“Yes, a black-haired she-devil in her father’s own image!” said Gault.
“Well, good-by until next Spring,” said Ogilvie. “I wish you every success. If Blackburn were out of the way this would be the greatest Post in the country.” He looked around him with assumed regret. “You have made so many improvements it would be a pity if we had to close you out. But of course we must have the fur. . . . Good-by. . . . Good-by. . . .”
Gault watched him go with rage and bitterness making his heart black. Damn all financiers and officials who fattened on the labors of better men than themselves! Gault had not told him the full history of his relations with Hector Blackburn; but no doubt Ogilvie knew anyhow, for it was common gossip throughout the fur country; how Gault and Blackburn had come to grips a dozen times during the past twenty years, and Gault had been invariably and humiliatingly worsted. He too, was a ruthless and determined man, and when he thought over these things it was almost more than he could bear.
Andrew Gault was a bachelor, living alone in his monstrosity of a yellow clapboarded house. A handsome, lean, grizzled man in his early fifties, with a cold and polished manner that one would hardly expect to find in a fur-trader. It was a point of pride with Gault never to allow himself to go slack. For all he was seven hundred miles from town, his house was well-furnished, his servants well-trained. These last were of the Cree tribe, a handsomer and more intelligent race than the miserable Slavis, but not so manageable.
Some days after the visit of Ogilvie, Gault, having finished his breakfast, remained sitting at the table, gloomily staring at the cloth, and abstractedly crumbling pellets of bread. His mind was forever traveling the same weary round without finding a way out. Thoughts of Hector Blackburn poisoned his very being. How to get back at him; how to ruin him. Ah! his enemy seemed to be intrenched at every point! Blackburn could laugh at him. Stronger measures must be taken now, for certain ruin stared Gault in the face. Somehow, Blackburn’s own weapons must be turned against him. Could not the ignorant Slavis be incited to rebellion? They must have their own medicine men or conjurers, and these fellows could generally be bought. He, Gault, must get hold of Etzooah before the next fur season set in.
Toma, Gault’s old house-servant entered the room. He was excited. “Wah! Man come from Blackburn’s Post,” he announced.
To Gault this had the effect of a miracle. He sprang to his feet. “What man?” he cried.
“Name Etzooah,” said Toma.
“Bring him to me! Bring him to me!” shouted Gault. “Let none else come in until I call.”