It was a six-day trip north with the tribe.
White Fox and Yellow Hair made it in four and a half, changing horses often and pushing ahead just as fast as Yellow Hair wanted to go.
White Fox was pessimistic about it. No good had ever come to the Pikunis from white hands that he had ever seen and he despaired of even recovering Yellow Hair’s body.
White Fox had good reason for misgivings. The factor at Fort Chesterfield had an uncontrollable temper and was altogether too quick with a pistol. About the fort hung hired bullies and lawless voyageurs, most of them having fled from white justice and eager to play the overlord to any hapless Indian who fell under their sway.
Ruled by despots, each and every Nor’West company man was something of a despot in his own small sphere.
That quick-te
