Sergeant-Major Whittaker knocked. Welland opened the door, a startled exclamation springing to his lips at sight of the scarlet coats.
"Good God!" he cried sharply. Then, "Oh, it's you! You scared me, boys. I never know who's prowling 'round in parts like these. But welcome—come right in."
"Did you think we'd come for you, old chap?" laughed Cranbrook, as they clanked across the threshold.
"You might have done, at that!" Welland grinned. "But what's the game, boys? Eh? Never mind that now, though. Whatever it is, you'll eat and spend the night here. I won't take 'No.'"
"Here's our orders to you, Welland," replied the Sergeant-Major. "A place for five horses; water for the same; use of your fire for cooking grub for four hungry men and a boy"—with a smiling nod at Hector—"and shelter till we choose to move."
"Done! I know you're after some darn whiskey-trader; so you're welcome more than ever," cried Welland. "Hey, Lizzie; fix fire, get table ready—quick, mighty quick. You're going to eat on me, Sergeant-Major."
At Welland's command, his squaw, a poor, bedraggled object, in home-made skirt and blanket, her hair braided and looped up behind, emerged from a corner and began to obey the orders of her lord and master.
"Now, the stable. Not a soul will guess your horses are there!"
He was a shrewd customer.
The horses put up, they all sat down to supper, while Lizzie waited on them. Welland treated her roughly and Hector's estimation of him bumped down suddenly. As they ate, Hector studied the room, which he had never seen before. It gave a not unfavourable insight into the owner's character. Surprisingly well furnished, it was carpeted in buffalo robes, its walls were hung with wolf skins, and pictures of places and people dear to Welland alternated with cuts from magazines to give it a touch of civilization. A couch covered by a gay Navajo blanket occupied a corner. Several first-class rifles stood in racks. There were books on shelves. This was the home of a man of at least some culture.