The coming of Peter Minot ten years before had worked a kind of revolution in the country.  He had brought war into the very stronghold of the arrogant fur monopoly, and had succeeded in establishing himself next door.  The results were far-reaching.  Formerly the Indian sat humbly on the step with his furs until the trader was pleased to open his door; whereas now when the Indian landed, the trader ran down the hill with outstretched hand.

Far and wide Minot & Doane were known as the “free-traders”; and some of their customers journeyed for three hundred miles to trade in the little log store.

The partners were roused by a shrill hail from up the shore.  Grateful for the interruption, they hastened to the edge of the bank.

Summer is the dull season in the fur trade.  Most of the firm’s customers were “pitching off” among the hills, and visitors were rare enough to be notable.

“Poly Goussard,” said Ambrose after an instant’s examination of the dug-out nosing alongshore.  Ambrose’s keenness of vision was already known in a land of keen-eyed men.

“Taking his woman to see her folks,” added Peter.

Soon the long, slender canoe grounded on the stones below them.  It contained in addition to all the worldly goods of the family, a swarthy French half-breed, his Cree wife and three coppery infants in pink calico sunbonnets.

The man climbing over his family indiscriminately, landed and came up the bank with outstretched hand.  The woman and children remained sitting like statues in their narrow craft, staring unwinkingly at the white men.

Mrs. Goussard as a full-blooded Cree was considerably below Peter’s half-breed wife in the social scale, and she knew better than to make a call uninvited.  Even in the north, woman, the conservator, maintains the distinctions.

“Stay all night,” urged Peter when formal greetings had been exchanged.  “Bring your family ashore.”

Poly Goussard shook his head.  Poly had a chest like a barrel, a face the color of Baldwin apples and a pair of rolling, gleaming, sloe-black eyes.  His head of curly black hair was famous; some one had called him the “Newfoundland dog.”

“I promise my wife I sleep wit’ her folks to-night,” he said.  “It is ten miles yet.  I jus’ come ashore for a little talk.”

“Fine!” said Peter, “we’re spoiling for news.  Come on up to the store and have a cigar.”

Seven hundred miles from the railway a cigar is something of a phenomenon.  Poly Goussard displayed twenty dazzling teeth and made haste to follow.  The three men entered the store and found seats on boxes and bales.

CHAPTER II.

Fort enterprise.

“Me, I work all winter at Fort Enterprise,” said Poly.

“So I heard,” said Peter.  “You’ve had quite a trip.”

The rosy half-breed shrugged.  “It is easy.  Jus’ floatin’ down the Spirit River six days.”