Dunvegan took the papers Macleod had sent to him and read them. They concerned ordinary matters of fort routine and gave him no news of the home post.
"How is everything at Oxford House, Basil?" he inquired with ill-concealed eagerness.
"Everyt'ing be quiet," returned the courier. "De Nor'westaires don' move mooch."
His eyes, however, held a hint of private information, and the chief trader did not miss the glance.
"Come to the trading room when you get warmed, Dreaulond," he requested. "I'd like to see you."
"Oui," assented Basil. "W'en I get dis cold out ma bones."
Dunvegan disappeared. The Hudson's Bay men volleyed their questions at Dreaulond. They were ravenous for word of their kind from whom the busy months had cut them off. Between questions he slowly revolved before the fireplace, warming his chest, scorching his back, sucking the heat into his chilled marrow.
"Any news of the Factor's daughter?" Connear asked him.
"Non!" Basil frowned and added: "She's wit' Black Ferguson, I bet on dat. She got de spirit of her père. She'd go to La Roche an' mak' heem geeve her sheltaire."
"And Running Wolf gone over to him, too. We found that out. That whelp Three Feathers made it hot enough for us at Du Loup." Connear spat copiously into the snarling birch logs and grinned at the remembrance of the fight. "How's the English clerk?" he asked after a minute. "Drinkin' any?"