“Sounds like good advice.  I’ll take it,” the trader said easily.  “Anything more on your chest?”

“Why, yes.  Where did Whaley go to-day?  What called him out of town on a hurry-up trip of a few hours?”

“Don’t know.  Do you?”

“No, but I’m a good guesser.”

“Meanin’?”

“Bully West.  Holed up somewhere out in the woods.  A fellow came in this morning and got Whaley, who snowshoed back with him at once.”

Tom nodded agreement.  “Maybeso.  Whaley was away five or six hours.  That means he probably traveled from eight to ten miles out.”

“Question is, in what direction?  Nobody saw him go or come—­at least, so as to know that he didn’t circle round the town and come in from the other side.”

“He’ll go again, with supplies for West.  Watch him.”

“I’ll do just that.”

“He might send some one with them.”

“Yes, he might do that,” admitted Beresford.  “I’ll keep an eye on the store and see what goes out.  We want West.  He’s a cowardly murderer—­killed the man who trusted him—­shot him in the back.  This country will be well rid of him when he’s hanged for what he did to poor Tim Kelly.”

“He’s a rotten bad lot, but he’s dangerous.  Never forget that,” warned the fur-buyer.  “If he ever gets the drop on you for a moment, you’re gone.”

“Of course we may be barking up the wrong tree,” the officer reflected aloud.  “Maybe West isn’t within five hundred miles of here.  Maybe he headed off another way.  But I don’t think it.  He had to get back to where he was known so as to get an outfit.  That meant either this country or Montana.  And the word is that he was seen coming this way both at Slide Out and crossing Old Man’s River after he made his getaway.”

“He’s likely figurin’ on losin’ himself in the North woods.”

“My notion, too.  Say, Tom, I have an invitation from a young lady for you and me.  I’m to bring you to supper, Jessie McRae says.  To-night.  Venison and sheep pemmican—­and real plum pudding, son.  You’re to smoke the pipe of peace with Angus and warm yourself in the smiles of Miss Jessie and Matapi-Koma.  How’s the programme suit you?”

Tom flushed.  “I don’t reckon I’ll go,” he said after a moment’s deliberation.

His friend clapped an affectionate hand on his shoulder.  “Cards down, old fellow.  Spill the story of this deadly feud between you and Jessie and I’ll give you an outside opinion on it.”

The Montanan looked at him bleakly.  “Haven’t you heard?  If you haven’t, you’re the only man in this country that hasn’t.”

“You mean—­about the whipping?” Beresford asked gently.

“That’s all,” Morse answered bitterly.  “Nothing a-tall.  I merely had her horsewhipped.  You wouldn’t think any girl would object to that, would you?”

“I’d like to hear the right of it.  How did it happen?”