Entering the circle around the fire, Louis introduced the stranger. “This is the man who sent for us, the trader.”
The tall man pulled off his fur cap and ducked his head to Mrs. Brabant. “I’m Duncan McNab, at your service, Madame,” he said. He caught sight of Neil’s freckled face and blue bonnet. “Ye’re a Scot,” he said accusingly in English.
“I am that, and sa are you,” Neil retorted promptly.
“Aye. Ye’ll be fra Kildonan na doot, but there’s na time ta be talkin’ aboot that.” He turned to Louis and spoke in French again. “You are camped on the edge of a coulee. Did you pick this spot on purpose?”
The boy nodded.
“Then you know what to do. The coulee leads towards the Bois des Sioux. Leave your fire burning. The savages will think you’re still here.”
“Our carts make so much noise,” interposed Walter. “If any of their scouts or camp guards should hear that squeaking——”
“Leave the carts behind,” McNab interrupted. “I doubt if you could take them up the coulee.”
“We can go faster without them anyway,” Louis agreed, “and get more out of our horses.”
“Travel light, a little pemmican, your weapons and ammunition, nothing else. It is hard to lose all your things, Madame,” the trader said bluntly to Mrs. Brabant, “but better than to run the risk of your children falling into the hands of Tatanka Wechacheta and the Black Murray.”