"You mean that, sir?"
"Yes. But will you take advice from an old frontiersman? I know you're too sensible a lad to run away and starve in the bush with a gun you can't use, in swamps you cannot cross. These good voyageurs will teach you how to hunt, and if you can feed the crew it stands to reason you wouldn't starve alone."
"Then I run away, sir?"
"I wouldn't. Inland the tribes are dangerous, unless you know their ways. Run by all means, but, if you want to live, go with these men to the point where the River of the Kutenais falls into Flatbow Lake. There you will find my old friend the Russian, Nicolai Tschirikoff."
"I've heard that name, sir, somewhere, Fatbald Tschirikov."
"That's curious, for the doctor and myself are the only men here in Oregon who know him by that name, or call him Fatbald."
"I must ha' dreamed it."
"Maybe. Anyway"—Douglas picked up his blanket and wrapped it about him like a Roman toga—"he'll make a man of you, hunter, trapper, able to hold your own among the tribes."
"Gawd bless you, sir."
"But, lad, remember that you've run away, and as a Justice of the Peace I'm after you, to catch you if I can, and ship you to England, to be hanged because your worthy father killed your mother. Don't let me catch you, Bill.