He had come, he said, hoping to find MacNair and to plead with him to deal fairly with his people.  It is true that MacNair pays more for the labour of their hands than the company does for their furs, and in doing so he has proved himself a friend of the Indians.  But he can well afford to pay more.  Is not the pil chickimin—­the gold—­worth more even than the finest of skins?

He reached beneath the blankets and, drawing forth one of the cheap knives, held it aloft.  For years, he told them, the great fur company has been robbing the Indians.  Has been charging them two, three, four, and even ten times the real value of the goods they offer in barter.  But the Indians have not known this.  Even he, LeFroy, did not know it until the kloshe kloochman—­the good white woman—­came into the North and built a school at the mouth of the Yellow Knife.  She is the real friend of the Indians.  For she brought goods, even more goods than are found in the largest of the Hudson Bay posts, and she sells them at prices unheard of—­at their real value in the land of the white man.

“See now!” he cried, holding the knife aloft, “in the store of MacNair, for this knife you will pay eight skins.  Who will buy it for two?”

A dozen Indians crowded forward, and the knife passed into the hands of an old squaw.  Other knives and hatchets changed hands, and yards of bolt goods were sold at prices that caused the black eyes of the purchasers to glitter with greed.

“Why do you stay here?” cried LeFroy suddenly.  “Oh! my people, why do you remain to toil all your lives in the mines—­to be robbed of the work of your hands?  Come to the Yellow Knife and join those who are already enjoying the fruits of their labours!  Where all have plenty, and none are asked to toil and dig in the dirt of the mines.  Where all that is required is to sit in the school and learn from books, and become wise in the ways of the white man.”

The half-breed paused, swaying his body to and fro as he gazed intently into the eyes of the greed-crazed horde.  Suddenly his voice arose almost to a shriek.  “You are free men—­dwellers in a free land!  Who is MacNair, that he should hold you in servitude?  Why should you toil to enrich him?  Why should you bow down beneath his tyranny?  Who is he to make laws that you shall obey?” He shifted his gaze to the upturned face of Sotenah.  “Who is he to say:  ’You shall drink no firewater’?  And who is he to flog you when you break that law?  I tell you in the great storehouse on the Yellow Knife is firewater for all!  The white man’s drink!  The drink that makes men strong—­and happy—­and wise as gods!”

He called loudly.  Two of his canoemen rolled a cask to his feet, and, upending it, broached in the head.  Seizing a tin cup, LeFroy plunged it into the cask and drank with a great smacking of lips.  Then, refilling the cup, he passed it to Sotenah.