“How does it come,” I asked, in some surprise, “that they haven’t done that before, if they know that George Barreau, the fur-trader, is Slowfoot George of the MacLeod country?” “For the very good reason that they want no Mounted Policemen in this neck of the woods,” he said decidedly. “They don’t want to establish a precedent. They have lorded it in the North for generations, and so long as they continue to do so the Canadian government will permit it. Once the Police begin to come here, the Company authority is at an end. Also their monopoly—for a Mounted Police post up here would mean open country, and a swarm of free traders. Of course, what I said, is mere theory, but I might be on the right track. If I am, we may look for merry times here this winter, and you and I may have to take to the deep snows before spring.” “Suppose—while we’re theorizing,” I ventured, “that Montell had an idea he could get along without you—if he wants to settle your chances of sharing in the profits, as you think—why mightn’t he give the Police a quiet hint, if he gets through?” “I can very well imagine him doing that,” Barreau responded thoughtfully. “But he can’t make it go without me; at least, not just yet. And I do not think he will get through, for all his determination.” I kept Barreau’s prophecy in mind. Days of busy outfitting slipped by; I kept no track of the hunters who indebted themselves to the post, but they came and went by scores. The days merged into a week. At the end of it a black ruck of clouds came scudding out of the west. Thick and lowering they gathered over head, and one day at noon, while Barreau and I stood in the doorway of the store, watching a great multitude of damp snowflakes come eddying down through the still air, Montell, his daughter, and the eight men, came plodding afoot to the gate of the stockade. CHAPTER XIV—INTEREST ON A DEBT They filed past the store, a weary looking squad, Montell’s fat jowl drawn into sullen lines, the men not wholly free of a certain furtive bearing. Observing them I could very well enter into their feelings. My brief experience between Benton and MacLeod had taught me something of the fear that stalks at the elbow of a hunted man. The girl looked up at Barreau and me, and for the first time there was no curl to her lip, no scornful gleam in her eyes. Only a momentary flash of interest. Then the listless, impersonal expression came back to her face. She walked at her father’s elbow like one utterly worn out. The men branched off to the bunkhouse. Montell and his daughter went straight to their cabin.