"Good." Jacob Welse whirled his chair about. "Captain McGregor." "Ay." "I had other work cut out for you this winter; but I have changed my mind and chosen you to go down with the Laura. Can you guess why?" Captain McGregor swayed his weight from one leg to the other, and a shrewd chuckle of a smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. "Going to be trouble," he grunted. "And I couldn't have picked a better man. Mr. Bally will give you detailed instructions as you go aboard. But let me say this: If we can't scare enough men out of the country, there'll be need for every pound of grub at Fort Yukon. Understand?" "Ay." "So no extravagance. You are taking three hundred men down with you. The chances are that twice as many more will go down as soon as the river freezes. You'll have a thousand to feed through the winter. Put them on rations,--working rations,--and see that they work. Cordwood, six dollars per cord, and piled on the bank where steamers can make a landing. No work, no rations. Understand?" "Ay." "A thousand men can get ugly, if they are idle. They can get ugly anyway. Watch out they don't rush the caches. If they do,--do your duty." The other nodded grimly. His hands gripped unconsciously, while the scar on his forehead took on a livid hue. "There are five steamers in the ice. Make them safe against the spring break-up. But first transfer all their cargoes to one big cache. You can defend it better, and make the cache impregnable. Send a messenger down to Fort Burr, asking Mr. Carter for three of his men. He doesn't need them. Nothing much is doing at Circle City. Stop in on the way down and take half of Mr. Burdwell's men. You'll need them. There'll be gun-fighters in plenty to deal with. Be stiff. Keep things in check from the start. Remember, the man who shoots first comes off with the whole hide. And keep a constant eye on the grub." "And on the forty-five-nineties," Captain McGregor rumbled back as he passed out the door. "John Melton--Mr. Melton, sir. Can he see you?" "See here, Welse, what's this mean?" John Melton followed wrathfully on the heels of the clerk, and he almost walked over him as he flourished a paper before the head of the company. "Read that! What's it stand for?" Jacob Welse glanced over it and looked up coolly. "One thousand pounds of grub." "That's what I say, but that fellow you've got in the warehouse says no,--five hundred's all it's good for." "He spoke the truth." "But--" "It stands for one thousand pounds, but in the warehouse it is only good for five hundred." "That your signature?" thrusting the receipt again into the other's line of vision. "Yes." "Then what are you going to do about it?" "Give you five hundred. What are you going to do about it?" "Refuse to take it." "Very good. There is no further discussion."