The chief trader turned to Maskwa with an exclamation of amazement.
"By Rupert's bones, but you are bold," he cried admiringly.
"The move of the bold often wins," remarked Maskwa.
Dunvegan revolved the project mentally, getting each separate point of view.
"We'll do it," he rapped out, smashing a burnt stick-end into the coals with a force that sent fresh flames roaring up. "Maskwa, we'll do it!"
"Good!" exclaimed the Ojibway, without elation. "But first we need the password of the gates. If Strong Father allows, I will get it." He motioned to the prone, blanket-wrapped prisoners alongside the fire.
"Get it," ordered the chief trader. "But no torture, remember!"
"So," promised Maskwa coolly. "I will frighten it from one of them."
He plucked the Worcester pistol out of Dunvegan's belt and went slowly up the line. Presently he singled out the spokesman of the captives lying completely muffled up in the sleeping robes. At the touch of Maskwa's toe the Nor'wester sat erect, his black-bearded, swarthy face full of evil glints. He was one of the scum that the younger fur company had picked up to swell their none too formidable ranks.
The Ojibway squatted opposite this fellow, in whose charge the Niskitowaney fur train had been traveling.