'Ho!' cried the half-breed through a crack.
'Open up,' came back the answer in pure English.
'Goldam!' shouted McAuliffe, 'it's the devil, or a pal of his.'
The door creaked back. On the threshold, with the night behind, stood a young man, a rifle swinging from his hand.
'Chief Factor McAuliffe, I reckon?' he said smoothly, entering the fort.
'That's so,' the burly Factor replied. 'The devil bless me if I know who you are.'
'Benedicite!' laughed the new-comer, a strange smile crossing his handsome face. 'My name is Hugh Lamont—at the service of the Hudson's Bay Company,' he concluded.
'I guess the Company can hustle along without smashing your shoulders,' returned McAuliffe, who was absolute despot of the district.
'I'm not so sure,' came the cool answer. 'This is a bad time for modesty, so I'll hurt my feelings to the extent of letting you know that there isn't a man in the Dominion who can down me at any range with rifle or revolver. Like to try?'
This was an unfortunate challenge. McAuliffe was accustomed to boast of being the worst shot on the Continent. It was, however, a fact that he was perfectly useless as a marksman.