Whaley, a gambler who had drifted from one mining camp to another and
been washed by the tide of circumstance into the Northwest. Ostensibly
they supplied blankets, guns, food, and other necessities to the
tribes, but there was a strong suspicion that they made their profit
in whiskey smuggled across the plains.

"But to guess it and to prove it are different propositions. How am
I going to hang it on them? I can't make a bally fool of myself
by prodding around in their bales and boxes. If I didn't find
anything--and it'd be a long shot against me--West and his gang would
stick their tongues in their cheeks and N.W.M.P. stock would shoot
down. No, I've got to make sure, jump 'em, and tie 'em up by finding
the goods on the wagons."

"Fat chance," speculated Tom.

"That's where you come in."

"Oh, I come in there, do I? I begin to hear Old Man Trouble knockin'
at my door like you promised. Break it kinda easy. Am I to go up an'
ask Bully West where he keeps his fire-water cached? Or what?"

"Yes. Only don't mention to him that you're asking. Your firm and his
trade back and forth, don't they?"

"Forth, but not back. When they've got to have some goods--if it's
neck or nothing with them--they buy from us. We don't buy from them.
You couldn't exactly call us neighborly."

Beresford explained. "West's just freighted in a cargo of goods. I can