"Now, Mr. Cameron," he said, pulling out his pipe, "we will have a smoke
and a chat. Fill up." He passed Cameron his little bag of tobacco. "Last
night things were somewhat strained," he continued. "Frankly, I confess,
I took you at first for a whiskey runner and a horse thief, and having
suffered from these gentlemen considerably I was taking no chances."
"Why force me to go with you, then?" asked Cameron angrily.
"Why? For your good. There is less danger both to you--and to me--with
you under my eye," replied the trader with a smile.
"Yet your man would have murdered me?"
"Well, you see Little Thunder is one of the Blood Tribe and rather swift
with his knife at times, I confess. Besides, his family has suffered at
the hands of the whiskey runners. He is a chief and he owes it to these
devils that he is out of a job just now. You may imagine he is somewhat
touchy on the point of whiskey traders.
"It was you set him on me," said Cameron, still wrathful.
"No, no," said the trader, laughing quietly. "That was merely to startle
you out of your, pardon me, unreasonable obstinacy. You must believe me
it was the only thing possible that you should accompany us, for if you
were a whiskey runner then it was better for us that you should be under
guard, and if you were a surveyor it was better for you that you should
be in our care.
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