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Updated: May 28, 2025
White man kill up all Indian, if Indian kill white man. Louis Creal sit by his teepee. He say white man come Louis Creal not get gold. He say to Indian go kill up white man. White man great friends with Indian. He good friend with Louis Creal, if Louis Creal lies low. Indian man very fierce. White man very fierce, too. If great Chief Thunder-Cloud not hold young men, then he soon find out.
Louis Creal, too. Much war come. Much blood. White man make most killing. So." He waited while his reply was passed on to the decrepit creature, who, for all his age and physical disability, was complete master of his emotions. Thunder-Cloud listened and gave no sign. Then he spoke again. This time his talk was briefer and the interpreter's task seemed easier.
"We're not fighting those poor, darn-fool neches who fired those shots," he cried in a sudden break from his usual reticence. "Maybe they're the force but they aren't the brain. The brain behind this play is Mister Louis Creal. Say, this thing's bigger than we guessed. This Louis Creal runs these workings. Guess he's been running them since the beginning.
It was a long enough story, which became a record of perfidy and crime laid entirely at the doors of Murray McTavish and Louis Creal. The Indians had known Allan Mowbray for many years. They were good friends. Allan Mowbray clothed and fed them in return for furs. Then came a time when the white man found yellow dust on the river bank. He liked it.
The massacre of his "outfit." An added crime to leave Murray free to wallow in his gold lust. Free to possess himself of Jessie Mowbray. He wondered how long Louis Creal would have survived had Murray achieved his purpose. His discovery had been incredible almost. But not quite. Subconscious doubts of Murray had always been his. Bill Brudenell's doubts of the man had been more than subconscious.
But he never failed to remember that a temple had been raised in the human heart, erected firmly on the ashes of savagery. "Now for Mister Louis Creal!" It was the situation as he saw it. He by no means underrated the threat of the Indians. But he drove straight to the root of the matter. He believed the Indians had been bought body and soul by this bastard white for his own ends.
This feller, Creal, located us, and figgers to wipe us off his slate. See? Say, Bill, I guessed long ago Bell River was going to hand us some secrets. I guessed it would tell us how Allan Mowbray died. Well, Louis Creal's going to pay. He's going to pay good. Murray's wise. Gee, I can't but admire. Another feller would have shouted.
We'll go when we fancy, and when we do the news of this strike goes with us. Louis Creal tried to murder me here, and failed, and took a bath instead. Well, if he's hoss sense he'll get it his game's played. If he don't see it that way, he best do all he knows. You an' this darn old scallawag have got just five minutes to hit the trail clear of this camp. The whole outfit of you.
He bent down and before the Breed was aware of his intention he seized him in his arms and picked him up much as he might have picked up some small child. Then the struggle began afresh. But it was hopeless from the outset. Louis Creal, unarmed, was powerless in the bear-like embrace of John Kars.
The store and its trade, and his fortune are left by Allan to his widow. He's completed his first step without a snag cropping up. Meanwhile you come along. "Murray's quick to see things. Louis Creal tells him you've been around Bell River. He tells him you've found the Indian workings. He tells him he nearly got you cold. Besides that Murray figgers around you and Jessie.
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