"To the Fort," said Ambrose. "You don't have to come."

"We are together," said Simon grimly.

Ambrose, deeply moved by grat.i.tude, growled inarticulately. He felt himself young to stand alone against such powerful forces.

Crossing the river, they landed below the big yellow house and applied at the side door for Colina. She had returned from her ride, they were told. They were shown into the library.

In this little room Ambrose had already touched the summit of happiness, and tasted despair. He hated it now. He kept his eyes on the carpet.

Simon was visibly uneasy while they waited. "You think this any good?"

he suggested.

"No," said Ambrose bitterly. "I know well enough what I'll get. But I've got to go through with it before taking the next step."

"John Gaviller live well," said Simon significantly, but without bitterness.

Colina came in with her queenliest air. She had changed her riding habit for clinging white draperies that made her look like a lovely, arrogant saint. Ambrose, raising his sullen eyes to her, experienced a new shock of desire that put the idea of flour out of his head.

To old Simon, Colina inclined her head as gracefully and indifferently as a swan. The grim patriarch became humble under the spell of her white beauty. He fingered his hat nervously. To Ambrose Colina said with subtle scorn meant for his ear alone:

"What is it?"

Ambrose screwed down the clamps of self-control. "I asked for you," he said stolidly, "because I did not know if your father was well enough to talk business. May I see him for five minutes?"

"No," she said, without condescending to explain.

"Then I will tell you," said Ambrose. "It is about the Indians across the river. I must have some flour for them."

"Must?" she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"They are suffering from hunger," he said firmly.

"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she said coolly. "He is in charge of the business."

"This is a question for the head to decide," warned Ambrose.

"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she repeated, unmoved.

Ambrose's eyes flamed up. For a moment the two pairs contended--Ambrose's pa.s.sionate, Colina's steely. The man was struggling with the atavic impulse to thrash the maddening, arrogant woman creature into a humbler frame of mind.

It may be, too, that deep in her heart of hearts Colina desired something of the kind. Perhaps she could not master her worser self alone. Anyhow, it was impossible there in her own stronghold, with Simon looking on. They were too civilized or not civilized enough.

Ambrose merely bowed to her and led the way out of the room and out of the house.

"Thank G.o.d, that is over!" he murmured outside.

Crossing the square, they entered the store. It was the first time Ambrose had been inside that famous show-place of the north, but he had no eyes for it now. Gordon Strange welcomed them with smiling heartiness.

"Come in! Come in!" he cried, leading the way into the rear office.

"Sit down! Have a cigar!"

The scowling Ambrose stared as if he thought the man demented. He waved the cigar away and came directly to the point.

"I want to find out what you're willing to do about the Kakisa Indians."

"Sure!" cried Strange with apparently the best will in the world. "Sit down. What do you propose?"

"How much will you charge me to grind me five hundred bushels of grain for them?"

"I'm sorry," said Strange. "The old man won't hear of it."

"Will you let them starve?" cried Ambrose.

"What can I do?" said Strange distressfully. "I'm not the head."

"Grind it in spite of him," said Ambrose. "Humanity and prudence would both be on your side. You'll get their fur by it."

"I think Mr. Gaviller expects to get the fur anyway," said Strange with a seeming deprecatory air--but the suspicion of a smirk wreathed his full lips.

"Then I am to understand that you refuse to grind my grain at any price," said Ambrose.

"Orders are orders," murmured Strange.

"Has Gaviller given you this order since he knew the people were hungry?"

"He has told me his mind many times."

"That is not a direct answer. Some one must take the full responsibility. If I write a short note to Gaviller will you deliver it and bring me back an answer?"

Strange hesitated for the fraction of a second. "Yes," he said.

Ambrose wrote a succinct statement of the situation, and Strange departed.

"Gaviller will never do it," said Simon.

"I don't expect him to," said Ambrose. "But he's got to commit himself."

In due course Strange returned. He offered Ambrose a note, still with his deprecating air. It was in Colina's writing. Ambrose read:

"John Gaviller begs to inform Mr. Ambrose Doane that the only proposal he is willing to discuss will be the sale to him of all the grain in Mr. Doane's possession at one dollar and a half per bushel. In such an event he will also be willing to purchase Mr. Doane's entire outfit of goods at cost. It will be useless for Mr. Doane to address him further in any other connection.

"Enterprise House, September 3."

Ambrose stood reflecting with the note in his hand. For a single moment his heart failed him. His inexperience was appalled by the weight of the decision he had to make.

Oh, for Peter Minot's strong, humorous sense at this crisis! The thought of Peter nerved him. Peter had taken it for granted that he would make good. Ambrose remembered the sacrifices Peter had cheerfully made to finance this expedition.