To understand this thing you've got to go up there an' see it. The
plains tribes up there go crazy over fire-water an' start killin' each
other. It's a crime to let 'em have it."

Young Morse began to tell stories of instances that had come under his
own observation, of others that he had heard from reliable sources.
Presently he found himself embarked on the tale of his adventures with
Sleeping Dawn.

The fur-trader heard him patiently. The dusty wrinkled boots of the
merchant rested on the desk. His chair was tilted back in such a way
that the weight of his body was distributed between the back of his
neck, the lower end of the spine, and his heels. He looked a picture
of sleepy, indolent ease, but Tom knew he was not missing the least
detail.

A shadow darkened the doorway of the office. Behind it straddled a
huge, ungainly figure.

"'Lo, West! How're tricks?" C.N. Morse asked in his lazy way. He did
not rise from the chair or offer to shake hands, but that might be
because it was not his custom to exert himself.

West stopped in his stride, choking with wrath. He had caught sight of
Tom and was glaring at him. "You're here, eh? Sneaked home to try to
square yourself with the old man, did ya?" The trail foreman turned to
the uncle. "I wanta tell you he double-crossed you for fair, C.N. He's
got a heluva nerve to come back here after playin' in with the police
the way he done up there."