The last of this was delivered with something like a leer, warning Ambrose’s subconsciousness that Watusk, notwithstanding the flowery compliments, wished him no good.

“I have plenty of grain,” he said warily.  “Let each woman grind for her own family.”

Watusk shook his head.  “Long tam ago we got stone bowls for grind wild rice in,” he said.  “So many years we buy flour all the bowls is broke and throw away now.”

Ambrose could not deny to himself the gravity of the situation.  He was reminded afresh that he was dealing with a savage by the subtle, threatening note that presently crept into Watusk’s smooth voice.

“John Gaviller say to Gordon Strange for say to me:  ’Ambrose Doane got all the grain.  Let Ambrose Doane sell his grain to me, and I give you flour.’”

Ambrose, perceiving the drift, swore inwardly.

“Gordon Strange tell that in Kakisa language,” Watusk went on slyly; “some hear it and tell the others.  All know now.  If my people get more hungry what can I do?  Maybe my young men steal the grain and take it to Gaviller.”

“If they lay hands on my property they’ll be shot,” said Ambrose, curtly.

Watusk spread out his hands deprecatingly.  “Me, I tell them that,” he said.  “But they are so mad!”

“John Gaviller is trying to use you to work his own ends,” said Ambrose.

Watusk shrugged indifferently.  This was the real man, Ambrose thought.  “Maybe so.  You got trouble with Gaviller.  That is not my trouble.  All I want is flour.”

“You shall have it!” cried Ambrose boldly.  “Enough to-morrow morning to feed every family.  Enough in three days to fill your order.”

Watusk appeared to be a little taken aback, by the prompt granting of his demand.  “Where will you get it?” he asked.

“I will get it,” Ambrose said.  “That is enough.”

When Ambrose and Simon got outside the teepee Simon asked the same question:  “Where will you get it?”

“I don’t know,” said Ambrose.  “Give me time.  I’ll find a way!”

“If Gaviller gets the Kakisa fur you’ll make no profit this year,” suggested Simon.

“I have to consider other things as well as profit,” Ambrose said.  “There are more years to come.”

Reaching the dugout, Simon asked:  “Where now?”

“To the Fort,” said Ambrose.  “You don’t have to come.”

“We are together,” said Simon grimly.

Ambrose, deeply moved by gratitude, growled inarticulately.  He felt himself young to stand alone against such powerful forces.

Crossing the river, they landed below the big yellow house and applied at the side door for Colina.  She had returned from her ride, they were told.  They were shown into the library.

In this little room Ambrose had already touched the summit of happiness, and tasted despair.  He hated it now.  He kept his eyes on the carpet.