“You are doing a lively business this morning,” I remarked to the factor.
“Yes; I am having quite a run,” he replied. “I can’t exactly account for it.” In a lower tone he added: “Every man of them is purchasing powder and shot, Denzil.”
This seemed a partial confirmation of my suspicions.
“It’s queer, to say the least,” I answered. “I wouldn’t sell them much. Tell them you’re running short.”
“They won’t believe that,” said Griffith Hawke.
“Stay and lend me a hand, Denzil, if you’ve nothing else to do.”
“I’ll come back in a moment,” I replied. “I’ve got a little matter to attend to. I may want you to help me. If I shout for you, close the grating and run out.”
Griffith Hawke’s eyes dilated, and in a tone of astonishment he demanded to know what I meant. But I did not wait to answer him. I slipped unheeding out of the trading house, turned the corner and almost ran into a big savage who was coming from the rear of the inclosure—a place in which he had no business to be.
He was apparently an Assiniboin brave, decked out in cariboo robe and blanket, fringed leggings, and beaded moccasins. But his cheek bones were not prominent enough for an Indian, and when he saw me a ruddy color flashed through the sickly copper of his skin and a menacing look shone in his eyes.
And I, at the first glimpse, knew that the fellow was no more of a redskin than myself. I had rightly interpreted the bit of birch bark, which meant that a white man—a spy of the Northwest Company—would be found within the fort disguised as an Indian. I was convinced that the object of my search stood before me, and I even had a lurking suspicion that the rogue was none other than Cuthbert. Mackenzie, though he was too cleverly disguised for me to feel certain of that fact.