"Kenneth McKenzie!" cried the horseman, leaping from his animal and glaring wildly about.
"Yes, yes, Berger! Here I am. Mr. Bridger and I were on the balcony and saw you coming."
"Bridger?" gasped Berger. "So he knew enough to fetch the forty packs of beaver he got from the Blackfeet to you 'stead of tryin' to git 'em down to St. Louis. It's a fine trade even if ye do have to give some presents to the Blackfeet—to them what's left, anyway."
"Forty packs of beaver! ! That's the answer to the keelboat!" yelled McKenzie. "Where's Bridger? He was here a second ago. Find him, you idiots! Don't let him get away in that A. F. C. keelboat!"
But by this time Bridger was through the gate and running along the western stockade to make the woods at the north.
"Forty packs of beaver, and the A. F. C. kindly letting him have a boat to take them down-river!" moaned McKenzie.
"There's something else to worry 'bout, Mr. McKenzie," panted Berger, staggering to him and clutching his arm. "I'm wounded an' can't talk a whale of a lot. That cussed old p'isoner of a Gauche had his men fire into th' Blackfoot
