“Why shouldn’t I come here?” he demanded.

“I don’t like the way you and your partner do business,” said Gaviller.

There was nothing to be gained by a wordy dispute, but Ambrose was only human.  “You are sore because we smashed the company’s monopoly at Moultrie,” he said.

“Not at all,” said Gaviller calmly.  “The trade is free to all.  What little you have taken from us is not noticeable in the whole volume.  But you have deliberately set to work to destroy what it has taken two centuries to build up—­the white man’s supremacy.  You breed trouble among the Indians.  You make them insolent and dangerous.”

“Company talk,” said Ambrose scornfully.  “A man can make himself believe what he likes.  We treat the Indians like human beings.  Around us they’re doing well for the first time.  Here, where you have your monopoly, they’re sick and starving!”

“That is not true,” said Gaviller coolly.  “And, in any case, I do not mean to discuss my business with you.  I deal openly.  You had the opportunity to do my daughter a slight service.  I have repaid it with my hospitality.  We are quits.  I now warn you not to show your face here again.”

“I shall do as I see fit,” said Ambrose doggedly.

“You compel me to speak still more plainly,” said Gaviller.  “If you are found on the Company’s property again, you will be thrown off.”

“You cannot frighten me with threats,” said Ambrose.

“You are warned!” said Gaviller.  He strode off to his house.

CHAPTER VIII.

In Ambrose’s camp.

Ambrose was awakened in his mosquito-tent by an alarm from Job.  The sun was just up, and it was therefore no more than three o’clock.  A visitor was approaching in a canoe.

In the North a caller is a caller.  Ambrose crept out of his blankets and, swallowing his yawns, stuck his head in the river to clear his brain.

The visitor was a handsome young breed of Ambrose’s own age.  Ambrose surveyed his broad shoulders, his thin, graceful waist and thighs approvingly.  He rejoiced in an animal built for speed and endurance.  Moreover, the young man’s glance was direct and calm.  This was a native who respected himself.

“Tole Grampierre, me,” he said, offering his hand.

Ambrose grasped it.  “I’m Ambrose Doane,” he said.

“I know,” said the young breed.  “Las’ night I go to the store.  The boys say Ambrose Doane, the free-trader, is camp’ down the river.  So I talk wit’ my fat’er.  I say I go and shake Ambrose Doane by the hand.”

“Will you eat?” said Ambrose.  “It is early.”

“When you are ready,” answered Tole politely.  “I come early.  I go back before they get up at the fort.  If old man Gaviller know I come to you it mak’ trouble.  My fat’er he got trouble enough wit’ Gaviller.”