He stepped forth from his hiding place, a swart, sinewy son of the North, spawn of the wilderness, fit to face hazard and court risk in a land where danger rode round with the sun.
A single glance of the courier's shrewd eyes took in every member of the group before him. One face was strange. Between tall Maskwa, the Ojibway fort runner and the most trusted Indian in the service, and Wahbiscaw, the Cree bowsman, stood the alien. Just the fraction of a minute Basil puzzled over him, then flashed his friendly grin at all his old friends.
"Bo' jou', bo' jou'," he greeted, in the northland fashion.
"Bo jou', Dreaulond," they returned. "Good journey?"
"Oui," responded the courier. "I have no troubl' wit' de Nor'westaires. Dey too mooch busy get ready for de wintaire trade, mebbe."
"You've come over from Nelson House, have you?" questioned Bruce Dunvegan.
"Vraiment," Basil answered, tapping the dispatch packet at his belt. "W'at you doin'?"
"Three things," the chief trader enumerated; "drafting a clerk from Norway House, selecting a site for a new post to hold Fort La Roche in check, and spying upon it and the other Northwesters' forts in hopes of locating Macleod's daughter. We haven't succeeded in placing her yet."
At which information Dreaulond's twinkling eyes assumed an expression of deepest gravity.
"Ba gosh, dat's fonny t'ing," he commented. "You hunt an' not find. I find wit'out huntin'. I see dat girl in de Cree camp on de Katchawan."