“Yes.”

“Take him along, then.  Wish you luck of him.”

As soon as he reached Fort Benton, Tom reported to his uncle.  He told the story of the whiskey cargo and its fate, together with his own adventures subsequent to that time.

The head of the trading firm was a long, loose-jointed Yankee who had drifted West in his youth.  Since then he had acquired gray hairs and large business interests.  At Inspector MacLean’s message he grinned.

“Thinks it’s bad business, does he?”

“Told me to tell you so,” Tom answered.

“Didn’t say why, I guess.”

“No.”

The old New Englander fished from a hip pocket a plug of tobacco, cut off a liberal chew, and stowed this in his cheek.  Then, lounging back in the chair, he cocked a shrewd eye at his nephew.

“Wonder what he meant.”

Tom volunteered no opinion.  He recognized his uncle’s canny habit of fishing in other people’s minds for confirmation of what was in his own.

“Got any idee what he was drivin’ at?” the old pioneer went on.

“Sorta.”

C.N.  Morse chuckled.  “Got a notion myself.  Let’s hear yours.”

“The trade with the North-West Mounted is gonna be big for a while.  The Force needs all kinds of supplies.  It’ll have to deal through some firm in Benton as a clearin’ house.  He’s servin’ notice that unless C.N.  Morse & Company mends its ways, it can’t do business with the N.W.M.P.”

“That all?” asked the head of the firm.

“That’s only half of it.  The other half is that no firm of whiskey-runners will be allowed to trade across the line.”

C.N. gave another little chirrup of mirth.  “Keep your brains whittled up, don’t you?  Any advice you’d like to give?”

Tom was not to be drawn.  “None, sir.”

“No comments, son?  Passin’ it up to Uncle Newt, eh?”

“You’re the head of the firm.  I’m hired to do as I’m told.”

“You figure on obeyin’ orders and lettin’ it go at that?”

“Not quite.”  The young fellow’s square chin jutted out.  “For instance, I’m not gonna smuggle liquor through any more.  I had my eyes opened this trip.  You haven’t been on the ground like I have.  If you want a plain word for it, Uncle Newt—­”

“Speak right out in meetin’, Tom.  Shouldn’t wonder but what I can stand it.”  The transplanted Yankee slanted at his nephew a quizzical smile.  “I been hearin’ more or less plain language for quite a spell, son.”

Tom gave it to him straight from the shoulder, quietly but without apology.  “Sellin’ whiskey to the tribes results in wholesale murder, sir.”

“Strong talk, boy,” his uncle drawled.

“Not too strong.  You know I don’t mean anything personal, Uncle Newt.  To understand this thing you’ve got to go up there an’ see it.  The plains tribes up there go crazy over fire-water an’ start killin’ each other.  It’s a crime to let ’em have it.”