"No. He went out after dinner. He said he had to see a man. He did not mention his name. He came back at dusk. I was on the veranda. He was walking as usual--perfectly straight. But one hand was pressed to his side.

"He pa.s.sed me without speaking. I followed him in. In the pa.s.sage he said: 'I am shot. Tell no one but Giddings. Then he collapsed in my arms. He has not spoken since."

Ambrose heard this with mixed feelings. His heart bled for Colina.

Yet the grim thought would not down that the tyrannous old trader had received no more than his deserts. He soothed her with clumsy tenderness.

"Why do you want to keep it a secret?" he asked, after a while.

"Father wished it," said Colina. "We think he must have had a good reason. The doctor thinks it is best. There has been a good deal of trouble with the natives; many of them are ugly and rebellious. And we whites are so few!

"Father could keep them in hand. They are in such awe of him; they regard him as something almost more than mortal. If they learn that he is vulnerable--who knows what might happen!"

"I understand," said Ambrose grimly.

"So no one knows, not even the servants. I have hidden all the--things. Of course, the man who did it will never tell." The calm voice suddenly broke in a cry of agony. "Oh, Ambrose!"

He comforted her mutely.

"It is so dreadful to think that any one should hate him so!" said poor Colina. "So unjust! They are like his children. He is severe with them only for their good!"

Ambrose concealed a grim smile at this partial view of John Gaviller.

"He lies there so white and still," she went on. "It nearly breaks my heart to think how I have quarreled with him and gone against his wishes. If waiting on him day and night will ever make it up to him, I'll do it!"

Ambrose's breast stirred a little with resentment, but he kept his mouth shut. He understood that it was good for Colina to unburden her breast.

"Ah, thank G.o.d I have you!" she murmured.

They heard the doctor coming, and Colina drew away. She introduced the two men.

"Mr. Doane is my friend," she said. "He is one of us."

The doctor favored Ambrose with a glance of astonishment before making his professional announcement. Ambrose saw the typical hanger-on of a trading-post, a white man of Gaviller's age, careless in dress, with a humorous, intelligent face, showing the ravages of a weak will. At present, with the sole responsibility of an important case on his shoulders, he looked something like the man he was meant to be.

It was no time for commonplaces.

"John is conscious," he said directly. "He is showing remarkable resistance. There is no need for any immediate alarm. He wants to make a statement. I made the excuse of getting pencil and paper to come down. In a matter of such importance I think there should be another witness."

"I will go," said Colina.

Giddings shook his head. "Your father expressly forbade it," he said.

"He wishes to spare you."

Colina made an impatient gesture, but seemed to acquiesce.

"You go," she said to Ambrose.

Giddings looked doubtful, but said nothing.

"I'm afraid the sight of me--" Ambrose began.

"I don't mean that you should go in," said Colina. "If you stand in the doorway he cannot see you the way he lies."

Ambrose nodded and followed Giddings out.

"What is the wound?" he asked.

"Through the left lung. He will not die of the shot. I can't tell yet what may develop."

Ambrose halted at the open door of Gaviller's room. The windows looked out over the river, and the cooling northwest wind was wafted through.

The hospital-like bareness of the room evinced a simple taste in the owner. The gimcracks he loved to make were all for the public rooms below.

The head of the bed was toward the door. On the pillow Ambrose could see the gray head, a little bald on the crown.

Giddings, after feeling his patient's pulse, sat down beside the bed with pad and pencil.

"I'm ready to take down what you say," he said.

The wounded man said in a weak but surprisingly clear voice:

"You understand this is not to be used unless the worst happens to me."

Giddings nodded.

"You must give me your word that no proceedings will be taken against the man I name--unless I die. I will not die. When I get up I will attend to him."

"I promise," said Giddings.

After a brief pause Gaviller said:

"I was shot by the breed known as Sandy Selkirk."

Ambrose sharply caught his breath. A great light broke upon him.

Gaviller went on:

"He caught a black fox last winter that he has persistently refused to give up to me. Out of sheer obstinacy he preferred to starve his family. Yesterday Strange told me he thought it likely Selkirk would try to dispose of the skin to Ambrose Doane, the free-trader who is hanging around the fort."

Giddings sent a startled glance toward the door.

"Strange said perhaps news of it had been carried down the river, and that was what Doane had come for. So I went to Selkirk's shack last night to get it. I consider it mine, because Selkirk already owes the company its value. Any attempt to dispose of it elsewhere would be the same as robbing me.

"Selkirk refused to give it up, and I took it. He shot me from behind.

There were no witnesses but his family. That is all I want to say."

"I have it," murmured Giddings.

The gray head rolled impatiently on the pillow. "Giddings, don't let that skin get away. I rely on you. Be firm. Be secret."