In a moment one of the men on the veranda began to talk.  It was not Galen Albret, though Galen Albret had summoned them, but MacDonald, his Chief Trader and his right-hand man.  Galen Albret himself made no sign, but sat, his head sunk forward, watching the men’s faces from his cavernous eyes.

“You have been called for especial duty,” began MacDonald, shortly.  “It is volunteer duty, and you need not go unless you want to.  We have called you because you have the reputation of never having failed.  That is not much for you, Herron, because you are young.  Still we believe in you.  But you, Bolton, are an old hand on the Trail, and it means a good deal.”

Galen Albret stirred.  MacDonald shot a glance in his direction and hastened on.

“I am going to tell you what we want.  If you don’t care to tackle the job, you must know nothing about it.  That is distinctly understood?”

He hitched forward nearer the light, scanning the men carefully.  They nodded.

“Sure!” added Herron.

“That’s all right.  Do you men remember Jingoss, the Ojibway, who outfitted here a year ago last summer?”

“Him they calls th’ Weasel?” inquired Sam Bolton.

“That’s the one.  Do you remember him well? how he looks?”

“Yes,” nodded Sam and Dick Herron together.

“We’ve got to have that Indian.”

“Where is he?” asked Herron.  Sam Bolton remained silent.

“That is for you to find out.”  MacDonald then went on to explain himself, hitching his chair still nearer, and lowering his voice.  “A year ago last summer,” said he, “he got his ‘debt’ at the store of two hundred castors[1] which he was to pay off in pelts the following spring.  He never came back.  I don’t think he intends to.  The example is bad.  It has never happened to us before.  Too many Indians get credit at this Post.  If this man is allowed to go unpunished, we’ll be due for all sorts of trouble with our other creditors.  Not only he, but all the rest of them, must be made to feel that an embezzler is going to be caught, every time.  They all know he’s stolen that debt, and they’re waiting to see what we’re going to do about it.  I tell you this so you’ll know that it’s important.”

[Footnote 1:  One hundred dollars.]

“You want us to catch him?” said Bolton, more as a comment than an inquiry.

“Catch him, and catch him alive!” corrected MacDonald.  “There must be no shooting.  We’ve got to punish him in a way that will make him an example.  We’ve got to allow our Indians ‘debt’ in order to keep them.  If we run too great a risk of loss, we cannot do it.  That is a grave problem.  In case of success you shall have double pay for the time you are gone, and be raised two ranks in the service.  Will you do it?”

Sam Bolton passed his emaciated, gnarled hand gropingly across his mouth, his usual precursor of speech.  But Galen Albret abruptly interposed, speaking directly, with authority, as was his habit.