The ice had broken, and the St. Martin River was swollen by melted snow. Drifting floes smashed on the rocky points, and the turmoil of the angry current throbbed in the dark spruce woods. The St. Martin pierced the Northern timber belt, but for the most part the trees along the banks were small. Rocks broke the stony soil, and in the hollows were muskegs where mosquitoes bred.
Angus Fraser, Hudson’s Bay agent, stood at the door of the factory and looked up-stream. The evening was dark and cold, but he had been packing furs and he did not wear his coat. Fraser was tall and thin, and his skin was like brown parchment. He knew the North, but his sobriety was not marked and now he was getting old, he owned his luck was good, because he, so far, kept his post at the fort.
For one thing, Hele
