"Who is the old guy camped beside Bela's shack?" asked the stranger.

"Musq'oosis, a kind of medicine man of her tribe," answered Mahooley.

"Is he her father?"

"No; her father was a white man."

"Who was he?" Joe asked.

Mahooley shrugged. "Search me! Long before my time."

"If old Musq'oosis is no relation, what does he hang around for?"

asked the first questioner.

"Oh, he's always kind of looked after her," said Mahooley. "The other Indians hate her. They think she's too uppish."

"She feeds him; I guess that's reason enough for him to stick around,"

remarked Mattison.

Here Stiffy spoke up from his cubby-hole: "h.e.l.l! Musq'oosis don't need anybody to feed him. He's well fixed. Got a first-cla.s.s credit balance."

Joe, ever on the watch, saw Mahooley turn his head abruptly and scowl at his partner. Stiffy closed his mouth suddenly. Joe, possessed by a single idea, jumped to the conclusion that Musq'oosis had something to do with the mystery he was on the track of. Anyhow, he determined to find out.

"A good balance?" he asked carelessly.

"I mean for an Indian," returned Stiffy quickly. "Nothing to speak of."

Joe was unconvinced. He bided his time.

The talk drifted on to other matters. Joe sat thrashing his brain for an expedient whereby he might get a sight of Musq'oosis's account on Stiffy's ledger.

By and by a breed came in with the news that a York boat was visible, approaching Grier's Point. This provided a welcome diversion for the company. A discussion arose as to whether it would be Stiffy and Mahooley's first boat of the season, or additional supplies for Graves. Finally they decided to ride down to the Point and see.

"Come on, Joe," said one.

Joe a.s.sumed an air of laziness. "What's the use?" he said. "I'll stay here and talk to Stiffy."

When they had gone Joe still sat cudgelling his brain. He was not fertile in expedients. He was afraid to speak even indirectly of the matter on his breast for fear of alarming Stiffy by betraying too much eagerness. Finally an idea occurred to him.

"I say, Stiffy, how does my account stand?"

The trader told him his balance.

"What!" cried Joe, affecting indignation. "I know it's more than that.

You've made a mistake somewhere."

This touched Stiffy at his weakest. "I never make a mistake!" he returned with heat. "You fellows go along ordering stuff, and expect your balance to stay the same, like the widow's cruse. Come and look for yourself!"

This was what Joe desired. He slouched over, grumbling. Stiffy explained how the debits were on one side, the credits on the other.

Each customer had a page to himself. Joe observed that before turning up his account Stiffy had consulted an index in a separate folder.

Joe allowed himself to be reluctantly satisfied, and returned to his seat by the stove. He was advanced by learning how the book was kept, but the grand difficulty remained to be solved; how to get a look at it without Stiffy's knowledge.

Here fortune unexpectedly favoured him. When he was not adding up his columns, Stiffy was for ever taking stock. By rights, he should have been the chief clerk of a great city emporium. Before the others returned he began to count the articles on the shelves.

He struck a difficulty in the cans of condensed milk. Repeated countings gave the same total. "By Gad, we've been robbed!" he cried.

"Unless there's still a case in the loft."

He hastened to the stairs. The instant his weight creaked on the boards overhead the burly, lounging figure by the stove sprang into activity. Joe darted on moccasined feet to Stiffy's little sanctum, and with swift fingers turned up M in the index.

"Musq'oosis; page 452." Silently opening the big book, he thumbed the pages. The noises from upstairs kept him exactly informed of what Stiffy was doing.

Joe found the place, and there, in Stiffy's neat copper plate, was spread out all that he wished to know. It took him but a moment to get the hang of it. On the debit side: "To team, Sambo and Dinah, with wagon and harness, $578.00." Under this were entered various advances to Sam. On the other side Joe read: "By order on Gilbert Beattie, $578.00." Below were the different amounts paid by Graves for hauling.

Joe softly closed the book. So it was Musq'oosis who employed Sam! And Musq'oosis was a kind of guardian of Bela! It did not require much effort of the imagination to see a connection here. Joe's triumph in his discovery was mixed with a bitter jealousy.

However, he was pretty sure that Sam was ignorant of who owned the team he drove, and he saw an opportunity to work a pretty piece of mischief. But first he must make still more sure.

When Stiffy, having found the missing case, came downstairs again, Joe apparently had not moved.

A while later Joe entered the company store, and addressed himself to Gilbert Beattie concerning a plough he said he was thinking of importing. Beattie, seeing a disposition in the other man to linger and talk, encouraged it. This was new business. In any case, up north no man declines the offer of a gossip. Strolling outside, they sat on a bench at the door in the grateful sunshine.

From where they were they could see Bela's shack below, with smoke rising from the cook tent and the old man's tepee alongside.

Musq'oosis himself was squatting at the door, engaged upon some task with his nimble fingers. Consequently, no management on Joe's part was required to bring the conversation around to him. Seeing the trader's eye fall there, he had only to say:

"Great old boy, isn't he?"

"One of the best," said Beattie warmly. "The present generation doesn't produce 'em! He's as honest as he is intelligent, too. Any trader in the country would let him have anything he wanted to take.

His word is as good as his bond."

"Too bad he's up against it in his old age," suggested Joe.

"Up against it, what do you mean?" asked Beattie.

"Well, he can't do much any more. And he doesn't seem to have any folks."

"Oh, Musq'oosis has something put by for a rainy day!" said Beattie.

"For years he carried a nice little balance on my books."

"What did he do with it, then?" asked Joe carelessly.

Beattie suspected nothing more in this than idle talk.

"Transferred it to the French outfit," he said with a shrug. "I suppose he wanted Mahooley to know he's a man of means. He can't have spent any of it. I'll probably get it back some day."

"How did he get it in the first place?" asked Joe casually. "Out of fur?"