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 of each other's plans friendship and strategy. Wyeth concealed his schemes. Nevertheless, whenever his men were hauling their boats down to the water the ever-present Hudson's Bay men were already launched and met the Indians first.

An unprecedentedly rainy winter came upon the Columbia. Heavy mists enveloped the hills; the clouds came down among the trees; drip, drip, drip went the rain, surpassing the deluge of forty days and forty nights. Soft Chinooks blew up from the sea, snow slid down from the Cascade tips, the very Columbia conspired, creeping at dead of night into Wyeth's fort and soaking his precious bales. In spite of calm and cool philosophy, Captain Wyeth saw his inevitable disadvantage against the hereditary power of the Hudson's Bay Company, with its hundreds of employes in practice for generations. Bankruptcy shook its finger in his face. His handsome fortune and the credit of Boston merchants were invested. Still the fish refused to tangle themselves in his nets. The Blackfeet killed his trappers, stole his furs. Out of two hundred men, one hundred and sixty had been killed or had deserted to the rival. Even the superstitious Indians refused to trade, because, they said, long ago a Boston ship brought the deadly fever that killed all the people on Wapato.

Once Wyeth referred to Dr. McLoughlin's hereditary influence with the Indians.

"My hereditary influence?" echoed the doctor. "Bless you, Mr. Wyeth, bless you, I had no hereditary influence! I made the Indians fear me. I compelled obedience. I studied justice. I cultivated confidence. It takes time, Mr. Wyeth, it takes time."

"True, Doctor, but you have a great corporation behind you with unlimited capital. Your servants have