It was nearly noon six days later that they shoved open the door of the trading post and greeted McTavish, the big bewhiskered Scotchman who was the Hudson's Bay Company's factor.
"What are ye doin' back here—you? An' where is the lad that was with ye? An' you, Pierre Bonnet Rouge, where is the rest of your band? An' don't ye ken ye're two weeks ahead of time for the tradin'?"
"Oui, M's'u," answered the Indian. "But man say——"
He was interrupted by 'Merican Joe who had been fumbling through his pockets and now produced the note Connie had hastily scribbled upon a leaf of his notebook.
McTavish carried the scrap of paper to the heavily frosted window and read it through slowly. Then he read it again, as he combed at his beard with his fingers. Finally, he laid the paper upon the counter and glanced toward a man who sat with his chair tilted back against the bales of goods beyond the roaring stove.
"Here's something for ye, Dan," he rumbled. "Ye was growlin' about fightin' them ice bourdillons, here's a job t'will take ye well off the river."
"What's that?" asked Dan McKeever—Inspector Dan McKeever, now, of N Division, Royal Northwest Mounted Police. "It better be somethin' important if it takes me off the river, 'cause I'm due back at Fort Fitzgerald in a month."
"It's important, all right," answered McTavish, "an lucky it is ye're here. That's one good thing the rough ice done, anyhow. For, if it hadn't wore out your dogs you'd be'n gone this three days. D'ye mind I told ye I'd heard they was a free trader over in the Coppermine country? Well, there's two of 'em, an' they're workin' south. They're right now somewheres south of the big lake. They've run onto the Dog Ribs over near Ste. Therese, an' they're tradin' em hooch!"
"Who says so?" asked the Inspector, eying the two Indians doubtfully.