The Russian looked sceptical.  “We got MacNair where we want him if he’s dead,” he grunted.  “Who killed him?”

Lapierre made a gesture of impatience.  “He is not dead.  He’s locked up in the Fort Saskatchewan jail.”

For the first time Tostoff showed real interest.  “What’s against him?” he asked eagerly.

“Murder, for one thing,” answered Lapierre.  “That will hold him without bail until the spring assizes.  He will probably get out of that, though.  But they are holding him also on four or five liquor charges.”

“Liquor charges!” cried Tostoff, with an angry snort.  “O-ho! so that’s his game?  That’s why he’s been bucking us—­because he’s got a line of his own!”

Lapierre laughed.  “Not so fast, Tostoff, not so fast.  It is a frame-up.  That is, the charges are not, but the evidence is.  I attended to that myself.  I think we have enough on him to keep him out of the cold for a couple of winters to come.  But you can’t tell.  And while we have him we will put the screws to him for all there is in it.  It is the chance of a lifetime.  What we want now is evidence—­and more evidence.

“Here is the scheme:  You fix up a consignment, five or ten gallons, the usual way, and instead of shooting it in by the Athabasca, cut into the old trail on the Beaver and take it across the Methye portage to a cache on the Clearwater.  Brown’s old cabin will about fill the bill.  We ought to be able to cache the stuff by Christmas.

“In the meantime, I will slip up the river and tip it off to the Mounted at Fort McMurray that I got it straight from down below that MacNair is going to run in a batch over the Methye trail, and that it is to be cached on the bank of the Clearwater on New Year’s Day.  That will give your packers a week to make their getaway.  And on New Year’s Day the Mounted will find the stuff in the cache.  There will be nobody to arrest, but they will have the evidence that will clinch the case against MacNair.  And with MacNair behind the bars we will have things our own way north of sixty.”

Tostoff shook his head dubiously.

“Bad business, Lapierre,” he warned.  “Winter trailing is bad business.  The snow tells tales.  We haven’t been caught yet.  Why?  Not because we’ve been lucky, but because we’ve been careful.  Water leaves no trail.  We’ve always run our stuff in in the summer.  You say you’ve got the goods on MacNair.  I say, let well enough alone.  The Mounted ain’t fools—­they can read the sign in the snow.”

Lapierre arose with a curse.  “You white-livered clod!” he cried.  “Who is running this scheme?  You or I?  Who delivers the whiskey to the Indians?  And who pays you your money?  I do the thinking for this outfit.  I didn’t come down here to ask you to run this consignment.  I came here to tell you to do it.  This thing of playing safe is all right.  I never told you to run a batch in the winter before, but this time you have got to take the chance.”