"Father," he said slowly, "you have wisdom beyond all years. That would please me very much."
He watched the portly form pass on and wondered at the big heart that beat under the black cassock.
"Dunvegan!" called the deep voice of Malcolm Macleod.
The chief trader turned about to see the Factor standing on the veranda of his house, the sunlight flooding his broad shoulders. "How many Indians have yet to get their debt?" he asked.
"Twenty," Bruce replied. "Eight Ojibways and a dozen Wood Crees."
"Are they all in?"
"All but Running Wolf's tribe! The other Indian camps are ready to strike their tepees. The twenty men are waiting outside the yard."
"Run them off as fast as possible," the Factor ordered. "I'll attend to the preparations of your brigade myself in order that nothing may be lacking. Noon should see you started."
Dunvegan ascended the steps with a sigh.
"Oh, yes!" shouted Macleod, halting him. "What about Beaver Tail the Iroquois who failed to return the required value of pelts in the spring?"