The minutes passed slowly. The scene in the camp of the Stonies that he had just witnessed drove all sleep from Cameron. He was firmly resolved that at the first opportunity he would make his break for liberty; for he was now fully aware that though not confessedly he was none the less really a prisoner.
As he lay intently thinking, forming and discarding plans of escape, two Indians, followed by Little Thunder, walked quietly within the circle of the firelight and with a nod and a grunt towards Raven sat down by the fire. Raven passed his tobacco bag, which, without a word, they accepted; and, filling their pipes, they gravely began to smoke.
"White Cloud," grunted Little Thunder, waving his hand to the first Indian. "Big Chief. Him," pointing to the second Indian, "White Cloud brother."
"My brothers had good hunting this year," said Raven.
The Indians grunted for reply.
"Your packs are heavy?"
Another grunt made answer.
"We have much goods," continued Raven. "But the time is short.
Come and see."
Raven led them out into the dark towards the pack horse, Little Thunder remaining by the fire. From the darkness Cameron could hear Raven's voice in low tones and the Indians' guttural replies mingled with unusual laughter.
When they returned the change in their appearance was plainly visible. Their eyes were gleaming with an unnatural excitement, their grave and dignified demeanour had given place to an eager, almost childish excitement. Cameron did not need the whiff that came to him from their breath to explain the cause of this sudden change. The signs were to him only too familiar.
"My brothers will need to hurry," said Raven. "We move when the moon is high."
"Good!" replied White Cloud. "Go, quick." He waved his hand toward the dark. "Come." He brought it back again. "Heap quick."
Without further word they vanished, silent as the shadows that swallowed them up.
"Now, then, Cameron, we have big business on foot. Up and give us a hand. Little Thunder, take the bunch down the trail a couple of miles and come back."
Selecting one of the pack ponies, he tied it to a pine tree and the others he hurried off with Little Thunder down the trail.
"Going to do some trading, are you?" enquired Cameron.
"Yes, if the price is right, though I'm not too keen," replied Raven, throwing himself down beside the fire.
"What are you after? Furs?"
"Yes, furs mostly. Anything they have to offer."
"What do you give in exchange?"
Raven threw him a sharp glance, but Cameron's face was turned toward the fire.
"Oh, various articles. Wearing apparel, tobacco, finery. Molasses too. They are very fond of molasses."
"Molasses?" echoed Cameron, with a touch of scorn. "It was not molasses they had to-night. Why did you give them whiskey?" he asked boldly.
Raven started. His eyes narrowed to two piercing points.
"Why? That's my business, my friend. I keep a flask to treat my guests occasionally. Have you any objection?"
"It is against the law, I understand, and mighty bad for the Indians."
"Against the law?" echoed Raven in childlike surprise. "You don't tell me!"
"So the Mounted Police declare," said Cameron, turning his eyes upon Raven's face.
"The Mounted Police!" exclaimed Raven, pouring forth a flood of oaths. "That! for the Mounted Police!" he said, snapping his fingers.
"But," replied Cameron, "I understood you very especially to object to the operations of the whiskey runners?"
"Whiskey runners? Who's speaking of whiskey runners? I'm talking of the approved method of treating our friends in this country, and if the police should interfere between me and my friends they would be carrying things a little too far. But all the same," he continued, hastily checking himself, "the police are all right.
They put down a lot of lawlessness in this country. But I may as well say to you here, Mr. Cameron," he continued, "that there are certain things it is best not to see, or, having seen, to speedily forget." As he spoke these words his eyes narrowed again to two grey points that seemed to bore right through to Cameron's brain.
"This man is a very devil," thought Cameron to himself. "I was a fool not to see it before." But to the trader he said, "There are some things I would rather not see and some things I cannot forget."
Before another hour had passed the Stonies reappeared, this time on ponies. The trader made no move to meet them. He sat quietly smoking by the fire. Silently the Indians approached the fire and threw down a pack of furs.
"Huh!" said White Cloud. "Good! Ver good!" He opened his pack and spread out upon the rock with impressive deliberation its contents. And good they were, even to Cameron's uncultured eye.
Wolf skins and bear, cinnamon and black, beaver, fox, and mink, as well as some magnificent specimens of mountain goat and sheep.
"Good! Good! Big--fine--heap good!" White Cloud continued to exclaim as he displayed his collection.
Raven turned them over carelessly, feeling the furs, examining and weighing the pelts. Then going to the pack horse he returned and spread out upon the rock beside the furs the goods which he proposed to offer in exchange. And a pitiful display it was, gaudy calicoes and flimsy flannels, the brilliance of whose colour was only equalled by the shoddiness of the material, cheap domestic blankets, half wool half cotton, prepared especially for the Indian trade. These, with beads and buttons, trinkets, whole strings of brass rings, rolls of tobacco, bags of shot and powder, pot metal knives, and other articles, all bearing the stamp of glittering fraud, constituted his stock for barter. The Indians made strenuous efforts to maintain an air of dignified indifference, but the glitter in their eyes betrayed their eagerness. White Cloud picked up a goat skin, heavy with its deep silky fur and with its rich splendour covered over the glittering mass of Raven's cheap and tawdry stuff.
"Good trade," said White Cloud. "Him," pointing to the skin, "and," turning it back, "him," laying his hand upon the goods beneath.
