“We do mean to try our luck in these parts, but we han’t yet made up our minds exactly where to go. Mayhap you’ll give us the benefit of your advice.”
While he was speaking the fur trader glanced with an earnest yet half stupid stare at the faces of the trappers, as if he wished to impress their features on his memory.
“Advice,” he replied; “you’re welcome to all the advice I’ve got to give ye; and it’s this—go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer—to anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this—” Macgregor paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his voice and said, “This wretched Indian country.”
“I guess, then, that we won’t take yer advice, old man,” said Big Waller with a laugh.
“‘Old man?’” echoed Macgregor with a start.
“Wall, if ye bean’t old, ye ain’t exactly a chicken.”
“You’re a plain-spoken man,” replied the trader, biting his lips.
“I always wos,” retorted Waller.
Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and said—
“Well, friends, you’ll please yourselves, of course—most people do; and if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some of you to stop here. There’s plenty of fun and fighting, if you’re fond of that. What say you now, lad,” turning to March, “to remain with us here at the Mountain Fort? I’ve ta’en a sort of fancy to your face. We want young bloods here. I’ll give you a good wage and plenty to do.”