The storekeeper heard him out, a sneering smile on his white face. Inside, he raged with furious anger, but he did not let his feelings come to the surface. He was a man who had the patience to wait for his vengeance. The longer it was delayed, the heavier would it be. A characteristic of his cold, callous temperament was that he took fire slowly, but, once lit, his hate endured like peat coals in a grate. A vain man, his dignity was precious to him. He writhed at the defeat Morse had put upon him, at his failure with Jessie, at the scornful public rebuke of her father. Upon all three of these some day he would work a sweet revenge. Like all gamblers, he followed hunches. Soon, one of these told him, his chance would come. When it did he would make all three of them sweat blood. Beresford met Tom Morse later in the day. He cocked a whimsical eye at the fur-trader. "I hear McRae's going to sue you for damages to his house," he said. "Where did you hear all that?" asked his friend, apparently busy inspecting a half-dozen beaver furs. "And Whaley, for damages to his internal machinery. Don't you know you can't catapult through a man's tummy with a young pine tree and not injure his physical geography?" the constable reproached. "When you're through spoofin' me, as you subjects of the Queen call it," suggested Tom. "Why, then, I'll tell you to keep an eye on Whaley. He doesn't love you a whole lot for what you did, and he's liable to do you up first chance he gets." "I'm not lookin' for trouble, but if Whaley wants a fight--" "He doesn't--not your kind of a fight. His idea will be to have you foul before he strikes. Walk with an eye in the back of your head. Sleep with it open, Don't sit at windows after lamps are lit--not without curtains all down. Play all your cards close." The red-coat spoke casually, slapping his boot with a small riding-switch. He was smiling. None the less Tom knew he was in dead earnest. "Sounds like good advice. I'll take it," the trader said easily. "Anything more on your chest?" "Why, yes. Where did Whaley go to-day? What called him out of town on a hurry-up trip of a few hours?" "Don't know. Do you?" "No, but I'm a good guesser." "Meanin'?" "Bully West. Holed up somewhere out in the woods. A fellow came in this morning and got Whaley, who snowshoed back with him at once." Tom nodded agreement. "Maybeso. Whaley was away five or six hours. That means he probably traveled from eight to ten miles out." "Question is, in what direction? Nobody saw him go or come--at least, so as to know that he didn't circle round the town and come in from the other side." "He'll go again, with supplies for West. Watch him." "I'll do just that." "He might send some one with them."