concern. Why had he said that? Was somebody besides Mahooley backing Sam? If he could explode the mystery, maybe it would give him a handle against his rival.

"Well, I shouldn't think you'd let an ex-cook put it all over you," remarked the stranger.

This was too much for Joe's self-control. A dull, bricky flush crept under his skin.

"Put it over nothing!" he growled. "You come over to Bela's to-night if you want to see how I handle a cook!"

"Who is the old guy camped beside Bela's shack?" asked the stranger.

"Musq'oosis, a kind of medicine man of her tribe," answered Mahooley.

"Is he her father?"

"No; her father was a white man."

"Who was he?" Joe asked.

Mahooley shrugged. "Search me! Long before my time."

"If old Musq'oosis is no relation, what does he hang around for?" asked the first questioner.

"Oh, he's always kind of looked after her," said Mahooley. "The other Indians hate her. They think she's too uppish."

"She feeds him; I guess that's reason enough for him to stick around," remarked Mattison.

Here Stiffy spoke up from his cubby-hole: "Hell! Musq'oosis don't need anybody to feed him. He's well fixed. Got a first-class credit balance."

Joe, ever on the watch, saw Mahooley turn his head abruptly and scowl at his partner. Stiffy closed his mouth suddenly. Joe, possessed by a single idea, jumped to the conclusion that Musq'oosis had something to do with the mystery he was on the track of. Anyhow, he determined to find out.

"A good balance?" he asked carelessly.

"I mean for an Indian," returned Stiffy quickly. "Nothing to speak of."

Joe was unconvinced. He bided his time.

The talk drifted on to other matters. Joe sat thrashing his brain for an expedient whereby he might get a sight of Musq'oosis's account on Stiffy's ledger.

By and by a breed came in with the news that a York boat was visible, approaching Grier's Point. This provided a welcome diversion for the company. A discussion arose as to whether it would be Stiffy and Mahooley's first boat of the season, or additional supplies for Graves. Finally they decided to ride down to the Point and see.

"Come on, Joe," said one.

Joe assumed an air of laziness. "What's the use?" he said. "I'll stay here and talk to Stiffy."

When they had gone Joe still sat cudgelling his brain. He was not fertile in expedients. He was afraid to speak even indirectly of the matter on his breast for fear of alarming Stiffy by betraying too much eagerness. Finally an idea occurred to him.

"I say, Stiffy, how does my account stand?"

The trader told him his balance.

"What!" cried Joe, affecting indignation. "I know it's more than that. You've made a mistake somewhere."

This touched Stiffy at his weakest. "I never make a mistake!" he returned with heat. "You fellows go along ordering stuff, and expect your balance to stay the same, like the widow's cruse. Come and look for yourself!"

This was what Joe desired. He slouched over, grumbling. Stiffy explained how the debits were on one side, the credits on the other. Each customer had a page to himself. Joe observed that before turning up his account Stiffy had consulted an index in a separate folder.

Joe allowed himself to be reluctantly satisfied, and returned to his seat by the stove. He was advanced by learning how the book was kept, but the grand difficulty remained to be solved; how to get a look at it without Stiffy's knowledge.

Here fortune unexpectedly favoured him. When he was not adding up his columns, Stiffy was for ever taking stock. By rights, he should have been the chief clerk of a great city emporium. Before the others returned he began to count the articles on the shelves.

He struck a difficulty in the cans of condensed milk. Repeated countings gave the same total. "By Gad, we've been robbed!" he cried. "Unless there's still a case in the loft."

He hastened to the stairs. The instant his weight creaked on the boards overhead the burly, lounging figure by the stove sprang into activity. Joe darted on moccasined feet to Stiffy's little sanctum, and with swift fingers turned up M in the index.

"Musq'oosis; page 452." Silently opening the big book, he thumbed the pages. The noises from upstairs kept him exactly informed of what Stiffy was doing.

Joe found the place, and there, in Stiffy's neat copper plate, was spread out all that he wished to know. It took him but a moment to get the hang of it. On the debit side: "To team, Sambo and Dinah, with wagon and harness, $578.00." Under this were entered various advances to Sam. On the other side Joe read: "By order on Gilbert Beattie, $578.00." Below were the different amounts paid by Graves for hauling.

Joe softly closed the book. So it was Musq'oosis who employed Sam! And Musq'oosis was a kind of guardian of Bela! It did not require much effort of the imagination to see a connection here. Joe's triumph in his discovery was mixed with a bitter jealousy.

However, he was pretty sure that Sam was ignorant of who owned the team he drove, and he saw an opportunity to work a pretty piece of mischief. But first he must make still more sure.

When Stiffy, having found the missing case, came downstairs again, Joe apparently had not moved.

A while later Joe entered the company store, and addressed himself to Gilbert Beattie concerning a plough he said he was thinking of importing. Beattie, seeing a disposition in the other man to linger and talk, encouraged it. This was new business. In any case, up north no man declines the offer of a gossip. Strolling outside, they sat on a bench at the door in the grateful sunshine.

From where they were they could see Bela's shack below, with smoke rising from the cook tent and the old man's tepee alongside. Musq'oosis himself was squatting at the door, engaged upon some task with his nimble fingers. Consequently, no management on Joe's part was required to bring the conversation around to him. Seeing the trader's eye fall there, he had only to say:

"Great old boy, isn't he?"

"One of the best," said Beattie warmly. "The present generation doesn't produce 'em! He's as honest as he is intelligent, too. Any trader in the country would let him have anything he wanted to take. His word is as good as his bond."

"Too bad he's up against it in his old age," suggested Joe.

"Up against it, what do you mean?" asked Beattie.

"Well, he can't do much any more. And he doesn't seem to have any folks."

"Oh, Musq'oosis has something put by for a rainy day!" said Beattie. "For years he carried a nice little balance on my books."

"What did he do with it, then?" asked Joe carelessly.

Beattie suspected nothing more in this than idle talk.

"Transferred it to the French outfit," he said with a shrug. "I suppose he wanted Mahooley to know he's a man of means. He can't have spent any of it. I'll probably get it back some day."

"How did he get it in the first place?" asked Joe casually. "Out of fur?"

"No," said Beattie; "he was in some kind of partnership with a man called Walter Forest, a white man. Forest died, and the amount was transferred to Musq'oosis. It's twenty years ago. I inherited the debt from my predecessor here."

Joe, seeing that the trader had nothing more of special interest to tell him, let the talk pass on to other matters. By and by he rose, saying:

"Guess I'll go down and talk to the old boy until dinner's ready."

"It is always profitable," said Beattie. "Come in again."

"I'll let you know about the plough," said Joe.

"Hello, Musq'oosis!" began Joe facetiously. "Fine weather for old bones, eh?"

"Ver' good," replied Musq'oosis blandly. The old man had no great liking for this burly youth with the comely, self-indulgent face, nor did he relish his style of address; however, being a philosopher and a gentleman, this did not appear in his face. "Sit down," he added hospitably.

Musq'oosis was making artificial flies against the opening of the trout season next month. With bits of feather, hair, and thread he was turning out wonderfully lifelike specimens—not according to the conventional varieties, but as a result of his own half-century's experience on neighbouring streams. A row of the completed product was stuck in a smooth stick, awaiting possible customers.

"Out of sight!" said Joe, examining them.

"I t'ink maybe sell some this year," observed Musq'oosis. "Plenty new men come."

"How much?" asked Joe.

"Four bits."

"I'll take a couple. There's a good stream beside my place."

"Stick 'em in your hat."

After this transaction Musq'oosis liked Joe a little better. He entered upon an amiable dissertation on fly-fishing, to which Joe gave half an ear, while he debated how to lead up to what he really wanted to know. In the end it came out bluntly.

"Say, Musq'oosis, what do you know about a fellow called Walter Forest?"

Musq'oosis looked at Joe, startled. "You know him?" he asked.

"Yes," said Joe. Recollecting that Beattie had told him the man had been dead twenty years, he hastily corrected himself. "That is, not exactly. Not personally."

"Uh!" said Musq'oosis.

"I thought I'd ask you, you're such an old-timer."

"Um!" said Musq'oosis again. There was nothing in this so far to arouse his suspicions. But on principle he disliked to answer questions. Whenever it was possible he answered a question by asking another.

"Did you know him?" persisted Joe.

"Yes," replied Musq'oosis guardedly.

"What like man was he?"

"What for you want know?"

"Oh, a fellow asked me to find out," answered Joe vaguely. He gained assurance as he proceeded. "Fellow I met in Prince George. When he heard I was coming up here he said: 'See if you can find out what's become of Walter Forest. Ain't heard from him in twenty year.'"

"What this fellow call?" asked Musq'oosis.

"Er—George Smith," Joe improvised. "Big, dark-complected guy. Traveller in the cigar line."

Musq'oosis nodded.

"Walter Forest died twenty year ago," he said.

"How?" asked Joe.

"Went through the ice wit' his team."

"You don't say!" said Joe. "Well! Well! I said I'd write and tell George."

Joe was somewhat at a loss how to go on. He said "Well! Well!" again. Finally he asked: "Did you know him well?"

"He was my friend," said Musq'oosis.

"Tell me about him," said Joe. "So I can write, you know."

Musq'oosis was proud of his connection with Walter Forest. There was no reason why he should not tell the story to anybody. Had he not urged upon Bela to use her own name? It never occurred to him that anyone could trace the passage of the father's bequest from one set of books to the other. So in his simple way he told the story of Walter Forest's life and death in the country.

"Well! Well!" exclaimed Joe. "Smitty will be interested. You said he was married. Did he leave any family?"

"His baby come after," said Musq'oosis. "Two months."

"What's become of it?"

Musq'oosis nodded toward the shack. "That is Bela," he said.

Joe clenched his hands to keep from betraying a start. This was what he wanted. He bit his lip to hide the cruel smile that spread upon it.

"Why you smile?" asked Musq'oosis.

"No reason," replied Joe hastily. "I thought her name was Bela Charley."

"Her mot'er marry Charley Fish-Eater after," explained Musq'oosis. "People forget Walter Forest's baby. So call Bela Charley. Right name Bela Forest."

"Well," said Joe, "that's quite a story. Did he leave any property?"

Musq'oosis glanced at him sharply. His suspicions began to be aroused. "No," he said shortly.

"That's a lie!" thought Joe. Now that he had learned what he wanted to know, he took no further pains to hide his sneers. "I'll tell Smitty that Forest's got a fine girl for a daughter," he said, rising.

Musq'oosis's eyes followed him a little anxiously into the house.

The dinner-hour was drawing near, but none of the boarders had arrived yet. Joe found Bela putting the plates and cups on the table. Seeing him, she stood fast without fear, merely glancing over her shoulder to make sure her retreat was open.

"Hello!" said Joe, affecting a boisterous air. "Am I the first?"

She declined to unbend. "You got be'ave if you comin' here," she said coldly.

"Got to, eh? That's a nice way to speak to a friend."

"If you don' act decent you can't come here no more," she said firmly.

"How are you going to stop me?" he demanded truculently.

"I tell the ot'er boys," she said coolly. "They keep you out."

"You won't do that," he returned, sneering.

"You find out pretty soon."

"You won't do that," he repeated. "Because I got something on you now."

She looked at him sharply. Then shrugged scornfully. "Everybody know all about me."

"There's something Sam don't know yet."

In spite of herself, she was betrayed into a sharp movement. Joe laughed.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

It was his humour to be mysterious. "Never mind. I know what I know."

Bela unconcernedly resumed her work. "You jus' bluffin'," she said.

"Oh, I'm bluffing, am I?" snarled Joe. He was the picture of a bad-tempered schoolboy. "If you don't treat me right you'll see if I am. I'll out with the story to-night before them all, before Sam."

"What story?" asked Bela. "You crazy, I t'ink."

"The story of how you're paying Sam's wages."

Bela stopped dead, and went pale. She struggled hard to command herself. "It's a lie!" she said.

"Like fun it is!" cried Joe, triumphing. "I got it bit by bit, and pieced it all together. I'm a little too clever for you, I guess. I know the whole thing now. How your father left the money to Musq'oosis when he died, and Musq'oosis bought the team from Mahooley, and made him give it to Sam to drive. I can see Sam's face when I tell that and hear all the fellows laugh."

Bela abandoned the useless attempt to bluff it out. She came opposite to where he was sitting, and put her hands on the table. "If you tell that I kill you!" she said softly.

Joe leaned back. "Pooh! You can't scare a man with threats like that. After I tell the mischief's done, anyhow."

"I will kill you!" she said again.

Joe laughed. "I'll take my chance of it." Hitting out at random, he said: "I'll bet it was you scared the white woman into fits!"

To save herself Bela could not help betraying it in her face. Joe laughed uproariously.

"Gad! That'll make another good story to tell!"

"I will kill you!" repeated Bela dully.

Something in her desperate eyes warned him that one might press a primitive nature too far. He changed his tone.

"Mind you, I don't say I'm going to tell. I don't mean to tell if you do what I want."

"What you want?" she asked softly with glittering eyes.

"Not to be treated like dirt under anybody's feet, that's all," he replied threateningly. "To be treated as good as anybody else. You understand me?"

"I mak' no promise," said Bela.

"Well you know what you've got to expect if you don't."