"I ain't sure he's the right man for it. He's a thoughtful young feller. Seems reasonable. Been through here a time or two.

"Now away out west, the way you're a-goin', there's a man named Dumont, Gabriel Dumont. Captain of the buffalo hunts! Those mtis would follow him through h.e.l.l! Good man! A great man! Reminds me of that poem, writ by a man named Gray, somethin' in it about 'Cromwells guiltless of their country's blood' or some such thing. Well, I seen a few in my lifetime! Men who had greatness but no chance to show it elsewhere than here! I seen 'em! I seen a pa.s.sel of them!"

Nolan glanced at him again. "You ever hear of Frog Town? Well, you fight shy of it. Rob you. Cheat you. Knock you in the head or knife you. That's a bad lot. Sometimes the steamer starts from there, dependin' on how high the water is."

"Steamboatin' on the Red ain't like the Mississippi. Mean. Mean an' cantankerous, that's what it is. River's too high some of the time, too low most of the time, and filled with sawyers, driftin' logs, and sandbars. No fit river for man or beast"

"But it flows north?"

"That it does! That it does!" Nolan put a hand on his sleeve. "Here she comes now, that Molrone girl. Say, is she the pretty one! If I was single a" !"

Orrin turned toward her, smiling. She looked up at him. "Oh! Mr. Sackett! I am so glad you are here! They say we must go from here by oxcart, and I was wondering if a" ?"

"You can go with us. We would have it no other way. And we shall leave tomorrow morning, early."

"I'll be ready."

He paused. "The offer includes Mrs. McCann."

"You want her," Nolan whispered, "you'd better act fast, young feller! She's too durned pretty to be about for long!"

There was a pause, and Nolan pulled his hat brim down and started around the counter. "Don't envy you, young feller. Not one bit! You got a long road to travel, an' it can be mean. Oh, there's folks done it! Palliser done it, the Earl of Sonthesk, he done it, and, of course, folks like David Thompson, Alexander Henry, and their like, but the Sioux weren't around then, an' there wasn't all this trouble with the mtis a""

"But you said Riel was a reasonable man?"

"I did, an' I still say it. Trouble is, both them and the army will need grub, they will need rifles and ammunition, and you'll have 'em a" if you're lucky."

"You made a reference to Gavin?"

"I said nothing. Only" a" he paused a" "I like a careful man. I always did like a careful man, and you shape up like such. I said nothing else. Nothing a-tall!"

He started for the door, then turned and came back. "You get smart, young feller. You latch on to that girl.

You'll travel a weary mile before you see her kind again. Ain't only she's pretty, she's game. She's got gumption! That's my kinda woman, boy. That there's my kinda woman!"

Chapter VIII.

It was cold and dark when he opened his eyes, holding himself still for a long minute, just to listen. There were subdued rustles from the next room where the women were, so they were already astir.

Rising, he bathed lightly and swiftly, then pulled on his pants and boots and began stropping his razor. The vague light in the room was sufficient until he wished to shave; then be lighted the coal-oil lamp. He shaved with care, and as he shaved, he considered the situation.

With luck they would be aboard the International before sundown, and if they hoped to miss the mosquitoes, they must be. Once aboard, he must settle down to some serious thinking, as well as the planning of his every move once he reached Fort Garry.

He rinsed his razor, stropped it once more for the final touch-up, thinking as he did so. It was a foolhardy venture at best, something not to be considered had not a Sackett been in trouble.

You can expect Higginses.

To any Sackett the phrase indicated trouble, but from whom? And why?

Folding his razor, he put it away in its case with his brush and soap, then completed dressing. He rolled his blankets, including his spare pistol, then put out the light.

Taking up his rifle, he stepped to the door, opening it a crack. The air was cool, and he inhaled deeply, waiting and listening.

The small lobby was empty and still. There was no one at the desk. Sitting near the door was a valise that belonged to Kyle Gavin, but the man himself was nowhere about.

As he put his things down near the door, he noticed part of a torn sticker on the valise ... toria. He straightened up, considering that.

Victoria, B.C.? It could be.

So? Gavin could easily have been there. He was a widely traveled man.

Yet when they had talked of British Columbia, he had offered no information on the area, nor had he mentioned visiting there. Why had Nolan warned him against Gavin? Or about him?

He was opening the door to step outside when he heard a click of heels on the board floor and turned. Devnet Molrone looked fresh and lovely, as though she had not traveled a mile.

"The cart is coming," he said. Even as he spoke, it was pulling up at the door. He was surprised, although he should not have been. He had never seen a Red River cart before, although he had heard of them.

Each cart was about six feet long and three wide; the bottom was of one-inch boards; the wheels were seven and a half feet in diameter. The hubs were ten niches across and bored to receive an axle of split oak. The wood used was oak throughout. Each cart was drawn by a single horse and would carry approximately four hundred pounds. No nails were used. Oak pins and rawhide bindings held it all together.

Kyle Gavin followed the cart and gestured to the driver. "Baptiste, who will drive for us. The ladies will ride in the cart. You and I a" Gavin glanced at Orrin a" "will ride horseback. You do not mind?"

Orrin Sackett shrugged. "I prefer to ride. I always feel better on a horse."

Orrin threw his gear into the cart, then placed Devnet's valise and a small trunk in the wagon. Mary McCann had only a valise.

The ungreased axle groaned as they moved out, Kyle Gavin leading off. Orrin slid his rifle into the boot and swung into the saddle.

The sun was not yet up when they moved out, heading north, parallel to the Red River. There was no sign of the Stampers. As the cart was lightly loaded, they moved out at a good pace.

There was no time for conversation but the route was plain before them. At noon, they pulled up under a wide-spreading elm, and Baptiste set about preparing a meal while the horse, after being watered, was picketed on the thick green gra.s.s.

Orrin sat down under the elm's shade, removed his hat, and mopped his brow, his rifle across his lap. His eyes looked off toward the west. "What's over there?" he asked.

Baptiste shrugged a shoulder. "Sand, much sand. Once a sea, I t'ink. Maybe so. Great hills of sand."

"Do you know Riel?"

"Aye, I know him. He is good man a" great man. He speaks what we t'ink." He gestured. "We, the mtis, our home is here. We live our lives on this land. All the time we work. We trap t' fur for Hudson's Bay Company. We have our homes, we raise our children, then the Comp'ny goes away.

"It iss here a" poof! It iss gone! Then come others, strangers who say we have nothing. They will take our homes. Long ago we call upon Louis Riel, the father. He speaks for us. Now we call upon the son."

"I wish him luck," Orrin said.

Baptiste glanced at him slyly. "You do not come for land? Some mans say Yankees come with army. Many mans."

"That's foolish talk," Orrin replied brusquely. "We've problems of our own without interfering in yours. There are always some folks who make such talk for their own purposes, but the American people wouldn't stand for it."

He squinted his eyes toward the river, frowning a little. Had he seen a movement over there? "As for me, I'm going to buy a couple of carts and go west to help my brothers with a cattle drive."

Orrin leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. It was cool and pleasant in the shade of the old elm. Kyle Gavin lay only a few yards away, his head pillowed on his saddle. Devnet, also in the shade, was fanning herself with her hat. He liked the way the sun brought out the tinge of red in her hair.

He liked women, and that might be his trouble. A good judge of men, he had proved a poor judge of women in his first attempt, a very poor judge. Yet what was he doing here, anyway? He should be back at home, building friendships before the next election.

He had been a sheriff, a state legislator, and they said he was a man with a future. Yet when a Sackett was in trouble, they all came to help. Old Barnabas, the father of the clan in America, had started that over two hundred years ago. It was a long, long tune.

He awakened suddenly, conscious that he had actually slept. Baptiste was harnessing the horse again. Gavin was saddling his horse. Somewhat ashamed of being the last to awaken, he went to his horse, smoothed the hair on his back, and put the blanket in place. He saddled swiftly and from long habit drew his rifle from the scabbard.

He started to return it, to settle it more securely in place, but something held his hand. What was wrong? He glanced quickly around, but n.o.body seemed to be watching.

Then he knew. It was his rifle. The weight was wrong.

When a man has lived with guns all his life and with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it. Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the magazine. It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle. The barrel was empty, too.

Somebody had deliberately emptied his rifle while he slept!

Swiftly, he shucked cartridges from his belt and reloaded. He was just putting the rifle in the scabbard when Gavin appeared. "Everything all right? We're about to move out."

"I'm ready. I fell asleep over there; first time I've been caught napping in a long time." He smiled pleasantly. "But I'm awake now. Let's go!"

Gavin walked to his horse, and Orrin Sackett swung into the saddle.

Somebody wanted him defenseless. Who? Why? It could hardly be Logan Sackett's enemies, whoever they were. They were over a thousand miles away. Or were they?

Baptiste started the cart moving at a trot. The horse seemed fit enough to go all day.

Avoiding Gavin, Orrin rode wide of the cart, sometimes in advance, scouting, sometimes falling back. He rode warily, his eyes seeking out every bit of cover.

Why unload his rifle unless it was expected that he would need it at once? He thought suddenly of his pistol. He checked it. All secure, loaded, and ready. But, of course, there had been no way they could get to that.

Off to their right, only a short distance away, was the Red River with its thousands of windings through the low hills and between its green banks. Elm, box elder, occasional cottonwood, and much chokecherry or p.u.s.s.ywillow crowded the banks and for about a quarter of a mile to a hundred yards on either side.

On the left and over a mile away, another line of trees marked another stream. He mentioned it to Baptiste.

"Wild Rice Creek," he said, "he flows into Red." He pointed with his whip in the direction they were traveling. "Not far."

"And the Sheyenne?"

"Far off a" westward. He comes nearer." Baptiste pointed again with his whip to the north. "He comes to marry with Red. You see. Tomorrow, you see."

He rode on ahead, skirting a clump of trees, pausing briefly to let his horse drink at a small creek. He could hear the awful creaking and groaning of the wooden axle of the cart and occasionally a shout from Baptiste.

He listened, hearing the rustle of water in the creek, the scratching of a bird in the leaves, the whisper of the wind through the branches. Quiet sounds, the sounds of stillness, the sound of the woods when they are alone.

His horse, satisfied at last, lifted his dripping muzzle from the cool water, looking about, ears p.r.i.c.ked. A drop or two of water fell from his lips. Then, of his own volition, he started on.

Orrin turned his mount suddenly and walked him downstream in the water, then went out on the bank and wove a careful way through a clump of trees, pausing before emerging into the sunlight.

He could see the cart afar off, perhaps a half mile. Suddenly, his horse's head lifted sharply, ears p.r.i.c.ked. Orrin shucked his rifle and looked carefully about. Then he saw them.

Two men hunkered down, watching the cart. They were a good twenty yards off, and it was not the Stampers. These were strangers. One wore a black coat, the other a buckskin hunting jacket. Both had rifles.

Orrin stroked the horse's neck, speaking quietly to him, watching. The last thing he wanted now was to precipitate trouble, and what he needed most was information.

One of them started to lift his rifle, and Orrin slid his from the scabbard, but the other man put a hand on the other man's rifle and pushed it down. What he said, Orrin did not know, but they both withdrew into the brush. He waited, listening. After a short interval, he heard a distant sound of horse's hoofs, then silence. He rode back to the cart.

Kyle Gavin rode to meet him. "See anything?"

"There's been somebody around. Travelers, most likely."

How far could he trust Gavin? After all, he knew nothing about the man, and somebody had unloaded his rifle, which could have gotten him killed.

Had that somebody been expecting an attack? Perhaps by the two men? Was it his absence from the cart that caused the men to withdraw? Perhaps it was he they wished to kill, and if he was not present a" ?

Toward sundown, the wind began to pick up again. He scouted on ahead, watching for tracks, using cover. They crossed the Wild Rice, skirted a small settlement, and camped near the crest of a hill away from the river, to be at least partly free from mosquitoes.

Before daybreak, they moved on and by noon reached Georgetown.

"The International? She's tied to the bank about twenty mile downstream," a man informed them. "Water's too low here an' there. Wasn't much of a melt this year, so water's low."

The man peered at Orrin. "Name wouldn't be Sackett, would it? There was a feller around askin' after you. Least you come up to what he described. The way he made it out, you was a mighty mean man."

"Me?" Orrin widened his eyes. "I'm a reasonably mild man. Just a tall boy from Tennessee, that's all!"

"Tennessee? Ain't that where they make the good corn liquor? Folks tell me it's the finest whiskey in the world if it's aged proper."

"Kentucky, Tennessee, the Carolinas, they all have good corn whiskey, but as to age, I had a friend down in the Dark Corner who made first-rate whiskey, but he didn't hold much with aging. He said he kept some of it a full week and couldn't see any difference!"

There was a pause, and Orrin asked, "That man who was asking after me? Is he still around?"

"Ain't seen him in a couple of days. A big, tall man with a buckskin huntin' jacket."

"If you see him again," Orrin said mildly, "just tell him Sackett's in town, and if he's got any business with him, to hurry it up because Sackett can't afford to waste around waitin' for him."

"Mister, if I ain't mistaken, that man had killin' on his mind. Least that was the way it sounded."

"Of course. You tell him it's all right now. The frost is out of the ground."

"Frost? What's that got to do with it?"

Orrin smiled pleasantly. "Don't you see? It would be hard to dig a grave for him if the ground were still frozen, but we've had mild weather, and I reckon the digging would be right easy!"