"As I told you, I will attend to MacNair. My people will not be armed. The stockade would be silly."
Lapierre smiled; drew closer, and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. "I can put one hundred rifles and ten thousand cartridges in the hands of your people in ten days' time."
"Thank you, Mr. Lapierre. I don't need your guns."
The man made a gesture of impatience. "If you choose to ignore MacNair, you must, at least, be prepared to handle the Indians who will crowd your counter like wolves when they hear you are underselling the H.B.C. When you explain that only those who are members of your school may trade at your post, you will be swamped with enrolments. You cannot teach the whole North.
"Those that you will be forced to turn away—what will they do? They will not understand. Instead of returning to their teepees, their nets, and their traplines, they will hang about your post, growing gaunter and hungrier with the passing of the days. And the hunger that gnaws at their bellies will arouse the latent lawlessness of their hearts, and then—if MacNair has not already struck, he will strike then. For MacNair knows Indians and the workings of the Indian mind. He knows how the sullen hatred of their souls may be fanned into a mighty flame. His Indians will circulate among the hungry horde, and the banks of the Yellow Knife will be swept bare. MacNair will have struck. And with such consummate skill will his hand be disguised, that not the faintest breath of suspicion will point toward himself."
"I shall sell to all alike, while my goods last, whether they are members of my school or not——"
"That will be even worse than——"
"It seems you always think of the worst thing that could possibly happen," smiled the girl.
"'To fear the worst, oft cures the worst,'" quoted Lapierre.
"'Don't cross a bridge 'til you get to it' is not so classic, perhaps, but it saves a lot of needless worry."