They nodded grimly. They loved deeds more than words, and Bruce knew they were as eager as himself.
Sandy Stewart, the Lowland Scot of the canny head, at length broke silence, quitting his pipe long enough to utter a brief sentence: "We'll no be shuttin' oor eyes as we build." His own gray eyes twinkled craftily through the steel haze of the Company's tobacco.
Pete Connear was sprawling in sailor's attitude, his back on a bench, his knees drawn up to his chin. He shifted his legs to speak.
"Why not send a spy among them?" he suggested. "There are lots of strange men in our service who could play the part."
"Too dangerous," commented the chief trader seriously. "Any man who enters an enemy's fort these days is putting his neck in a noose. Moreover it's impossible on both sides. The Nor'westers trust no stranger. Neither do we."
"We trusted yon gossoon Follet," put in Terence Burke, who had a brogue which was hard to smother.
"Bah! he's a fool."
"He talks loike a lawyer whin he plases. I think he's a deep wan."
"It's his idiocy. Gaspard is harmless. You see they could no more put a spy into Oxford House than we could employ a traitor to mingle in their ranks at La Roche. We must watch for our opening, daylight or dark, and catch Black Ferguson dozing. I'd give a thousand castors to lay hands on him right now!"
Basil Dreaulond emitted a low chuckle and beat his moccasin with the bowl of his pipe.