It was Donald's idea to save the furs without injury, if possible. Therefore, he and his men set about protecting them with a rude breastwork of logs. What solid embers of the burned warehouse still remained were dragged across the snow, and piled on that side from which Seguis and his men were expected to return. The woods sounded with the blows of axes as the skilled woodsmen felled dead trees, or cut branches, to fill the spaces between logs. While this work went on McTavish personally rounded up the supplies of the camp. There was little food, but considerable ammunition. Both of these he deposited behind the breastwork of logs. The wretches at their tether watched him with tragic eyes.
One man made tea, which all hands stopped long enough to drink. Then, the frenzied work went on again. By mid-afternoon, a formidable defense for the men had been erected. Behind it, the blankets and accouterments of the Hudson Bay party were gathered.
Suddenly, a distant shot was heard. Then, there was silence. It was as though there had been a signal given to which there was no reply.
“Mac,” said Timmins, “the old man ought to forgive you for this.”
“I don't care whether he does, or not. I'm not doing this for him. But, by the way, Timmins, where's the factor now? Did he go with the boys to cut off the Frenchmen?
“No; he's laid up at the old camp. You know that day you were captured, well, he was so mad at Seguis and his men that he lit out in the pursuit. He's ugly when he's mad, but he's too darned old to do them foolish things. When he came back, he was chilled, and what with getting over his wound, and the exposure of the chase, and everything, he came down sick again. So, when Bill Thompson arrived with your orders, he turned 'em over to McLean, and let him do what he liked. McLean hasn't been favored with too much brains, but he knew enough to follow them. Now, it looks like you had a strangle-hold on the whole business. The other bunch got the supply-trains, you say, an' we've got the furs. Don't know as I'd care to be a free-trader about now, or a little later.”
“Wait a minute!” cried Donald, who had been trying vainly to interrupt. “Is the factor really sick this time?”
“Yes. Dr. Craven's with him all the time, and he let it out that the old fellow's about ready to tune up his eternal harp.”
“And Miss Fitzpatrick? Where's she?”
“She's with him, nursing him like a child. But, whew! the way he treats her when he gets cranky! How she stands it, I don't know.”