Four hundred and fifty miles southwest of Sturgeon Lake, as the hawk flies, is Winnipeg—formerly the Fort Carry of Hudson Bay fame, and before that the Fort Douglas of battle, murder, and sudden death. As Peter Rainy expected to make the journey, the distance was nearer seven hundred miles. From Sturgeon Lake, he would strike east to the north branch of the Sachigo, and follow that down to its junction with the main river. Then, turning south, for two hundred miles, his would be a straight course up the Sachigo and through a chain of lakes that almost would carry him to Sandy Lake. Southwest, he would rush through Favorable Lake, Deer Lake, Little Trout, and unimportant waterways, until he reached Fort Alexander on a thumb of Lake Winnipeg (that three-hundred-mile terror). Discounting blizzards, he could make seventy-five miles a day down that fine waterway to the mouth of the Red River, and, from there, thirty-five miles would land him in the thriving capital of Manitoba.
Such was the course that McTavish pricked for him on a map, and the old Indian studied it all that day, until it was a part of the vast lore that lay behind his expressionless eyes.
Night fell, and a pure moon rose out of the east, spreading a flood of light over snow-fields and through forest aisles. Peter Rainy cursed heartily at the misfortune, and, as if the sky spirits were afraid of him, a great mass of solemn clouds bulked out of the northwest, and extinguished the gay young moon forthwith. They brought with them a bitter wind and a snowstorm, so that when he finally struggled down the blast, Donald almost overran his objective point. With him were a sledge, dog-train, and provisions. In answer to Rainy's inquiries, he merely said:
“I'm on parole, and can go anywhere, and, as for these things—I have friends in the camp!”
Loath to part with his faithful companion, he accompanied the Indian a little way on the journey, and then returned to the camp, happier and more hopeful than he had been in many hours.
Because of the storm, shed-tents had been set up, and the men were gathered under them for the night. Entering that of the trappers with whom he had camped the night before, Donald comfortably lighted his pipe, and started in to satisfy his curiosity in regard to the campaign that had already been carried on against the Free-Traders' Brotherhood. His companions, one of whom was Timmins, a clerk in the Company's store at Fort Severn, and the other a trader at the warehouse, enlightened him.
“For a week now,” said Timmins, spitting into the fire contemplatively, “there hasn't been much doing. But, before that, shots popped around here considerable. Fitzpatrick thought, and still thinks, I guess, that the only way to nip this free-trader business in the bud was to go at it in the old-fashioned way, with bullets. So, as soon as we had a camp here, we started after those fellows. But they were ready for us, and, when it was all over, three or four of our men were wounded, and nothing was accomplished. The factor got a touch himself, as you know, and, since that, there hasn't been much doing. The old bear is trying to work out a scheme that'll finish things once and for all.”
“I expect there'll be action pretty soon, won't there?” Donald asked.
“Yes, I reckon there will. Now that you've brought Miss Jean back, and the old man's mind is easy, I imagine he'll have a brand new way for us to die worked out in a short while.”
“What are these fellows free trading for, anyhow? Don't we treat them right?” Donald questioned, with loyal indignation.