“No; I was saved in another way,” said the captain—“by your old friend Gray Moose, Carew. It seems that he and a dozen redskins had been following Mackenzie up on account of some old grudge—some act of false dealing—and that night they surprised and attacked the camp. They cut me loose first, seeing that I was a prisoner, and I took part in the scrimmage. I grappled with Mackenzie and overpowered him, and to save my own life I had to stab him to the heart—”
“He deserved it,” said I. “It was a just retribution. And how did the fight turn out?”
“Two of Mackenzie’s party escaped, and the rest were killed,” Captain Rudstone answered. “I knew little of it at the time, for I was shot through the shoulder and fainted from loss of blood. Gray Moose and his braves carried me to an Indian village some miles to the west, tended me until I was recovered, and then supplied me with a sledge and food for the long journey South. And it ended, as you know, in my falling into the hands of those Northwest Company ruffians a few miles from my destination.”
“But how do you suppose Ruthven knew of the affair?” asked Boyd.
“From the two Indians who escaped,” replied the captain; “they must have pushed right on down country. I’ll tell you more of my story at another time. Yonder, if I am not mistaken, are the lights of Fort Garry.”
CHAPTER XLII.
TRUNK 409.
At three o’clock the next afternoon Christopher Burley and myself might have been found in the factor’s private office, waiting expectantly for the door to open, and gazing meanwhile at the desk littered with papers and maps, the shelves stacked with musty documents and old account books. I had not been up long, having slept till past noon. It had been daylight when I retired, and Captain Rudstone was then closeted with the factor. I had seen neither of them since.