A. M. Chisholm

“ It was a rare year. The pack was like that of a hundred years gone, when the country was new. There were many black fox, and marten big and black as tomcats, and even sea otter traded in somehow from the far-coast Indians. Oh, aye, it was a verra serious loss to the company." And old McClintock shook his head sadly.
That night I dreamed of furs. In the morning, when McClintock had gone, sitting in state in his big canoe, with its six paddles, and the smoke from his clay pipe floating out astern like a steamer's, Jim Dunleath turned to Uncle Fred. ”

“ And so he got together a small band of desperate characters like himself— maybe a dozen or more in all—to raid certain of the company's posts when the winter's catch of furs was in and before the brigades came to take them out."
"By George!" Jim Dunleath exclaimed, and suddenly a great light broke on me. Furs! That was what it was. That was what the cache of Nitche McNab held.
"Ye may weel say that," McClintock nodded. "Siccan an enterprise was never undertaken before or since, to my knowledge. There are reasons why I shouldna tell ye the names of the posts. ”

“ McClintock replied, "wasna stakin' him to gun, canoe, or food."
"Great Scott!" Dunleath exclaimed as the full meaning of this dawned on him.
"It wasna intended as a humane measure, but as an example," said McClintock grimly. "In dealin' with Indians, ye'll understan', humanity is a mistake. The company was forced to punish its own men caught in wrong-doin' in the same way. But Nitche McNab was long-headed as weel as bluidy-minded. Against preceesely sic an eventuality he had cached a gun and food. A week afterward the man who laid the lash on him was found stabbed to death in his blankets. ”