Simon was visibly uneasy while they waited. "You think this any good?" he suggested.

"No," said Ambrose bitterly. "I know well enough what I'll get. But I've got to go through with it before taking the next step."

"John Gaviller live well," said Simon significantly, but without bitterness.

Colina came in with her queenliest air. She had changed her riding habit for clinging white draperies that made her look like a lovely, arrogant saint. Ambrose, raising his sullen eyes to her, experienced a new shock of desire that put the idea of flour out of his head.

To old Simon, Colina inclined her head as gracefully and indifferently as a swan. The grim patriarch became humble under the spell of her white beauty. He fingered his hat nervously. To Ambrose Colina said with subtle scorn meant for his ear alone:

"What is it?"

Ambrose screwed down the clamps of self-control. "I asked for you," he said stolidly, "because I did not know if your father was well enough to talk business. May I see him for five minutes?"

"No," she said, without condescending to explain.

"Then I will tell you," said Ambrose. "It is about the Indians across the river. I must have some flour for them."

"Must?" she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"They are suffering from hunger," he said firmly.

"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she said coolly. "He is in charge of the business."

"This is a question for the head to decide," warned Ambrose.

"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she repeated, unmoved.

Ambrose's eyes flamed up. For a moment the two pairs contended—Ambrose's passionate, Colina's steely. The man was struggling with the atavic impulse to thrash the maddening, arrogant woman creature into a humbler frame of mind.

It may be, too, that deep in her heart of hearts Colina desired something of the kind. Perhaps she could not master her worser self alone. Anyhow, it was impossible there in her own stronghold, with Simon looking on. They were too civilized or not civilized enough.

Ambrose merely bowed to her and led the way out of the room and out of the house.

"Thank God, that is over!" he murmured outside.

Crossing the square, they entered the store. It was the first time Ambrose had been inside that famous show-place of the north, but he had no eyes for it now. Gordon Strange welcomed them with smiling heartiness.

"Come in! Come in!" he cried, leading the way into the rear office. "Sit down! Have a cigar!"

The scowling Ambrose stared as if he thought the man demented. He waved the cigar away and came directly to the point.

"I want to find out what you're willing to do about the Kakisa Indians."

"Sure!" cried Strange with apparently the best will in the world. "Sit down. What do you propose?"

"How much will you charge me to grind me five hundred bushels of grain for them?"

"I'm sorry," said Strange. "The old man won't hear of it."

"Will you let them starve?" cried Ambrose.

"What can I do?" said Strange distressfully. "I'm not the head."

"Grind it in spite of him," said Ambrose. "Humanity and prudence would both be on your side. You'll get their fur by it."

"I think Mr. Gaviller expects to get the fur anyway," said Strange with a seeming deprecatory air—but the suspicion of a smirk wreathed his full lips.

"Then I am to understand that you refuse to grind my grain at any price," said Ambrose.

"Orders are orders," murmured Strange.

"Has Gaviller given you this order since he knew the people were hungry?"

"He has told me his mind many times."

"That is not a direct answer. Some one must take the full responsibility. If I write a short note to Gaviller will you deliver it and bring me back an answer?"

Strange hesitated for the fraction of a second. "Yes," he said.

Ambrose wrote a succinct statement of the situation, and Strange departed.

"Gaviller will never do it," said Simon.

"I don't expect him to," said Ambrose. "But he's got to commit himself."

In due course Strange returned. He offered Ambrose a note, still with his deprecating air. It was in Colina's writing. Ambrose read:

"John Gaviller begs to inform Mr. Ambrose Doane that the only proposal he is willing to discuss will be the sale to him of all the grain in Mr. Doane's possession at one dollar and a half per bushel. In such an event he will also be willing to purchase Mr. Doane's entire outfit of goods at cost. It will be useless for Mr. Doane to address him further in any other connection.

"Enterprise House, September 3."

Ambrose stood reflecting with the note in his hand. For a single moment his heart failed him. His inexperience was appalled by the weight of the decision he had to make.

Oh, for Peter Minot's strong, humorous sense at this crisis! The thought of Peter nerved him. Peter had taken it for granted that he would make good. Ambrose remembered the sacrifices Peter had cheerfully made to finance this expedition.

To accept John Gaviller's contemptuous offer would not only be to confess a humiliating failure, it would mean pocketing a loss that would cripple the young firm for the time being.

Peter would say: "Lose it if you must, but lose it fighting." This thought was like an inspiration to Ambrose. His jaw stiffened, and a measure of serenity returned to his eyes. He passed the note to Simon.

"Read it," he said coolly, "and save it. It may be useful as evidence, later."

A subtle change passed over Gordon Strange's face. For the moment he was pure Indian. Quickly veiling his eyes, he asked with an innocent air: "What does Mr. Gaviller say?"

This was too much for Ambrose to stomach. "You know damned well what he says!" he answered scornfully.

Strange swallowed it. "Is there any answer?" he asked.

"No!" said Ambrose.

The half-breed's curiosity overcame his prudence. "What are you going to do?" he asked slyly.

Ambrose strode out of the store without answering.

The two men paddled back to Grampierre's place in silence. Simon with native tact, forbore to ask questions. Such is the potency of the white man's eye that the leader of the breeds had unhesitatingly yielded the direction of affairs to the youth who was little more than a third of his age.

Upon landing, Ambrose pointed to the lookout bench. "Let us sit there and talk," he said.

"Simon," he said immediately, "suppose it came to a fight, how many men do you think Gaviller could count on?"

The old man took the question as a matter of course. "There is the policeman, the doctor and the parson," he said. "The parson is best for praying. There is the engineer and the captain of the steamboat; there is young Duncan Greer.

"In summer he is purser on the steamboat; in winter he is the miller. That is six white men. John Gaviller is no good yet. There is the crew of the steamboat, and the men who work for wages, maybe fifteen natives, not more."

"What sort of a man is Greer?" asked Ambrose.

"A lad; full of fun and jokes; a good machinist."

"Where does he sleep at the Fort?"

"He has a room in the old quarters. Gaviller's old house."

"Does he sleep alone?"

"He does."

"Simon," said Ambrose, finally, "can you get me twenty-five good men by dark; steady men with cool heads, who will do what I tell them?"

"I can," said Simon.

"Let them meet at your house," Ambrose went on. "Let every man carry his gun, but you must see that the magazines are emptied, and that no man has any shells in his pocket. I will have no shooting. Above all, do not let the Indians know that anything is going on to-night."

"It is well!" said Simon laconically. The old dark eyes gleamed.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A BLOODLESS CAPTURE.

In a more innocent state of society such as that which exists in the north, such a thing as a nightwatch is undreamed of. Insomnia is likewise unknown there. At eleven o'clock every soul in Fort Enterprise was drowned deep in slumber.

There was no light in any window; the very buildings seemed to crouch on the earth as if they slept, too. At sundown a film of cloud had crept across the sky, and the moon was dark. It was the very night for deeds of adventure.

Down on the current came a rakish york boat floating as idly as a piece of wreckage. Its hold was filled with bags of grain, on which squatted and lay many dark figures scarcely to be distinguished from the bags.

No whisper marked its passage; not a pipe-bowl glowed. On the little steering platform stood Simon Grampierre wielding a long sweep run through a ring astern. The ring was muffled with strips of cloth.

Simon kept the craft straight in the current, and as they approached the Company buildings, gradually edged her ashore.

The dark steamboat lay with her nose drawn up on a point of stones below the flagstaff. Steamboat and point together caused a little backwater to form beyond, of which Simon was informed.

All he had to do was to urge the nose of his boat into it, and she grounded of herself at the spot where they had chosen to land; that is immediately below the mills.

A dozen moccasined men let themselves softly into the water, and putting their backs under the prow lifted her up a little on the stones. Instantly, as if by the starting of a piece of machinery a chain of bags was started ashore from hand to hand.

Ambrose and Tole, who was to be engineer, climbed the bank to reconnoiter. So far no word had been spoken.

Above, along the edge of the bank, were three small buildings in a line, close together. That in the middle was the engine house, with the sawmill on the left and the flour mill on the right.

Ambrose and Tole made for the engine which was housed in a little structure of corrugated iron. The door faced the sawmill. It was an iron sliding door, fastened with hasp and padlock.

Ambrose inserted the point of a crowbar under the hasp, and the whole thing came away with a single metallic report. If any sleeper was awakened by the sound, hearing no other sounds, he probably fell asleep again. Anyhow no alarm was raised as yet.

Tole went back to get assistance in carrying slabs into the engine room. The sawmill was merely an open shed, and there was an abundance of fuel in sight.

The water supply, being furnished by gravity from a tank overhead, was secure.

With the aid of his electric torch, Ambrose found the belt to run the flour mill in a corner of the engine room. So far so good. His instructions to Tole were simple.

"I'll let you have one man to help you. If they besiege us, I won't be able to communicate with you. Whatever happens, keep the engine going. Store enough slabs in here to keep her going all night, then close the door, and fasten it some way."

The flour mill was likewise built of corrugated iron. It had two iron doors, one giving on the road, fastened with a padlock, the other on the river side, hooked from within.

Ambrose broke open the first, and throwing back the second, allowed the grain bags to be hustled inside direct from the beach.

He lit a lantern, and cloaking it within his coat, examined the machine. His heart sank at the thought of his difficulties, supposing the next step of his plan should fail.

Ambrose was enough of a machinist to appreciate the difficulty of operating this complicated arrangement of wheels and rollers and frames by lantern light.

Taking five velvet-footed men, he set off around the back of the store, and across the corner of the square to the "quarters." The building so designated was in the middle of the side of the square facing the river.

It was a low, spreading affair, of several dates of construction. Once Gaviller's residence, it was now used to house the white employees of the company and chance travelers.

Greer's room was in the end of the building nearest the store. The policeman slept at the other side, separated by several partitions.

The room they were making for had a door opening directly on the yard. It was not locked. Ambrose merely lifted the latch and walked in with his five men at his heels.

Inside, in the thick darkness they heard the sound of deep breathing. Ambrose flashed his light around. A typical boy's room was revealed, with college banners, colored prints, photographs and firearms.

On a bed in the corner lay the owner, a good-looking blond boy sleeping on his back with an arm flung above his head. He was a hearty sleeper.

Not until the command was twice repeated in no uncertain tones, did he waken. It was to find himself looking into the blazing white eye of the electric torch.

"What time is it?" he murmured, blinking.

One of the men chuckled.

"Time to get up," said Ambrose grimly.

"Hey, what's the matter?" cried the voice from the bed in accents of honest alarm.

"Get up and dress," commanded Ambrose.

"What for?" stammered the boy.

"I have five armed men here," said Ambrose. "Do what you're told without asking questions. If you make a racket you'll be cracked over the head with the butt of a gun."

As he spoke Ambrose flashed the light from one to another of his men. The sight of the quiet dark-skinned breeds, each with a Winchester on his arm was sufficiently intimidating. The boy swung his legs out of bed.

"All right," he said, philosophically. "Throw your light on my clothes, will you?"

He commenced to dress without more ado. Presently he asked coolly; "What do you want me for, and who are you anyway?"

"I'm Ambrose Doane," said Ambrose. "I've seized the flour mill. You've got to run it."

"There's no grain there," said Greer.

"I brought my grain with me," said Ambrose.

A sound like a chuckle escaped the boy. No doubt he was well-informed as to the situation. "You didn't lose much time," he said.

They started back to the mill, a breed on either side of Greer with a hand upon his shoulder.

"If you make a break, you'll be knocked down and carried in," warned Ambrose.

Apparently Greer had no such intention. He was a matter-of-fact youth and prone to laughter. He laughed now. "Golly! the old man will be in a wax when he hears of it! How many men have you got?"

"Twenty-five," said Ambrose.

"Well, he can't blame me if I'm forced to work by overwhelming numbers! Oh, golly! but there'll be a time to-morrow!"

Ambrose breathed more freely. This which had promised to be the most difficult part of his plan was proving easy.

Entering the mill, Greer looked around the dim place with its little crowd of still, silent, armed men, and chuckled again. "Darned if it isn't as good as a melodrama!" he said.

"Go to it!" said Ambrose, pointing to the machinery. He lit plenty of lanterns, careless now if the fort were aroused. They had to wake up sooner or later. "You can smoke," he said to his men.

Matches were quickly struck, and coals pressed into pipe bowls with guttural grunts of satisfaction.

Greer lit a cigarette, and picked up his oil can and wrench as a matter of course. He set to work, whistling softly between his teeth.

Ambrose, watching him, could not make up his mind whether this was due to pluck or sheer light-headedness. Either way, he was inclined to like the boy.

"I say, Ambrose," Greer said cheekily. "Give us a hand with these bolting frames, will you? Do you want fine flour or coarse?"

"The most in the least time," said Ambrose.

"We'll leave in the middlings then. It's wholesome."

They worked amicably together. Greer in his simplicity explained everything as they went, and Ambrose cannily stored it away.

Fortunately, the mill had lately been operated, grinding the grain from the Crossing, and all was practically in readiness to start. Within an hour after the landing of the party, Tole turned on his steam.

The wheels began to revolve, Greer threw in the clutch, and presently a veritable stream of flour began to issue from the mouth of the machine. Ambrose repressed an inclination to cheer.



CHAPTER XIX.

WOMAN'S WEAPONS.

The steady hum of machinery was more effective to awaken the inhabitants of the Fort than any scattered noises.

The sounds of movement began to be heard among the houses. Lights were lit, and doors opened. No one who looked out of doors could mistake what was going on, for a stream of sparks was now issuing from the engine-house stack.

The first notice of attack came in a single shot from across the road. A bullet sang through the doorway, flattening itself with a whang on the iron wall. Those around the opening fell back.

Some one crashed the door to. Ambrose as quickly opened it, and stooping low, peered out. He was in time to see a crouching figure disappear around the corner of the store. Something in the bulk of it, the neat outline gave him a clue.

"Strange, by gad!" he said to himself.

Aloud, Ambrose said: "The door must be open. We've got to see and hear what they're up to. Let every man keep out of range. Make a wall of the bags of grain on this side of the machine, and put the lanterns behind it, so Greer will have light."

While they worked to obey him, Ambrose, flinging himself down at full length, watched with an eye at the crack of the door. He saw a group of men gradually gather at the corner of the store. They advanced, hesitated, fell back.

Finally, an authoritative figure showed itself. Ambrose guessed it to be Macfarlane, the policeman. He advanced boldly down the sidewalk, and took up a position across the road. The others straggled after him.

"Who is there?" challenged the leader. Ambrose distinguished the tunic and forage cap.

Ambrose rose, and opening the door wider, showed himself. "Ambrose Doane," he said. He warily watched the crowd, for any movement suggestive of raising a gun.

"You're under arrest!" cried the policeman.

"All right," said Ambrose coolly. "What charge?"

"Unlawful entry."

"You'll have to come and take me!"

"If you resist the law the consequences will be on your own head!"

"I accept the consequences."

"Stop the machinery!" cried the policeman. "If you destroy the mill we'll all starve!"

"The miller himself is running it," said Ambrose coolly. "With a gun to his head," he added, grinning over his shoulder. "I seized him in his bed and carried him here."

"Good man!" Greer, behind him, gratefully murmured.

"If you refuse to give yourself up I'll take you by force!" cried Macfarlane.

"Come ahead!" sang Ambrose. "I've got twenty-five men here. They have orders not to shoot, but if you open fire on us, the consequences will be on your head!"

"I'll do my duty!" shouted the policeman.

"Get your crowd together!" taunted Ambrose. "Lay your guns down, and come on over and put us out if you're men enough. We'll stand by the result."

The men behind Ambrose raised a cheer. The sound did not improve the morale of the other side. Even in the dark, the difference between the two crowds could be felt.

Ambrose's men were fighting for what they felt to be their rights; the men behind the policeman had no incentive—except their jobs. Macfarlane paused to consult with another man—probably Gordon Strange.

The others talked in excited whispers, and circled on one another without making any forward movement. Messengers were despatched up and down the road.

Suddenly a petticoated figure came flying down the sidewalk from the store. Ambrose's heart leaped up, and then as suddenly calmed. He told himself grimly he was cured.

It was Colina. "What are you standing here for?" she cried passionately. "Are you afraid? They are nothing but common robbers! Go and put them out!"

No man moved.

"Fire on them!" cried Colina. "I order it! I take the responsibility."

They still hung back. Macfarlane could be seen attempting to expostulate with her.

"Don't speak to me!" cried Colina. "When you find robbers in your house you shoot them down! You're afraid! I will go myself!"

All in a breath she came flying across the road. Ambrose, surprised, fell back a step from the door. Before he could recover himself she stood in the middle of the shed facing them with blazing eyes.

She had risen hastily; her glorious hair was twisted in a loose coil and pinned insecurely; the habit she had thrown on was still open at the throat.

She had caught up a riding-crop; the knuckles that gripped it were white. Ambrose, admiring her in an odd, detached way, was reminded of Bellona, the goddess of anger.

"What does this mean?" she cried.

"What you see," said Ambrose coldly.

"Get out!" she cried. "All of you! I order it!"

The men cringed under her angry glances, and their eyes bolted. Only the sight of Ambrose standing firm, kept them in their places. Colina turned on Ambrose.

"You thief!" she cried with ringing scorn.

Ambrose coldly faced her out. Somehow he found it was his turn to smile. As a matter of fact he had suffered so much at her hands that he had become callous and strong enough to resist her.

Indeed there was a kind of bitter sweetness in this moment. She, who had humiliated him so many times was now powerless before him, let her rage as she might. He was only human.

Seeing the cold smile Colina felt as if the ground was suddenly cut from under her. Her cheeks paled, and the imperious blaze of her eyes was slowly dimmed.

When the bolt of passion is launched without effect, a horrible blankness faces the passionate one. The men seeing Colina falter breathed more freely. They were frankly terrified of her.

Colina fought on though her forces were in confusion. "Have you anything to say for yourself?" she demanded of Ambrose. "What are you doing on my father's property?"

"I have nothing to say," said Ambrose. "You know the situation as well as I."

Once more their eyes contended. Hers fell. She turned away from him. When she came back it was with an altered air. "May I speak to you alone?" she asked in low tones.

"Please say it here," said Ambrose. "They cannot hear."

"My father—" she murmured with a deprecating air, "I am afraid this will kill him. I have locked him in his room. I don't know what he will do. Can't you stop until to-morrow?"

"If you will pledge yourself for him to finish grinding my grain to-morrow," said Ambrose.

"How can I pledge him?" she said pettishly. "I am not his master."

"Then we must grind on."

She was silent for a moment, looking on the ground. When she raised her eyes the look in them sent all the blood flying from his heart. "Ambrose!" she murmured on the deep note he remembered so well. "Have you forgotten?"

He stared at her in a kind of horror.

"How can you be so hard to me?" she murmured.

She overdid it. Behind the intoxicating, soft appeal of her eyes, he perceived a dangerous glitter, and steeled himself.

"Come outside a moment," she whispered, turning up her face a little.

The unregenerate man in him leaped to accept what she offered and still hold firm. If she chose to play that game let her take the consequences? His more generous self held back. Somehow he realized that the humiliation would almost kill her—later.

"It is too late," he said coldly.

This in itself was a humiliation the proud Colina could not have conceived herself living after. From between narrowed lids she shot him a glance of the purest hate, and quickly turned away.

The riding crop switched the air like the tail of an angry cat. There was a silence. All watched to see what she would do next.

Meanwhile the mill was grinding smoothly. The young miller was hidden from Colina by the barricade of grain bags. Finally she looked over the top and saw him attending the machine.

"Greer!" she exclaimed in surprise.

The boy started, and turned a pair of stricken eyes in her direction. His ruddy cheeks paled a little. Manifestly she wielded a power over him too.

"Are you against me?" she murmured sadly.

This was the same tone she had just used to Ambrose. His lip curled. "He has to do what I tell him or be knocked on the head," he said quickly.

Colina ignored this. "You could fight for me if you would," she murmured to the boy.

A hot little flame of jealousy scorched Ambrose's breast. He laughed jeeringly. "Who's next?" he cried.

Colina, not looking at him, drew a baleful breath between her teeth. Suddenly she turned, and with hanging head slowly made her way toward the door.

Ambrose thought she was beaten, and a swift wave of compassion almost unmanned him. He abruptly turned away. He could stand anything but to see Colina defeated and grieving. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out to her.

She had another card to play. She stopped at the door, and looked about through her lashes to see if the way out was clear.

"Duncan!" she softly cried. The word was accompanied by a dazzling smile of invitation.

The boy dropped his wrench as if he had been shot, and vaulting over the grain bags, was out through the door after her before any one could stop him.



CHAPTER XX.

UNDERCURRENTS.

As Greer disappeared in the darkness several men started in pursuit.

Ambrose was quicker. He flung himself into the opening, and thrust them back. Though he was on fire with jealousy, he would not go after Greer, nor let the others go.

He could scarcely have explained why—perhaps because he dimly apprehended that it was Colina's game to drive him mad with jealousy.

"Let him go," he said thickly. "I will run the mill myself!"

So long as the wheels revolved smoothly and the stream of creamy flour issued from the mouth of the machine the miller had a sinecure. Ambrose scowling and grinding his teeth scarcely saw what his eyes were turned on. His mind was busy outside.

He was sharply recalled to his job by a tearing sound from within the machinery. The flour came out mixed with bran. The wheels jammed and stopped.

Ambrose threw out the clutch, and doggedly attacked the problem. It was cruelly hard to concentrate his mind on machinery while a damnable little voice in his brain persisted in asking over and over:

"Where are they? What are they doing? How far will rage carry her?"

He contrived to remove the torn frame without much difficulty, but how to clean out the mass of stuff that clogged every part of the mechanism defied his ingenuity. Apparently the thing must be taken apart. How could he hope to put it together by lantern light?

There was a stir at the door, and Duncan Greer slouched in with a hang-dog scowl. Never in his life had Ambrose been so glad to see a man. He was careful to mask his joy. He glanced at the boy carelessly and went on with his work. Duncan came directly to him.

"I'm your man," he muttered. "For keeps, if you want me."

"Sure," said Ambrose, very offhand. "Help me get this thing going, will you?"

As they worked side by side in the lantern light, Ambrose perceived a red welt across the boy's forehead and cheek that was momentarily growing darker. He smiled grimly. Duncan, finding his eyes fixed on it, flushed up painfully.

"Women are the devil!" he muttered.

A great unholy joy filled Ambrose's breast. In his relief he could have hugged the boy, and laughed.

"Don't abuse the women, my son," he said grimly. "They have to fight with what weapons they can. You were warned. You only got what was coming to you!"

When the machine was running smoothly again, Ambrose went to the door to reconnoiter.

"They've gone," he said. "I don't think they'll trouble us again before morning. You can all sleep."

Daybreak and the following hours found Ambrose and his party on the qui vive for a renewed demonstration from the other side. None was made.

Neither Macfarlane, Gordon Strange, nor Colina could have mustered a corporal's guard of the natives to their aid. The breeds in their own mysterious way had simply disappeared.

Without them, the half dozen whites could do nothing against Ambrose's strong party. Colina herself had suffered a moral defeat, and required time to recoup her losses.

In the back of the store the white men and Gordon Strange held lengthy consultations without agreeing on any course of action. Strange in his modest way deferred to Macfarlane and the others.

But John Gaviller's absolute sway at the post had sapped the lesser men's initiative. He was not able to be present, and they were helpless.

It was decided to send for help to police headquarters at Caribou Lake. They could not despatch the big steam-boat which had been dismantled for the winter, but the launch was available.

Gaviller had it to use at the end of summer when the water ran low in the river. They managed to collect enough half-breeds for a crew; Masters ran the engine, and Captain Stinson piloted.

Thus in order to send for help the little force had to rob itself of two of its best defenders. They got away in the middle of the afternoon. With luck they could be back with the red-coats in two weeks or three.

Meanwhile the mill was grinding blithely.

Ambrose, who desired at all costs to keep the Indians in ignorance of what was happening, for fear they might get out of hand, sent Germain Grampierre to his father's house to get what little flour they had, and carry it to Watusk to feed the Kakisas for that day.

As far as he could see there was no other communication from one side of the river to the other. He observed the departure of the launch, with a calm brow. He guessed its errand, and was not at all averse to having the police brought down, and the whole matter thoroughly aired.

All day the wheels revolved, and all during the following night, Ambrose and young Greer watching the machine by turn.

At breakfast time on the second morning the hopper was empty, and the last bag of flour tied up. They had enough to satisfy the Kakisas demands, and something besides.

In the center of the shed Ambrose left the miller's tithe in payment, with an ironical note affixed to one of the bags. The flour was loaded in the york boat, and the entire party set off in high feather.

Their arrival with the flour at the Indian camp created something of a sensation. The children came running down to the water, capering and shrieking, accompanied by the barking dogs.

Men followed, eager to toss the bags to their shoulders. They made a long procession back to the teepees, the women crowding around, laughing, gesticulating, and caressing the fat, dusty bags.

By Ambrose's orders the bags were piled up in an imposing array in the middle of the square. He knew the value of a dramatic display.

The half-breeds who had been on duty for thirty-six hours, scattered to their homes up and down the river. Simon Grampierre and Tole remained with Ambrose.

The york boat was left drawn up on the beach below the camp. To this fact Ambrose traced all the subsequent disasters. But he could not have foreseen what would happen. The Indians at the sight of so much food were as candid and happy as children.

When the last bag of flour topped the pile, Ambrose sought out Watusk. He found the head man as before, evidently awaiting an official communication, with his dummy councilors on either hand. Watusk's smooth, flabby face was as blank as a plaster wall.

"I have brought your flour," said Ambrose with a note of exultation justifiable under the circumstances.

Watusk was not impressed. "It is well," he said with a stolid nod.

Ambrose was somewhat taken aback. An instant told him that Watusk alone of all the tribe was not glad to see the flour. Ambrose scented a mystery.

"Where you get the flour?" asked Watusk politely.

"I borrowed Gaviller's mill to grind it," Ambrose answered in kind.

Watusk's eyes narrowed. He puffed out his cheeks a little, and Ambrose saw that an oration was impending.

"I hope there will be no trouble," the Indian began self-importantly. "Always when there is trouble the red man get blame. When the fur is scarce, when summer frost turn the wheat black it is the same. They say the red man make bad medicine.

"Two white men have a fight, red man come along, know nothing. Those two white men say it is his fault, and kick him hard. You break open Gaviller's mill. Gaviller is mad, send for police. When the police come I think they say it is Watusk's fault. Send him to jail!"

It was evident from this that Watusk was pretty well informed of what had happened. "How do you know they have sent for the police?" Ambrose demanded.

Watusk shrugged expressively. "I see the launch go up the river in a hurry," he said.

In the light of his insolent demand two days before, the Indian's present attitude was more than exasperating. "This is foolishness," said Ambrose sharply. "I sell you the flour. How I got it is my affair. I take the responsibility. The police will deal with me!"

"I hope so," said Watusk smugly.

"I have made out a receipt," Ambrose went on. "You sign it, then distribute the flour among the people, and give me the men's names so I can charge them on my book.

"To-morrow I give it out," said Watusk. "To-day I put the flour in Gaston Trudeau's empty house by the river. Maybe goin' to rain to-night."

"Just as you like about that," said Ambrose. "When are you going to pull out for home?"

"Soon," replied Watusk vaguely.

"They tell me it is the best time now to hunt the moose," remarked Ambrose suggestively. "And the bear's fur is coming in thick and soft. You have been here two weeks without hunting."

Again Watusk's eyes narrowed like a sulky child's. "Must the Kakisas got hunt every day?" he asked spreading out his hands. "The people are weak with hunger. We got eat before we travel."

Ambrose left this interview in a highly dissatisfied state of mind.

Later in the day Watusk must have thought better of his surliness for he sent a polite message to Ambrose at Simon Grampierre's house, requesting him and Simon to come to a tea dance that night.

He had borrowed Jack Mackenzie's house for the affair since no teepee was big enough to contain it. Mackenzie's was the first house west of the Kakisa encampment.

"Tea-dance! Bah! Indian foolishness!" said Simon.

"Let us go anyway," said Ambrose. "I feel as if there was something crooked going on. This Indian will bear watching."



CHAPTER XXI.

THE SUBTLETY OF GORDON STRANGE.

At the same moment Gordon Strange was sitting on the bench at the foot of the flag-staff, smoking, and gazing speculatively across the river at the teepee village.

Colina issued out of the big house, and seeing him, joined him. It was her first public appearance since the scene at the mill, and it was something of an ordeal.

Her face showed what she was going through. She was elaborately self-conscious; defiance struggled with a secret shame. In her heart she knew she was wrong, yet she thirsted for justification.

"What is the situation?" she asked haughtily.

Strange told her briefly. His air was admirable. He betrayed no consciousness of anything changed in her; he was deferential without being obsequious.

He let her understand that she was still his peerless mistress who could do no wrong. This was exactly what Colina wanted. She warmed toward him, and sat down.

"Ah! I can talk straight to you," she said. "The others act as if the truth was too strong for me!"

"I know better than that," said Strange quietly. "You have the best head of any of us."

"Except when I lose it!" Colina thought. She smiled at him more warmly than she knew. A little flame that leaped up behind the man's eyes warned her. "Would he ever dare!" she thought.

"How is your father?" asked Strange quietly.

She shrugged helplessly. "Still weak," she said, "but there has been no return of fever. I have managed to keep the truth from him, but he suspects if. I cannot keep him in his room much longer."

"Ah! It makes me mad when I think of him!" Strange muttered.

There was a silence between them. His sympathy was sweet to her. She allowed it to lull her instinct of danger.

"What about the Kakisas?" she asked. "I gathered from Macfarlane's and Dr. Giddings's careful attempts to reassure me, that they feared danger from that source."

Strange smiled enigmatically.

"Surely the idea of an Indian attack is absurd," said Colina. "There hasn't been such a thing for thirty years."

"I know the Indians better than any man here," said Strange. "One may expect danger without being afraid."

"Danger!" cried Colina, elevating her eyebrows. "They would never dare!—"

"Not of themselves—but with a leader!"

"Ambrose Doane?" said Colina quickly. Her intelligence instantly rejected the suggestion, but self-love snatched at it in justification. Wounded vanity makes incongruous alliances. "That would be devilish!" she murmured.

Strange shrugged. "I can't be sure of what is going on," he said. "I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily. But I have a reason to suspect danger."

Colina turned pale. "Tell me exactly what you mean," she said.

"The Indians have learned by now how easy it was to seize the mill," he said with admirable gravity. "It seems to me that to the Indian mind looting the store will next suggest itself. We know they are incensed against your father. His long weakness makes them bold."

"But these are merely surmises!"' cried Colina.

"There is something else. Their minds work obliquely. They never come out straight with anything. I have received a kind of warning. It was an invitation to spend the night with Marcel Charlbois down the river. But it came from the other side."

"Why should they warn you?" asked Colina.

"Some man among them probably has compunctions," said Strange. "Watusk, the head man is a decent sort. Perhaps this is his way of letting me know that he cannot keep his people in hand."

"What do you expect will happen?" she asked.

"I think there will be an attack to-night," he said quietly. "It is my duty to tell you. If it doesn't come, no harm done."

Strange's quiet air was terribly impressive. Colina sat pale and silent, letting the horror sink in. She was no weakling, but this was a prospect to appal the strongest man.

"We are so helpless!" she murmured at last.

A spark, one would have said of satisfaction, shot from beneath Strange's demurely lowered eyelids. "We cannot depend on our breeds," he went on soberly, "and Greer has gone over to the other side."

Colina winced.

"That leaves us four men and yourself and your father. If we had a stone building we could snap our fingers at them but everything is of wood. And fire is their favorite weapon. There are two courses open to us. We can go before they come, or we can stay and defend ourselves."

Colina stared before her, wide-eyed. "Father would never let us take him away without an explanation," she murmured. "And if we told him what we feared, he would flatly refuse to go—"

Strange maintained a discreet silence.

Colina suddenly flung up her head. "We stay here!" she cried.

Strange's dark eyes burned—but with what kind of a feeling Colina was in no state to judge. "You're brave!" he cried. "That's what I wanted you to say!"

"What must we do to prepare?"

"There is little we can do. We must abandon the store. There is no way to defend it. Perhaps they will be satisfied with looting it. We will all take up our station in the house. At the worst, I do not fear any harm to any of us, except perhaps—"

"Father?" murmured Colina.

"They have been wrought up to a high pitch against him," Strange said deprecatingly.

"Oh, why did that man have to come here!" murmured Colina.

They were silent for a while, Colina looking on the ground, and Strange watching Colina with his peculiar limpid, candid eyes, which, when one looked deep enough, were not candid at all.

He finally looked away from her.

"There is something I want to say," he began an low tones. "Your father—he shall be my special care to-night. They can strike at him—only through me."

"Ah, you're so good to me!" murmured Colina.

"Do not thank me," he said quickly. "Remember I owe him everything. All I am. All I have I would gladly—gladly—I sound melodramatic, don't I. But I don't often inflict this on you. You know what I mean. If I could save him!"

Colina impulsively seized his hand. Tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes. "I will thank you!" she cried. "You're the best friend I have in the world!"

"And even if I owed him nothing," Strange went on, not looking at her, "he would still be your father!"

An hour before Colina would have crushed him. But it came at an emotional moment. She was blind to his color then.

"I will never, never forget this," she said.

He respectfully lifted her hands to his lips.

The under devil whose especial business it is to preside over fine acting must have rubbed his hands gleefully at the sight of his dark-skinned protege's aptitude.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE "TEA DANCE."

When Ambrose and Simon Grampierre arrived at the tea-dance they found present as many of the Kakisas of both sexes as could be wedged within Jack Mackenzie's shack.

All around the room they were pressed in tiers, the first line squatting, the second kneeling, the third standing, and others behind, perched on chairs, beds and tables, that all might have a clear view of the floor.

The cook-stove occupied the center of the room, and around it a narrow space had been left for the dancers. The air was suffocating to white lungs, what with human emanations combined with the thick fumes of kinnikinic.

Watusk, still sporting the frock coat and the finger-rings, had improved his costume by the addition of a battered silk hat with a chaplet of red paper roses around the brim.

He squatted on the floor in the center of the back wall, and places had been left at his right and left for Ambrose and Simon. He was disposed to be gracious and jocular to-night.

For very slight cause, or for none at all he laughed until he shook all over. This was his way of appearing at his ease.

As they took their places Ambrose was struck by the pretty, wistful face of a girl who knelt on the floor behind Watusk. It had a fine quality that distinguished it sharply from the stolid flat countenances of her sisters.

It was more than pretty; it was tragically beautiful, though she was little more than a child. What made it especially significant to Ambrose was the fact that the girl's sad eyes instantaneously singled him out when he entered.

As he sat in front of her he was aware that they were dwelling on him. When he caught her glance, the eyes naively suggested that she had a communication to make to him, if she dared!

The fun had not yet commenced. The two drummers sat idle in a corner, and all the company sat in stolid silence. Only Watusk chatted and laughed. The women stared at Ambrose, and the men looked down their noses. All were somewhat embarrassed by the presence of a white man. Ambrose, looking around, was struck by the incongruity of the women's neat print dresses and the men's store clothes taken with their savage, walled faces. Such faces called for blankets, beads, war paint and eagles' feathers.

Ambrose, seeing the entire tribe gathered here as it seemed, thought a little anxiously of the flour he had been at such pains to grind.

Mackenzie's house was a good distance from the teepees, and the shack they were using for a store-house almost as far on the other side.

"Is anybody watching your flour?" he asked Watusk.

"I send four men to watch," was the reply.

"Good men? Men who will not sneak up to the dance?"

"Good men," said Watusk calmly.

Watusk presently gave a signal to the stick-kettle men, and they commenced to drum with their knuckles. The drums were wide wooden hoops with a skin drawn over one side.

The drummers had a lamp on the floor between them, and when the skin relaxed they dried it over the chimney. Like dances everywhere this one was slow to get under way. No one liked to be the first one to take the floor.

Gradually the drummers warmed to their work. The stick-kettle had a voice of its own, a dull, throbbing complaint that caused even Ambrose's blood to stir vaguely.

Finally a handsome young man arose and commenced to hitch around the stove with stiff joints, like a mechanical figure. The company broke into a wild chant in a minor key, commencing on a high note and descending the whole gamut, with strange pauses, lifts and falls.

Half way down the women came in with a shrill second part. It died away into a rumble, ever to be renewed on the same high, long-drawn note. Ambrose was reminded of the baying of hounds.

The dancer knotted his handkerchief as he circled the stove. Dancing up to another man, he offered him the end of it with some spoken words.

It was accepted, and they danced together around the stove, joined by the handkerchief.

The hunching, spasmodic step never varied. Ambrose asked Watusk about it.

"This is the lame man's dance," his host explained.

"What lame man?" asked Ambrose. "How did it begin?"

Watusk shrugged. "It is very old," he said.

The first man dropped out, and the second chose a new partner. Sometimes there were two or three couples dancing at once. Partners were chosen indiscriminately from either sex.

In each case the knotted handkerchief was offered with the same spoken formula. Ambrose asked what it was they said.

"This is give-away dance," Watusk explained. "He is say: 'This my knife, this my blanket, this my silk-worked moccasins.' What he want to give. After he got give it."

Ambrose observed that each dancer laid two matches on the cold stove as he took his place, and when he retired from the dance picked them up again. He asked what that signified.

Watusk shrugged again. "How do I know?" he said. "It is always done."

Ambrose learned later that this was the invariable answer of the Kakisas to any question concerning their customs.

Watusk was exerting himself to be hospitable, continually pressing cups of steaming bitter tea on Ambrose and Simon. Ambrose, watching him, made up his mind that the chief's unusual affability masked a deep disquiet.

The sharp, shifty eyes were continually turning with an expectant look to the door. Ambrose found himself watching the door, too.

To Ambrose the uncouth dance had neither head nor tail; nevertheless, it had a striking effect on the participators and spectators.

Minute by minute the excitement mounted. The stick-kettles throbbed faster and ever more disquietingly. It seemed as if the skin of the drums were the very hearts of the hearers, with the drummers' knuckles searching out their secrets.

Eyes burned like stars around the walls, and the chant was renewed with a passionate abandon. The figures hitched and sprang around the homely iron stove like lithe animals.

Suddenly the noise of running feet was heard outside, and a man burst in through the door with livid face and starting eyes. The drumming, the song, and the dance stopped simultaneously.

The man cried out a single sentence in the Kakisa tongue. Cried it over and over breathlessly, without any expression.

The effect on the crowd was electrical. Cries of surprise and alarm, both hoarse and shrill, answered him. A wave of rage swept over them all, distorting their faces. They jammed in the doorway, fighting to get out.

"What is it?" cried Ambrose of Watusk.

Watusk's face was working oddly with excitement.

But it was not rage like the others. The difference between him and all his people was marked.

"The flour is burning!" the chief cried.

"This was what he expected," thought Ambrose.

As he struggled to get out, Ambrose's hand was seized and pressed by a small warm one.

He had a momentary impression of the wistful girl beside him. Then she was swept away.



CHAPTER XXIII.

FIRE AND RAPINE.

The Kakisas ran down the trail like a heap of dry leaves propelled by a squall of wind. To Ambrose it all seemed as senseless and unreal as a nightmare.

The alarm had been given at a moment of extreme emotional excitement, and restraint was thrown to the winds. It was like a rout after battle.

The men shouted; the women wailed and forgot their children. The throng was full of lost children; they fell by the road and lay shrieking.

Ambrose never forgot the picture as he ran, of an old crone, crazed by excitement, whirling like a dervish, rocking her skinny arms and twisting her neck into attitudes as grotesque as gargoyles.

The trail they covered was a rough wagon-road winding among patches of poplar scrub and willow. Issuing out upon the wide clearing which contained their village they saw afar the little storehouse burning like a torch, and redoubled their cries.

They swept past the teepees without stopping, the biggest ones in the van, the little ones tailing off and falling down and getting up again with piteous cries.

Reaching the spot, all could see there was nothing to be done. The shack was completely enveloped in names. There were not half a dozen practicable water-pails in the tribe, and anyhow the fire was a good furlong from the river.

Ambrose, seeing what a start it had got, guessed that it was no accident. It had been set, and set in such a way as to insure the shack's total destruction. He considered the sight grimly.

The mystery he had first scented that morning was assuming truly formidable proportions. He believed that Watusk was a party to it; but he could not conceive of any reason why Watusk should burn up his people's bread.

There was nothing to be done, and the people ceased their cries. They stood gazing at the ruby and vermilion flames with wide, charmed eyes.

Among the pictures that this terrible night etched with acid on Ambrose's subconsciousness, the sight of them standing motionless, all the dark faces lighted by the glare, was not the least impressive.

With a sickening anxiety he perceived the signs of a rising savage rage. The men scowled and muttered. More than once he heard the words: "John Gaviller!" Men slipped away to the teepees and returned with their guns.

Ambrose looked anxiously for Watusk. He could not reach the people except through the man he distrusted.

He found him by himself in a kind of retreat among some poplars a little way off, where he could see without being seen. Ambrose dragged him back willy-nilly, adjuring him by the way.

"The people are working themselves into a rage. They speak of Gaviller. You and I have got to prevent trouble. You must tell them Gaviller is a hard man, but he keeps the law. He did not do this thing. This is the act of another enemy."

"What good tell them?" said Watusk sullenly. "They not believe."

"You are their leader!" cried Ambrose. "It's up to you to keep them out of trouble. If you do not speak, whatever happens will be on your head! And I will testify against you. Tell the people to wait until to-morrow and I pledge myself to find out who did this."

"You know who did it?" asked Watusk sharply.

"I will not speak until I have proof," Ambrose said warily.

"What happened to the men you left on guard?"

"They say they play jack-pot with a lantern near the door," said Watusk. "See not'ing. Hear not'ing. Poof! she is all burn!"

"H-m!" said Ambrose.

They were now among the people.

"Speak to them!" he cried. "Tell them if they keep quiet Ambrose Doane will pay for the flour that is burned up, and will grind them some more. Tell them to wait, and I promise to make things right. Tell them if they make trouble to-night the police will come and take them away, and their children will starve!"

Watusk did, indeed, move among the men speaking to them, but with a half-hearted air. He cut a pitiful figure. It was not clear whether he was unwilling to oppose them or afraid.

Ambrose did not even know what Watusk was saying to them. At any rate the men ignored their leader. Ambrose was wild at the necessity which made him dependent on such a poor creature.

He followed Watusk, imploring them in English to keep their heads. Some of the sense of what he said must have reached them through his tones and gestures, but they only turned sullen, suspicious shoulders upon him.

That Ambrose should take the part of his known enemy, John Gaviller, seemed to their simple minds to smack of double-dealing.

The roof of the burning shack fell in, sending a lovely eruption of sparks to the black sky. At the same moment as if by a signal one of the savages brandished his gun aloft and broke into a passionate denunciation.

Once more Ambrose heard the name of Gaviller. Instantly the crowd was in an uproar again. Cries of angry approval answered the speaker from every throat. The man was beside himself. He waved his gun in the direction of the river.

Ambrose waited to hear no more. He saw what was coming. Black horror faced him. He ran to the river, straining every nerve. He heard them behind him. Then it was that he so bitterly reproached himself for having left the york boat within reach.

Leaping down the bank, he put his back under the bow and struggled to push it off. He would gladly have sacrificed it. It was too heavy for him to budge. Tole Grampierre and Greer reached his side.

"Quick!" cried Ambrose breathlessly. "Set her adrift!"

But at that moment the whole tribe came pouring over the bank like a flood. Ambrose and the breed sprang into the bow of the boat in an endeavor to hold it against them. Old Simon presently joined them.

"Back! Back!" cried Ambrose. "For God's sake listen to me, men! Go to your lodges and talk until morning. The truth will be clear in the daylight! The police are coming. They will give you justice.

"Justice is on your side now. If you break the white man's law he will wipe you out! Where is your leader? He knows the truth of what I say. Watusk is not here! He won't risk his neck!"

It had about as much effect as a trickle of water upon a conflagration. They made no attempt to dislodge Ambrose from in front, but swarmed into the water on either side, and putting their backs under the boat, lifted her off the stones. Scrambling over the sides, they shouldered Ambrose and the breed ashore from behind.

Ambrose shouted to the breeds: "Go home and stay there all night. You must not be mixed up in this."

"What will you do?" cried Simon.

The york boat was already floating off, the crew running out the sweeps. Ambrose, without answering, ran into the water and clambered aboard. In the confusion and the dark the Indians could not tell if he were white or red.

He made himself inconspicuous in the bow. His only conscious thought was how to get a gun. He had no idea of what to do upon landing.

Upon pushing off, moved by a common instinct of caution, the Indians fell silent, and during the crossing there was no sound but the grumbling of the clumsy sweeps in the thole-pins, and the splash of the blades.

Standing on the little platform astern, silhouetted against the sky, Ambrose recognized the man who had given the word to attack Gaviller.

He marked him well. He was of middle size, a tall man among the little Kakisas, with a great shock of hair cut off like a Dutchman's at the neck.

On the way over Ambrose was greatly astonished to feel his sleeve gently plucked. He studied the men beside him, and finally made out Tole under his flaring hatbrim.

Into his ear he whispered: "I told you to go home."

"I go with you," Tole whispered back. "I your friend."

Ambrose's anxious heart was warmed. He needed a friend. He gripped Tole's shoulder.

"Have you a gun?" he asked.

The breed shook his head.

"Get guns for us both if you can," said Ambrose.

On the other side, the instant the york boat touched the shingle, the Indians set up a chorus of yelling frightful to hear, and scrambled ashore.

Ambrose and Tole were among the first out. Together they drew aside a little way into the darkness to see what would happen. There was no need to warn the Company people; the yelling did that.

The Indians set off across the beach and up the bank, working themselves up with their strident, brutish cries. The habits of thirty years of peace were shed like a garment. The young men of the tribe had never heard the war-cry until that moment.

Ambrose followed at their heels. At the top of the bank, to his unbounded relief, they turned toward the store. He still had a little time. All he could do was to offer himself to the defenders.

"I'm going to the side door of Gaviller's house," he said to Tole. "Get guns for us, somehow, and come to me there."

He knew that Tole, who was as dark as the Kakisas, and in no way distinguished from them in dress, ran little risk of discovery in the confusion.

There was no sign of life about the post; every window was dark. The Indians swarmed across the quadrangle without meeting any one.

As Ambrose reached the fence around Gaviller's house he heard the store-door and the windows go in with a series of crashes. He crouched beside the gate to wait for Tole. It was useless for him to offer himself without a weapon.

They started a fire outside the store. Fed with excelsior and empty boxes, the flames leaped up instantaneously, illuminating every corner of the quadrangle, and throwing gigantic, distorted shadows of men on the store front.

On the nearer side of the fire the silhouettes darted back and forth with the malignant activity of demons in a pit. Men issued out of the store with armfuls of goods that they flung regardless to the flames.

Already they were dressing themselves up in layer after layer of clothes until they no longer resembled human creatures. What they could not wear they hung about their necks.

Some came out tearing at food like wolves. Others darted into dark corners of the square to hide their prizes. A man appeared dressed in a woman's wrapper and hat, and capered around the fire to the accompaniment of shrieks of obscene laughter.

There was a continuous sound of rending and crashing from within the store. The trader in Ambrose groaned to witness the destruction of good weapons and cloth stuffs and food. Some one would suffer for the lack of it in the winter.

Within the store, by the door, a furious altercation arose. This was where the case of cheap jewelry stood. Two men rolled out on the platform fighting.

Ambrose saw a raised arm, and the gleam of steel. After a few moments one of the men got up and the other lay still. Thereafter, all who went in and came out stepped indifferently over his body.

Ambrose gazed fascinated and oddly unmoved. It was like a horrible play in a theater. The insane yelling rose and fell intermittently.

At last Ambrose saw a man detach himself from the group and run around the square, darting behind the houses for cover. The runner reappeared nearer to him, and he saw that it was Tole. He came to him, running low under shelter of the palings. He thrust a rifle into Ambrose's hands.

"Loaded!" he gasped. "Plenty more shells in my pocket."

"Did you hear any talk?" asked Ambrose. "Are they coming over here?"

"Talk no sense," said Tole. "Only yell. It is moch bad. They got whisky."

"Whisky!" echoed Ambrose, aghast.

"A big jug. It was in the store."

Ambrose's heart sank. "Come," he said grimly.

CHAPTER XXIV.

COLINA RELENTS.

As Ambrose and Tole started in the gate they were hailed from the dark doorway under the porch. "Stand, or I fire!" It was the voice of Macfarlane.

"It is Ambrose Doane and Tole Grampierre," cried Ambrose.

They heard an exclamation of astonishment from the door.

"What do you want?" demanded the voice.

"To help you defend yourselves."

From the sounds that reached him, Ambrose gathered that the door was open and that Macfarlane stood within the hall. From farther back Colina's voice rang out:

"How dare you! Do you expect us to believe you? Go back to your friends!"

"They are not my men," Ambrose answered doggedly.

"Wait!" cried still another voice. Ambrose recognized the smooth accents of Gordon Strange. "We can't afford to turn away any defenders. I say let him come in."

Ambrose was surprised, and none too well pleased to hear his part taken in this quarter. There was a silence. He apprehended that they were consulting in the hall. Finally Macfarlane called curtly:

"You may come in."

As he went up the path Ambrose saw that the windows of the lower floor had been roughly boarded up. The thought struck him oddly: "How could they have had warning of what was going to happen?"

"There's barbed wire around the porch," said Macfarlane, "You'll have to get over it the best way you can."

Ambrose and Tole helped each other through the obstruction. They found Macfarlane sitting on a chair in the doorway, with his rifle across his knees.

"Go into the library," he said.

The door was on the right hand as one entered the hall. Within a lamp had just been lighted; even as Ambrose entered Colina was turning up the wick.

Heavy curtains had been bung over the windows to keep any rays of light from escaping, and the door was instantly closed behind Ambrose and Tole.

Inside the little room that he already knew so well Ambrose found all the defenders gathered. The only one strange to him was little Pringle, the missionary, who sat primly on the sofa. It had much the look of an ordinary evening party, but the row of guns by the door told a tale.

John Gaviller sat in his swivel chair behind his desk, leaning his head on his hand. Ambrose was shocked by the change that three months' illness had worked in him.

The self-assured, the scornfully affable trader had become a mere pantaloon with sunken cheeks and trembling hands. Ambrose looked with quick compassion toward Colina.

She went to her father and stood by his chair with a hand on his shoulder. She coldly ignored Ambrose's glance.

"What have you to say for yourself?" Gaviller demanded in a weak, harsh voice.

"Do you know the reason for this attack?" demanded Ambrose.

Several voices answered "No!"

"All the flour was stored in Michel Trudeau's shack. Some wretch set fire to it and destroyed it all. Naturally they thought it was done by John Gaviller's orders. This is their reprisal."

"You dared to think we would stoop to such a thing!" cried Colina.

The general animosity that he felt like a wall around him made Ambrose defiant.

"I said they thought so," he retorted. "I harangued them until my throat was sore. I couldn't hold them, and I hid myself and came with them, thinking perhaps I could help you."

"How did they come?" asked Strange smoothly.

"In my boat that they seized," said Ambrose.

"It all comes back to you whichever way you trace it," cried Gaviller. "If you had not attacked us yesterday, they would never have dared to-day! You have brought us to this! I hope you're satisfied. I warned you what would happen as a result of your tampering with the natives. If we're all murdered it will be on your head!"

"On the contrary, if we're murdered it will be because they found whiskey in your store," retorted Ambrose.

"Impossible!" cried Gaviller and Strange together.

Ambrose laid a hand on Tole's shoulder. "This man saw it on the counter," he said. "I sent him to the store to get guns for us both. It had no business to be there, as you all know."

"They must have brought it with them," said Strange. "I locked the store myself."

"Of course they brought it," said Gaviller.

"Not much use to discuss that point," said Ambrose curtly. "They have it, and it has robbed them of the last vestiges of manhood. They're nothing but brutes now."

The old man rose. "Silence!" he cried quaveringly. "You are insolent! By your light-mindedness and vanity you have raised a storm that no man can see the end of! You have plunged us into the horrors of Indian warfare after thirty years' peace! How dare you come here and attempt to hector us! Silence, I say, and keep your place!"

"Father," murmured Colina remonstratingly. "You must save your strength."

He shook her off impatiently. "Must I submit to be bearded in my own house by this scamp, this fire-brand, this destroyer?"

Ambrose could not bandy words with this wreck of a strong man. He signed to Tole, and they went outside and joined Macfarlane.

The three of them waited in the doorway in a kind of armed truce, smoking and watching the Indians across the square. At any moment they expected to see the yelling demons turn against the house.

By and by Ambrose heard the library door open. The light inside had been put out again for greater safety.

He heard Colina come out, and go the other way in the passage. He knew her by the rustle of her skirts. She went up-stairs on some errand.

His heart leaped up. He could no longer deceive himself with the fancy that he had ceased to love her. Not with death staring them both in the face. He quietly made his way back into the house to intercept her on her return.

When he heard her coming he whispered her name. Here in the middle of the house it was totally dark.

"You!" she gasped, stopping short. But the scorn had gone out of her voice, and somehow he knew that he was already in her thoughts when he spoke. He put out a hand toward her.

"Don't touch me!" she whispered, shrinking sharply.

There, in the compelling darkness, with danger waiting outside, they could not hide their souls from each other. "Colina," he whispered, "don't harden yourself against me to-night. I love you!"

Her breath came quickly. She could not speak. Her anger against Ambrose was, at the best, a pumped-up affair. She felt obliged to hate him because she loved her father. And her overweening pride had supported it. All this fell away now. She longed to believe in him.

Perceiving his advantage he followed it close.

"It may be the last night," he whispered. "I'm not afraid to speak of death to you. You're no coward. Colina, it would be hard to die thinking that you hated me!"

"Don't!" she murmured painfully. "Don't try to soften me. I need to be hard."

"Not to me," he whispered. "I love you!'"

She was silent. He heard her breathing on a shaken breast.

"If I knew it was my last word I should say the same," he went on. "I came back to Enterprise because I thought I had to come to save you!"

"It hasn't turned out that way, has it?" she said sadly and bitterly.

"There is some evil influence working against us all," he said. "If I live I shall show you."

"I don't know what to think," she murmured.

They were standing close together. Suddenly the sense of her nearness in the dark, the delicate emanation of her hair, of her whole person, overwhelmed his senses like a wave.

"Oh, my darling," he murmured brokenly. "Those devils outside can only kill me once. You make me die a thousand deaths!"

"Ah, don't!" she whispered sharply. "Not now. First, I must believe in you!"

He beat down the passion that dizzied him. He sought for her hand and gripped it firmly. She allowed it. "Listen," he said. "Take me into the light and look in my eyes."

Her hand turned in his and took command of it, drawing him after her. Crossing the stair-hall they entered the dining-room. Colina closed the door and lighted the lamp.

Ambrose gazed at her hungrily. She came to him straight and, offering him both her hands, looked deep into his eyes.

"Now tell me," she murmured.

This was the real Colina, simple as a child. Her eyes—the lamp being behind her—showed as deep and dark as the night sky.

Her lovely face yearned up to his, and Ambrose's self-command tottered again—but this was no moment for passion. His voice shook, but his eyes were as steady as hers.

"I love you," he said quietly. "When you hated me most I was doing the best for you that I could. I—I'm afraid I sound like a prig. But it is the truth. I stood out against you when I thought you were wrong because I loved you!"

Her eyes fell. Her hands crept confidingly up his arms. "Ah! I want so to believe it," she faltered.

He thought he had won her again. His arms swept around her, crushing her to him. "My love!" he murmured.

She went slack in his arms and coldly averted her head. "Do not kiss me," she said.

He instantly released her.

"It's not the time," she murmured. "It seems horrible to-night. I—I am not ready. By what happens to-night I will know for always!"

"But, Colina—" he began.

She offered him her hand with a beseeching air. "I do not hate you any more," she said quickly. "You have a lot to forgive in me, too. Be merciful to me. Show me—to-night."

He drew a steadying breath. "Very well," he said. "I am contented."

CHAPTER XXV.

ACCUSED.

The long suspense wore terribly on the defenders of the house.

To wait inactive, listening to the frightful yelling and watching the play of the fire, not knowing at what moment yelling, bullets, and fire might be directed at themselves, was disorganizing to the stoutest nerves.

When the attack should come all knew that their refuge was more like a trap than a fortress. Ambrose wished to abandon the house for the Catholic church up the river.

This little structure was stoutly built of squared logs; moreover, it was possible that some lingering religious feeling might restrain the Indians from firing it.

The suggestion was received with suspicion. John Gaviller refused point-blank to leave his house.

As the hours passed without any change in the situation they began to feel as if they could endure no more. They were almost ready to wish that the savages might attack them and have done with it.

They endlessly and vainly discussed what might be passing in the red men's minds. Tole Grampierre, hearing this talk, offered to go and find out.

There was no danger to him, he said. Even if they should discover that he was not one of themselves, they had no quarrel with his people. Ambrose let him go.

He never returned. Ambrose and Macfarlane helped him through the barbed wire, and he set off, making a wide detour behind the houses that faced the river, meaning to join the Indians from the other side.

Most of the Indians had for some time been engaged in rifling the warehouse, which adjoined the store behind.

Ambrose and Macfarlane, anxiously watching from the porch, heard a sudden outcry raised in this quarter, and saw a man come running desperately around the corner of the store, pursued by a howling dozen.

Ambrose knew the runner by his rakish, broad-brimmed hat and flying sash. His heart leaped into the race. Tole was gaining.

"Go it! Go it!" Ambrose cried.

Tole was not bringing his pursuers back to the big house, but led the way off to one side by the quarters. Only a few yards separated him from the all-concealing darkness.

"He's safe!" murmured Ambrose.

At the same moment half of Tole's pursuers stopped dead, and their rifles barked. The flying figure spun around with uptossed arms, and plunged to the ground.

Ambrose groaned from the bottom of his breast. Nerved by a blind rage, his own gun instinctively went up. He could have picked off one or two from where he stood. Macfarlane flung a restraining arm around him.

"Stop! You'll bring the whole mob down on us!" he cried. He looked at Ambrose not unkindly. The sacrifice of Tole obliged him to change his attitude.

Ambrose turned in the door, silently grinding his teeth. At the end of the passage he found a chair, and dropped upon it, holding his head between his hands.

The face of Tole as he had first beheld it—proud, comely, and full of health—rose before him vividly.

He remembered that he had said to himself then: "Here is one young, like myself, that I can make a friend of." And almost the last thing Tole had said to him was: "I am your friend."

It was his youth and good looks that made it seem most horrible. Ambrose pictured the bloody ruin lying in the square, and shuddered.

Gordon Strange offered to go out in order to make sure that Tole was beyond aid. It seemed like a kindly impulse, but Ambrose suspected its genuineness.

Even from where they were, a glance at the huddled figure was enough to tell the truth. None of the others would hear of Strange's going. Colina and Giddings pleaded with him. Gaviller forbade him. Strange with seeming reluctance finally gave in.

Whenever he witnessed such evidences of their trust in the half-breed Ambrose's lip curled in the darkness. He was more than ever convinced that Strange was a blackguard.

Evidence he had none, only his warning intuition, which, among the male sex at least, is not considered much to go on.

It gave Ambrose a shrewd little twinge of jealousy to hear Colina begging this man not to risk his life by leaving the house.

About three o'clock it began to seem as if they might allow themselves to relax a little. The madness of the Indians had burned itself out. There had not been enough whisky perhaps to maintain it for more than a few hours.

In any case, since the whites had been spared at the height of their fury, it seemed reasonable to hope they might escape altogether. The yelling had ceased.

Most of the men were now engaged in carrying flour and other goods down to the york boat. The watchers from the house wondered if they dared believe this signified an early departure.

As the tension let down it could be seen that John Gaviller was on the verge of a collapse. Colina strove with him to go to his room and rest on his bed.

He finally consented upon condition that she lay in her own room up-stairs. Colina and Gordon Strange half led, half carried the old man up-stairs.

Strange, returning, relieved Macfarlane's watch at the side door. Macfarlane, Ambrose, Giddings, and Pringle lay down on the sofa and on the floor of the library.

Three of them were almost instantly asleep. Not so Ambrose. As soon as he saw the half-breed left in sole charge his smoldering suspicions leaped into activity.

"If he's meditating anything queer this is the time he'll start it!" he thought. He took care to choose his position on the floor nearest the door. He left the door open.

From the outside only occasional sounds came now. The Indians were busy and silent. Within the house it was so still that Ambrose could hear Gordon Strange puffing at his pipe.

The half-breed was sitting in the doorway outside, with his chair tipped back against the wall. By and by Ambrose heard the front legs of the chair drop to the floor, and an instinct of caution bade him close his eyes and breathe deeply like a man asleep.

Sure enough Strange came into the library. He was taking no pains to be silent. Stepping over Ambrose he crossed to the mantel, where he fumbled for matches, and striking one made believe to relight his pipe.

Now Ambrose knew that Strange had matches, for when they took John Gaviller up he had seen him light the lamp at the foot of the stairs and return the box to his pocket.

This then must be a reconnoitering expedition. Ambrose had no doubt that when the match flared up the half-breed took a survey of the sleeping men.

He left the room, and Ambrose heard the chair tipped back against the wall once more.

A little later Ambrose became conscious that Strange was at the library door again, though this time he had not heard him come.

He paused a second and passed away as silently as a ghost—but whether back to his chair or farther into the house Ambrose could not tell.

Rising swiftly to his hands and knees he stuck his head out of the door. There was light enough from the outside to reveal the outlines of the chair—empty.

Without a thought Ambrose turned in the other direction and crept swiftly and softly through the passage into the stair hall. He did not know what he expected to find. His heart beat thick and fast.

He scarcely suspected danger to Colina, who was strong and brave. Was it her father? Reaching the foot of the stairs he heard a velvet footfall above.

He hastened up on all fours. The stairs were thickly carpeted. Gaining the top his strained ears detected the whisper of a sound that suggested the closing of Gaviller's door.

He knew the room. It was over the drawing-room, and cut off from the other rooms of the house. To reach the door one had to pass around the rail of the upper landing.

Arriving at the door he did indeed find it closed. Under the circumstances he was sure Colina would have left it open.

He did not stop to think of what he was doing. With infinite slow patience he turned the knob with one hand, holding his electric torch ready in the other.

When the door parted he flashed the light on the spot where he knew the bed stood. The picture vividly revealed in the little circle of light realized his unacknowledged fears.

He saw Strange kneeling on the bed, his face hideously distorted, his two hands at the old man's throat.

Strange yelped once in mingled terror and rage like an animal surprised—and with the quickness of an animal sprang at Ambrose.

The two men went down with a crash athwart the sill, and the door slammed back against the wall. There was a desperate struggle on the floor.

Strange was nerved with the strength of a madman. He could not have seen who it was that surprised him, but in that frantic embrace he learned.

"It's you, is it?" he snarled. "I've got you now!"

Forthwith he began to shout lustily for help. "Macfarlane! Giddings!"

Colina was already out of her room. She did not scream. The three men were on the stairs.

"Bring a light!" gasped both the struggling men.

It was Colina who lit a lamp and carried it out into the hall with a steady hand. Ambrose was seen to be uppermost. Recognizing the two men her face darkened with anger.

"What does this mean?" she cried. "Get up instantly!"

Ambrose wrenched himself free and stood up.

"Don't let him escape!" cried Strange.

Ambrose laughed a single note.

"He tried to kill your father!" panted Strange. "I arrived in the nick of time!"

Ambrose gasped and fell back in astonishment. Such stupendous effrontery was beyond the scope of his imagination.

"It's a lie!" he cried. "It was I who discovered him in the act of strangling your father!"

Then for the first Colina swayed. "Oh, God!" she murmured, "have we all gone mad!"

Macfarlane seized the lamp from her failing hand. Colina ran unevenly into her father's room. They heard her cry out within. Giddings ran to her aid. He made a light in the room and closed the door. The little parson moaned and wrung his hands.

Macfarlane had drawn his revolver. "If you make a move I'll shoot you down!" he said to Ambrose—thus making it clear whose story he believed.

"You can put it up," said Ambrose coolly. "I'm going to see this thing through."

Strange had got his grip again. His smoothness was largely restored. He actually laughed. "He's a cool hand!" he said.

"You damned black villain!" said Ambrose softly. "I know you now. And you know that I know you!"

It did not improve Ambrose's case to say it, but he felt better. The half-breed changed color and edged behind Macfarlane's gun.

Colina presently reappeared, showing a white and stony face. "Mr. Pringle," she said, "go down and lock the side door and bring me the key. The rest of you go to the library and wait for me."

Ambrose flushed darkly. That Colina should even for a moment hold the balance between him and the half-breed made him burn with anger. Passionate reproaches leaped to his lips, but pride forced them back.

Turning stiffly he marched downstairs before Macfarlane without a word. She should suffer for this when he was exonerated, he vowed. That he might not be exonerated immediately did not occur to him.

In the library Strange and Macfarlane whispered together. When Pringle rejoined them all were silent. For upward of ten minutes they waited, facing each other grimly.

The strain was too great for the nerves of the little parson. He finally broke into a kind of terrified, dry sobbing.

"For God's sake say something!" he faltered. "This is too horrible!"

Macfarlane glanced at him with a contemptuous pity and stood a little aside from the door. "Better go into the front room," he said. "You can't do any good here."

The little man shook his head, and going to the window turned his back on them and endeavored to master his shaking.

Shortly afterward Colina came down-stairs. At her entrance all looked the question none dared put into words.

Colina veiled her eyes. "My father only fainted," she said levelly. "Dr. Giddings says he is little worse than before."

A long breath escaped from her hearers.

Strange cunningly contrived to get his story out first. As he spoke all eyes were bent on the ground. They could not face the horror of the other eyes.

Pringle was obliged to sit on the sofa to control the trembling of his limbs. The others stood—Macfarlane, Colina, and Strange near the door—Ambrose facing them from in front of the desk.

"You will remember," Strange began collectedly, "it was I who advised that this man should be admitted to the house. I thought we could watch him better from the inside. I have never ceased to watch him from that moment.

"When you all turned in and I was left at the side door I kept my eye on this room. The last time I looked in I saw that he had disappeared. He had slipped so softly down the hall I had not heard anything.

"I instantly thought of danger to those up-stairs, and crept up as quickly as I could without making any sound. I found the door of Mr. Gaviller's room closed. I knew Miss Colina had left it open. I opened it softly, and saw Doane on the bed with his hands at Mr. Gaviller's throat."

A shuddering breath escaped from Colina. The little parson moaned.

"He sprang at me," Strange went on. "We rolled on the ground. I called for help, and you all came. That is all."

Ambrose was staggered by the breed's satanic cleverness. After this his own story must sound like a pitiful imitation. He could never tell it now with the same assurance.

"Surely, surely they must know that a true man couldn't take it so coolly," he thought. But they were convinced; he could see it in their faces.

He felt as powerless as a dreamer in the grip of a nightmare.



CHAPTER XXVI.

CONVICTED.

When Strange finished there was a significant silence. They were waiting for Ambrose to speak. Stiffening himself he told his story as manfully as he could. Conscious of its weakness he wore a hang-dog air which contrasted unfavorably with Strange's seeming candor.

No comment was made upon it. Ambrose could feel their unexpressed sneers like goads in the raw flesh. Only Colina gave no sign. Macfarlane turned to her for instructions.

She contrived to maintain her proud and stony air up to the moment she was obliged to speak. But her self-command went out with her shuddering voice. "I—I don't know what to say," she whispered tremblingly.

"Surely there can be no question here!" cried Strange with a voice full of reproachful indignation. "I have served Mr. Gaviller faithfully for nearly thirty years. This man's whole aim has been to ruin him!"

"This is the tone I should be taking instead of letting him run me out," Ambrose thought dispassionately, as if it were somebody else. But he remained dumb.

"What earthly reason could I have for trying to injure my benefactor?" cried Strange. His voice broke artistically on the final word. "You all know what I think of him. Your suspicions hurt me!"

Macfarlane crossed over and clapped him on the shoulder. Colina kept her eyes down. She was very pale; her lips were compressed and her hands clenched at her sides.

Ambrose bestirred himself to his own defense. "Let me ask a question," he said quietly to Strange. "You say when you opened the door you saw me with my hands on Mr. Gaviller. How could you see me?"

"With my electric flash-light," Strange instantly answered.

"That's a lie," said Ambrose. "The flash-light was mine. I can prove it by a dozen witnesses."

"Produce it," said Strange sneering.

"You knocked it out of my hand," said Ambrose. "It will be found somewhere on the floor up-stairs."

Strange drew his hand out of his pocket. "On the contrary, it is here," he said. "And it has never been out of my possession. As to your identifying it, there are dozens like it in the country. It is the style all the stores carry."

Ambrose shrugged. "I've nothing more to say," he said. "The man is a liar. The truth is bound to come out in the end."

The white men paid little attention to this, but it stung Strange to reply. "If Mr. Gaviller were able to speak he'd soon decide between us!"

At that moment, as if Strange's speech had evoked, him, they heard Giddings in the hall.

"Has he spoken?" they asked breathlessly.

Colina kept her eyes hidden.

Giddings nodded. "He sent me down-stairs to order Macfarlane to arrest Doane."

Colina fell back against the door-frame with a hand to her breast. "Did he—did he see him?" she whispered.

"No," said Giddings reluctantly. "He did not see his assailant. But said to accuse Strange of the deed was the act of a desperate criminal."

"You're under arrest!" Macfarlane said bruskly to Ambrose. Turning to Colina, he added deprecatingly: "You had better leave the room, Miss Gaviller."

She shook her head. Clearly speech was beyond her. Not once during the scene had Ambrose been able to see her eyes, Macfarlane waited a moment for her to go, then shrugged deprecatingly.

"Will you submit to handcuffs or must I force you?" he demanded of Ambrose.

Ambrose did not hear him. His eyes were fastened on Colina. So long as he was tortured by a doubt of her he was oblivious to everything else.

The heart knows no logic. It deals directly with the heart. Love looks for loyalty as its due. Ambrose was amazed and incredulous and sickened by his love's apparent faint-heartedness.

"Colina!" he cried indignantly, "have you nothing to say? Do you believe this lie?"

Her agonized eyes flew to his—full of passionate gratitude to hear him defend himself. His scorn both abased and overjoyed her. Her heart knew.

None of the others recognized what was passing in those glances.

Macfarlane took a step forward. "Here! Leave Miss Gaviller out of this!" he said harshly.

Ambrose did not look at him, but his hand clenched ready to strike. His eyes were fixed on Colina, demanding an answer.

Color came back to her cheeks and firmness to her voice. "Stop!" she cried to Macfarlane in her old imperious way. "I'm the mistress here. My father is incapable of giving orders. You've no right to judge this man. None of us can choose. There is no evidence. I will not have either one handcuffed!"

Macfarlane fell back disconcerted. "I was thinking of your father's safety," he muttered.

"I will watch over him myself," she said. She went swiftly up the stairs.

Ambrose sat by himself on a chair at the junction of the side passage with the stair hall. Naturally, after what had passed, he avoided the other men—and they him.

It was growing light. He saw the panes of the side door gray and whiten. Later he could make out the damaged front of the store across the square.

Macfarlane was again upon watch by the door. Strange and Pringle were in the library. Giddings was with Colina and the sick man up-stairs.

Ambrose watched the coming of day with grim eyes. He had had plenty of time to consider his situation. True, Colina had not failed him, but he did not minimize the dangers ahead.

He knew something of the uncertainty of men's justice. Out of the tumult of rage that had at first shattered him had been born a resolve to guard himself warily.

Daylight had an odd effect of novelty. It seemed to him as if years separated him from the previous day.

Strange came out of the library to take an observation. At the sight of him Ambrose's eyes burned. If scorn could kill the half-breed would have fallen in his tracks.

"They're still quiet," remarked Macfarlane.

"Too quiet," said Strange. "If they made a noise we could guess what they were up to!"

The two men held a low-voiced colloquy by the door. Ambrose supposed that Strange was again offering to go out to reconnoiter. The policeman was expostulating with him.

He heard Strange say; "I'm afraid they may attempt to wreck the mill before they go. That would be fatal for all of us. I had no opportunity yesterday to put on new locks."

Macfarlane begged Strange not to risk himself.

"He's safe enough," thought Ambrose grimly.

Strange finally had his way.

Ambrose speculated on what his real object might be. "That bull-headed redcoat is likely to get a surprise!" he thought.

In less than ten minutes the half-breed returned. Macfarlane warmly grasped his hand.

"It's all right," said Strange. "I went straight up to them. I had no trouble. Even now the older heads are thinking of the consequences. I think they'll be gone directly."

After some further talk in low tones Strange went back into the library, and Macfarlane sat down with his gun across his knees.

Once more quiet ruled the house. Ambrose's head fell forward on his breast and he slept uneasily.

He was roused by the cry they had waited all night in dread of hearing: "They're coming!"

Strange and Pringle ran out into the hall. Low as the cry was it was heard above. Colina and Giddings came flying down-stairs. Ambrose had already joined the others.

In the face of the deadly danger that threatened the men forgot their animosity for the moment. They were all crowded together in the narrow passage, far enough back from the closed door to see through the panes without being seen.

The five whites were afraid, as they might well be—but without panic. The half-breed was suspiciously calm. They lacked an unquestioned leader.

"That is Myengeen leading them," said Strange; "a bad Indian!"

"Macfarlane—tell us what to do," said Giddings.

"They're quiet now," said Colina. "I shall speak to them!"

Macfarlane put out a restraining hand. "Leave this to me!" he said quickly.

"We're in each other's way here," cried Ambrose. "Let us spread through some of the rooms."

"Right!" said Macfarlane. "Doane, Giddings, and Miss Colina—go into the library and throw up the windows on this side. Shoot between the boards if I give the word. The guns are inside the door."

A cry from Strange brought them out into the hall again. "They've raised a white flag! They want to parley not to fight."

The others murmured their relief.

"Open the door!" cried Strange. "I will speak to them."

Ambrose fell back a little. The other men crowded around Strange, urging him to be careful of himself. Strange was doing the modest hero!

It was a pretty little play. At the sight of it a harsh jangle of laughter rang inside Ambrose. Colina took no part in the scene.

Strange stepped out on the porch. Ambrose heard him speaking the uncouth Kakisa tongue, and heard the murmur of replies. He would have given a bale of furs to understand what was being said.

The exchange was brief. Strange presently stepped inside and said:

"They say they want their leader—Ambrose Doane."

A dead silence fell on the little group. They turned and stared at Ambrose. He, for the moment, was stunned with astonishment. He was aware only of Colina's stricken, white face. She looked as if she had been shot.

"They say they are ready to go," Strange went on. "They promise to make no more trouble if we give Doane up. If we refuse, they say they will take him, anyway."

"It's an infernal lie!" cried Ambrose desperately. "I am no leader of theirs!"

She did not believe him. Her eyes lost all their luster and her lovely face looked ashen. She seemed about to fall.

Giddings went to her aid, but she pushed him away. She seemed unconscious of the presence of the ethers. Her accusing eyes were fixed on Ambrose.

"I believed in you," she murmured in a dead voice. "I believed in you! Oh, God!" Her hands were flung up in a despairing gesture. "Let him go!" she cried to Macfarlane over her shoulder, and ran down the hall and up the stairs.



CHAPTER XXVII.

A CHANGE OF JAILERS.

There was a significant silence in the passage when Colina had gone.

Finally Macfarlane said stubbornly, "He's my prisoner. It's my duty to hold him against any odds. It's the first rule of the service."

Giddings and Pringle urgently remonstrated with him. Strange held apart as if he considered it none of his business. At last, with a deprecating air, he added his voice to the other men's.

"Look here," he said smoothly; "you know best, of course; but aren't there times when a soldier must make his own rules? All of us men would stand by you gladly, but there's a sick man up-stairs that they have been taught to hate. And a woman."

Macfarlane gave in with a shrug. "I suppose you'll stand by me if I'm hauled up for it," he grumbled.

He drew his revolver and stood aside to let Ambrose pass. The others likewise drew back, as from one marked with the plague. Every face was hard with scorn.

Ambrose kept his eyes straight ahead. When he appeared on the porch, cries, apparently of welcome, were raised by the Kakisas.

Ambrose supposed that Strange had made a deal with the Kakisas to put him out of the way. He believed that he was going straight to his death.

He accepted it sooner than make an appeal to those who scorned him. He wished to speak to them before he went; but it was to warn them, not to ask for aid for himself.

He faced the little group in the doorway. "I tell you again," he said, "this is all a put-up job. You know nothing of what is going on but what this breed chooses to tell you. He's a liar and a murderer. If you put yourselves in his hands, so much the worse for you."

The white men laughed in Ambrose's face. The breed smiled deprecatingly and forgivingly.

"Hold your tongue, and be thankful you're getting off so easy," Macfarlane said, full of honest contempt.

Ambrose became very pale. He turned his back, on them, and, climbing over the wire barrier, marched stiffly down to the gate. The consciousness of innocence is supposed to be sufficient to armor a man against any slanders, but this is only partially true.

When one's accusers are honest, their scorn hurts, hurts more than any other wound we are capable of receiving. Ambrose was of the type that rages against a hurt. At present, for all he was outwardly so pale and still, he was deafened and blinded by rage.

It was now full daylight. An extraordinary picture faced the watchers from the doorway—the ruined store in the background, the grotesque crew hanging to the fence palings.

Their ordinary rags were covered with layers of misfit clothing out of the store, while many of them wore several hats, and others had extra pairs of shoes hanging around their necks.

There was a great display of gaudy silk handkerchiefs. Pockets bulged with small articles of loot, and nearly every man lugged some particular treasure according to his fancy, whether it was an alarm clock or a glass pitcher or a bolt of red flannel.

The younger men, still susceptible to gallantry, mostly were burdened with crushed articles of feminine finery, gaily trimmed hats, red or blue shawls, fancy satin bodices, corsets with the strings dangling.

The faces, after a night of unbridled license, showed dull and slack in the daylight.

Myengeen, whom Ambrose had marked earlier as a leader of the mob, gripped his hand at the gate and cried out with hypocritical joy. Others crowded around, those who could not obtain his hands, stroking his sleeves and fawning upon him.

There was an ironical note in the demonstration. Ambrose observed that the majority of the Indians looked on indifferently. He smelted treachery in the air.

The mob, facing about, started to move in open order toward the river. Ambrose, as they opened up, caught sight of the two dead bodies. It afflicted him with a dull at the pit of the stomach—these were the first deaths by violence he had witnessed.

They still lay where they had fallen—the Indian sprawling in the middle of a black stain on the platform; Tole huddled on the bare earth of the quadrangle. Ambrose's heart sank at the thought of returning to Simon Grampierre with the gift of a dead son.

The Indians gave no regard to the bodies—apparently they meant to leave them behind. Ambrose with no uncertain gestures commanded Myengeen to have them taken up and carried to the boat. It was done.

When they got down the bank out of sight of the house Myengeen and the others gave over their hollow pretense of enthusiasm at Ambrose's release.

Thereafter none paid the least attention to him.

He saw that they had not only loaded the boat they came in, but on the principle of in for a penny, in for a pound, had also taken possession of one of the company york boats, and had loaded it to the gunwale.

They immediately embarked and pushed off. Ambrose secured a place below Myengeen's steering platform. In the bottom of the boat, at his feet, lay the wizened Indian in his rags, and the straight, slim body of Tole—side by side like brothers in a bed.

Tole's face was not disfigured; serene, boyish, and comely, it gave Ambrose's heart-strings a fresh wrench. He covered them both with a piece of sail-cloth.

Across the river, as the Indians started to unload, Watusk came down to the beach, followed by several of his councilors. It was impossible to tell from his inscrutable, self-important air what he thought of all this.

His flabby, yellow face changed neither at the sight of all the wealth they brought nor at the two dead men. Ambrose demanded four men of him to carry Tole's body to his father's house.

Watusk kept him waiting while he listened to a communication from Myengeen. Ambrose guessed that it had to do with himself, for both men glanced furtively at him. Watusk finally turned away without having answered the white man.

Ambrose, growing red, imperiously repeated his demand. Watusk, still without looking at him directly, spoke a word to some Indians within call, and Ambrose was immediately seized by a dozen hands.

He was finally bound hand and foot with thongs of hide. This was no more than he expected, still he did not submit without a fierce but ineffectual struggle.

When it was done his captors looked on him with respect—they did not laugh at him nor evince any anger. It was impossible for him to read any clue in their stolid faces what was going forward.

Half a dozen of them carried him up the bank and laid him at the door of a teepee. Presently Watusk passed by. Ambrose so violently demanded an explanation that the Indian was forced to stop. He said, still without meeting Ambrose's eye:

"Myengeen say you kill Tom Moosa. You got to take our law."

"It's a lie!" cried Ambrose, suffocating with indignation.

Watusk shrugged and disappeared. It was useless for Ambrose to shout at any of the others. He fumed in silence. The Indians gave his dangerous eyes a wide berth.