Overbearing though he was, West was an embryonic diplomat.  He filled a water-bucket with whiskey and handed it, with a tin cup, to the wrinkled old brave nearest him.

“For our friends the Crees,” he said.  “Tell your chief my young man didn’t understand.  He thought he was rescuing a Cree from the Blackfeet.”

“Ugh!  Ugh!” The Indians shuffled away with their booty.

There was more talk, but the guttural protests died away before the temptation of the liquor.  The braves drank, flung a few shots in bravado toward the wagons, and presently took themselves off.

The traders did not renew their quarrel.  West’s reasons for not antagonizing the Morse family were still powerful as ever.  He subdued his desire to punish the young man and sullenly gave orders to hitch up the teams.

It was mid-afternoon when the oxen jogged into Whoop-Up.  The post was a stockade fort, built in a square about two hundred yards long, of cottonwood logs dovetailed together.  The buildings on each side of the plaza faced inward.  Loopholes had been cut in the bastions as a protection against Indians.

In the big stores was a large supply of blankets, beads, provisions, rifles, and clothing.  The adjacent rooms were half-empty now, but in the spring they would be packed to the eaves with thousands of buffalo robes and furs brought in from outlying settlements by hunters.  Later these would be hauled to Fort Benton and from there sent down the Missouri to St. Louis and other points.

Morse, looking round, missed a familiar feature.

“Where’s the liquor?” he asked.

“S-sh!” warned the clerk with whom he was talking.  “Haven’t you heard?  There’s a bunch of police come into the country from Winnipeg.  The lid’s on tight.”  His far eye drooped to the cheek in a wise wink.  “If you’ve brought in whiskey, you’d better get it out of the fort and bury it.”

“That’s up to West.  I wouldn’t advise any police to monkey with a cargo of his.”

“You don’t say.”  The clerk’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.  “Well, I’ll just make a li’l’ bet with you.  If the North-West Mounted start to arrest Bully West or to empty his liquor-kegs, they’ll go right through with the job.  They’re go-getters, these red-coats are.”

“Red-coats?  Not soldiers, are they?”

“Well, they are and they ain’t.  They’re drilled an’ in companies.  But they can arrest any one they’ve a mind to, and their officers can try and sentence folks.  They don’t play no favorites either.  Soon as they hear of this mix-up between the Crees and the Blackfeet they’ll be right over askin’ whyfors, and if they find who gave ’em the booze some one will be up to the neck in trouble and squawkin’ for help.”

West had been talking in whispers with Reddy Madden, the owner of the place.  He stepped to the door.

“Don’t onhook, Brad.  We’re travelin’ some more first,” he called to Stearns.