Old Pegs explained, and it is well to give the substance of his remarks to explain the feeling which existed between the men of the “Hudson Bay Company” and the “North-west.” It was simply a question of boundaries. The Northern Company claimed the right to send their trapping parties where they pleased, and the North-West disputed that claim. The parties which came out this season of the year were not trapping but “prospecting,” in order to know the best places for trapping in the coming winter.
Both sides had men to whom fighting was a pastime, and it was known that they would shed blood sooner than suffer a rival to encroach upon their trapping-grounds. “The brigade” of which Dave Farrell was captain was composed of men who were the pick and flower of the mountaineers, and who came out with the expectation of fighting. Perhaps they exceeded their instructions, sometimes, for they were not likely to study the boundaries very closely, and good trapping-ground whether north or south of the line was, to use a border expression, “their meat.”
It would be bootless to tell all that Old Pegs said and did when Myrtle told him what had happened since his departure. He raved, stamped, and launched all manner of invectives at the unlucky Velveteens.
“No buddy but a gal would hev let the cuss go,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t you keep him until Whirlwind came?”
“Father! could I do that? Bad as he is I could not give him up to Indian vengeance.”
“I don’t know but yer right, Myrtle. You’ve got a tender heart even fur the meanest skunk on the face of the creatid ’arth, and thet’s this same Velveteens. But, don’t you hunt any more till we’ve cleaned out this truck. Keep out ov sight. Don’t show yourself even to the Blackfoot, ’cause he mout turn ag’in’ us. Let’s fodder up; I’m gitting mighty hungry.”
Myrtle went into the cabin and prepared a meal and the two sat down to eat. When they had finished they were startled by the rattle of firearms away in the east. “Ther at it,” cried Old Pegs. “I’ve got ter take a hand.”
CHAPTER VIII.
A BORDER BATTLE.
The “brigade” had hailed with pleasure the return of their captain, for they had been in trouble. Men who had wandered away from the camp had been seen no more, until their lifeless bodies were found in some dark ravine, or on the prairie, scalped and gory. Fate seemed to be against them, and nothing they could do to detect the murderers was of any avail. The brow of the Beaver Captain clouded as he heard the names of those who had fallen, four or five of his best men.
“This won’t do, boys,” he said. “Where is Boston Dick?”