Ambrose’s eyes, darting around the room, fell upon an album of snapshots lying on the table.  He flung it open.

When Gaviller came in he found them standing at the table, their backs to him.  He heard Ambrose ask: 

“Who is that comical little guy?”

Colina replied:  “Ahcunazie, one of the Kakisa Indians in his winter clothes.”

Colina turned, presenting a sufficiently composed face to her father.  “Oh,” she said.  “You were gone a long while.  What was the matter with the bull?”

She strolled to the sofa and sat down.  Ambrose idly closed the book and sat down across the room from her.  Gaviller glanced from one to another—­perhaps it was a little too well done.  But his face instantly resumed its customary affability.

“Nothing serious,” he said.  “He is quite all right again.”

Ambrose was tormented by the desire to laugh.  He dared not meet Colina’s eye.  “It is terrible to lose a valuable animal up here,” he said demurely.

After a few desultory polite exchanges Ambrose got up to go.  “I was waiting to say good night to you,” he explained.

“You are camping down the river, I believe.”

“Half a mile below the English mission.  I paddled up.”

“I’ll walk to the edge of the bank with you,” said Gaviller politely.

As in nearly all company posts there was a flag-pole in the most conspicuous spot on the river-bank.  It was halfway between Gaviller’s house and the store.  At the foot of the pole was a lookout-bench worn smooth by generations of sitters.

Leaving the house after a formal good night to Colina, Ambrose was escorted as far as the bench by John Gaviller.  The trader held forth amiably upon the weather and crops.  They paused.

“Sit down for a moment,” said Gaviller.  “I have something particular to say to you.”

Ambrose suspected what was coming.  But humming with happiness like a top as he was, he could not feel greatly concerned.

Still in the same calm, polite voice Gaviller said: 

“I confess I was astonished at your assurance in coming to my house.”

This was a frank declaration of war.  Ambrose, steeling himself, replied warily:  “I did not come on business.”

“What did you come for?”

Ambrose did not feel obliged to be as frank with father as with daughter.  “I am merely looking at the country.”

“Well, now that you have seen Fort Enterprise,” said Gaviller dryly, “you may go on or go back.  I do not care so long as you do not linger.”

Ambrose frowned.  “If you were a younger man—­” he began.

“You need not consider my age,” said Gaviller.

Ambrose measured his man.  He had to confess he had good pluck.  The idea of a set-to with Colina’s father was unthinkable.  There was nothing for him to do but swallow the affront.  He bethought himself of using a little guile.