"Rabbits say: 'Come on, Old Man. We show you how. You got sing our song, only stay in ashes little while.' So Old Man begin to sing, and he lie down, and they cover him with ashes. Him not burn at all.

"He say: 'That is ver' nice. You sure got ver' strong medicine. Now I want do it myself. You lie down, and I cover you up.'

"So rabbits all lie down in ashes, and Old Man cover them up. Then he put the whole fire over them. Only one old rabbit get out. Old Man catch her and go put her back, but she say: 'Pity me, my children soon be born.'

"Old Man say: 'All right, I let you go, so there is plenty more rabbits bam-bye. But I will cook these nicely and have a feast.' And he put more wood on the fire. When those rabbits cooked nice, he cut red willow bush and lay them on to cool. Grease soak into those branches; that is why when you hold red willow to the fire you see grease on the bark. You can see too, since that time, how rabbits got burnt place on their back. That is where the one that got away was singed.

"Old Man sit down waitin' for rabbits to cool a little. His mouth is wet for to taste them. Coyote come along limpin' ver' bad. Say: 'Pity me, Old Man, you got plenty cooked rabbits, give me one.'

"Old Man say: 'Go along! You too lazy catch your dinner, I not help you!'

"Coyote say: 'My leg broke. I can't catch not'ing. I starving. Just give me half a rabbit.'

"Old Man say: 'I don't care if you die. I work hard to cook all these rabbits. I will not give away. But I tell you what we do. We run a race to that big hill way off there. If you beat me I give you a rabbit.'

"Coyote say: 'All right.' So they start run. Old Man run ver' fast. Coyote limp along close behind. Then coyote turn round and run back very fast. Him not lame at all. Tak' Old Man long tam to get back. Jus' before he get there coyote swallow las' rabbit, and trot away over the prairie with his tail up.

"That is the end."

Stonor laughed. "That's the kind of story I like. No cut and dried moral!"

Mary never could be got to see anything funny in the stories she told. Just what her attitude was towards them the whites could not guess.

"Give us another about Old Man," Stonor went on. "A longer one. Tell how Old Man made medicine. A crackerjack!"

Clare looked at him wonderingly. If he were aware of the weirdness of their situation no sign betrayed it. The crackling flames mounted straight in the air, the smoke made a pillar reaching into the darkness. Fifteen paces from Stonor lay his prisoner, staring unwinkingly at him with eyes that glittered with hatred; and from all around them in the darkness perhaps scores of their enemies were watching.

Mary stolidly began again:

"It was long tam ago before the white man come. The people not have horses then. Kakisas hunt on the great prairie that touch the sky all around. Many buffalo had been killed. The camp was full of meat. Great sheets hung in the lodges and on the racks outside to smoke. Now the meat was all cut up and the women were working on the hides. Cure some for robes. Scrape hair from some for leather——"

The story got no further. From across the little stream they heard a muffled thunder of hoofs in the grass.

Stonor sprang up. "My horses!" he cried. "Stampeded, by God! The cowardly devils!"

Imbrie laughed.

Stonor snatched up his gun. "Back from the fire!" he cried to the women. "I'm going to shoot!"

He splashed across the ford, and, climbing the bank, dropped on his knee in the grass. The horses swerved, and galloped off at a tangent. They were barely visible to eyes that had just left the fire. Stonor counted seven animals, and he had but six with Imbrie's. On the seventh there was the suggestion of a crouching figure. Stonor fired at the horse.

The animal collapsed with a thud. Stonor ran to where he lay twitching in the grass. It was a strange horse to him. The rider had escaped. But he could not have got far. The temptation to follow was strong, but Stonor, remembering his prisoner and the women who depended on him, refused to be drawn. He returned to where Clare and Mary awaited him at a little distance from the fire. Meanwhile the horses galloped away out of hearing into the bush beyond the little meadow. Imbrie was still secure in his bonds. Stonor kept a close watch on him.

They had not long to wait before dawn began to weave colour in the sky. Light revealed nothing living but themselves in the little valley, or around its rim. The horse Stonor had shot still lay where he had dropped. Stonor returned to him, taking Mary. The animal was dead, with a bullet behind its shoulder. It was a blue roan, an ugly brute with a chewed ear. It had borne a saddle, but its owner had succeeded in retrieving that under cover of darkness. The man's tracks were visible, leading off towards the side trail.

"Mary, whose horse is that?" Stonor asked.

She shrugged and spread out her hands. As she had been living at Fort Enterprise for years, and saw her own people but seldom, he had no choice but to believe that she did not know. They returned to Clare.

Stonor said: "I shall have to leave you for awhile. There's no help for it. I'm expecting Tole Grampierre this morning, but I can't tell for sure how fast he will travel, and in the meantime the horses may be getting further away every minute. If you are afraid to stay, I suppose you can come with me—though I may have to tramp for miles."

Clare kept her chin up. "I'll stay here. If you have to go far I'd only be a drag on you. I shan't be afraid."

The harassed policeman gave her a grateful glance. "I'll leave you my revolver. There's no use arming Mary, because I couldn't ask her to fire on her own people. I do not think there is the slightest danger of your being attacked. If the Indians, seeing me go, come around, pay no attention to them. Show no fear and you are safe. If they want Imbrie let them take him. I'll get him later. It only means a little delay. He cannot escape me up here."

"You must eat before you start," said Clare anxiously.

"I'll take cold food. Can't wait for hot bread."

As Stonor started off Imbrie cried mockingly: "So long, Redbreast!" Stonor doubted very much if he would find him on his return. But there was no help for it. One has to make the best of a bad situation.

After traversing the little meadow the stampeded horses had taken to the trail in the direction of Fort Enterprise. Stonor took heart, hoping that Tole might meet them and drive them back. But, reliable as Tole was, of course he could not count on him to the hour; nor had he any assurance that the horses would stay in the trail. He kept on.

The horses' tracks made clear reading. For several miles Stonor followed through the bush at a dog-trot. Then he came to another little open glade and saw that they had stopped to feed. He gained on them here. A short distance further he suddenly came upon his bay in the trail, the horse that had carried him to Swan Lake and back. As he had expected, she was hopelessly foundered, a pitiable sight. He regretfully put a bullet through her brain.

Near here the remaining horses had swerved from the trail and turned northward, looking for water perhaps. Stonor pinned a note to a tree, briefly telling Tole what had happened, and bidding him hasten forward with all speed.

Stonor followed the hoof-prints then through the trackless bush, painfully slow going over the stones and the fallen trunks, with many a pitfall concealed under the smooth moss. After an hour of this he finally came upon them all five standing dejectedly about in a narrow opening, as if ashamed of their escapade and perfectly willing to be caught.

Mounting Miles Aroon, he drove the others before him. To avoid the risk of breaking their legs he had to let them make their own slow pace over the down timber, and it was a sore trial to his patience. He had already been gone two hours. When finally he struck the trail again he saw that his note to Tole was still where he had left it. He let it stay, on the chance of its bringing him on a little quicker. He put his horses to the trail at a smart pace. They all clattered through the bush, making dizzying turns around the tree-trunks.

As he approached the little meadow by the Meander his heart rose slowly in his throat. He had been more anxious for their safety than he would let himself believe. As he came to the edge of the trees his eyes were ready to leap to the spot where he had left his charges. A shock awaited them. Of the three little tents there was but one remaining, and no sign of life around it. He furiously urged his horse to the place.

Mary and Clare were gone with Imbrie. The camp site was trampled by scores of hoofs. The Indians had taken nothing, however, but the two little tents and the personal belongings of the women—an odd scrupulousness in the face of the greater offence. All the tracks made off across the meadow towards the side trail back to the Swan.



CHAPTER XIV

PURSUIT

Stonor sat down on a grub-box, and, gripping his bursting head between his hands, tried to think. His throbbing blood urged him to gallop instantly in pursuit. They could not have more than two hours' start of him, and Miles Aroon was better than anything they had in the way of horse-flesh, fresh into the bargain. But a deeper instinct was telling him that a little slow thought in the beginning brings quicker results at the end.

Even with only two hours' start they might make the village before he overtook them, and Imbrie might get away on the lake. A stern chase with all the hazards of travel in the wilderness might continue for days; Stonor was running short of grub; he must provide for their coming back; above all it was necessary that he get word out of what had happened; Clare's safety must not depend alone on the one mortal life he had to give her. Hard as it was to bring himself to it, he determined to get in touch with Tole before starting after Imbrie and the Kakisas.

To that end he mounted one of his poorer horses and galloped headlong back through the bush. After ten miles or so, in a little open meadow he came upon the handsome breed boy riding along without a care in the world, hand on hip and "Stetson" cocked askew, singing lustily of Gentille Alouette. Never in his life had Stonor been so glad to see anybody. His set, white face worked painfully; for a moment he could not speak, but only grip the boy's shoulder. Tole was scared half out of his wits to see his revered idol so much affected.

All the way along Stonor had been thinking what he would do. It would not be sufficient to send a message by Tole; he must write to John Gaviller and to Lambert at the Crossing; one letter would do for both; the phrases were all ready to his pencil. Briefly explaining the situation to Tole, he sat down to his note-book. Two pages held it all; Stonor would have been surprised had he been told that it was a model of conciseness.

"JOHN GAVILLER and Sergeant LAMBERT, R.N.W.M.P.

"While returning with my prisoner Ernest Imbrie, suspected of murder, at a point on the Horse Track six miles from Swan River, a band of Indians from Swan Lake drove off my horses, and while I was away looking for them, rescued my prisoner, and also carried off the two women in my party. Am returning to Swan Lake now with four horses. Suppose that Imbrie reaching there will take to the lake and the upper Swan, as that provides his only means of getting out of the country this way. Suggest that Mr. Gaviller get this through to Lambert regardless of expense. Suggest that Lambert as soon as he gets it might ride overland from the Crossing to the nearest point on the Swan. If he takes one of his folding boats, and takes a man to ride the horses back, he could come down the Swan. I will be coming up, and we ought to pinch Imbrie between the two of us. The situation is a serious one, as Imbrie has the whole tribe of Kakisas under his thumb. He will stop at nothing now; may be insane. The position of the women is a frightful one.

"MARTIN STONOR."

Stonor took Tole's pack-horse with its load of grub, and the breed tied his bed and rations for three days behind his saddle. Stonor gripped his hand.

"So long, kid! Ride like hell. It's the most you can do for me."

* * * * *

Eight hours later, Stonor, haggard with anxiety and fatigue, and driving his spent horses before him, rode among the tepees of the village beside Swan Lake. That single day had aged him ten years. His second coming was received with a significant lack of surprise. The Indians were ostentatiously engaged at their customary occupations: mending boats and other gear, cleaning guns, etc. Stonor doubted if such a picture of universal industry had ever been offered there. Dismounting, he called peremptorily for Myengeen.

The head man came to him with a certain air of boldness, that slowly withered, however, under the fire that leaped up in the white man's weary blue eyes. Under his savage inscrutability the signs of fidgets became perceptible. Perhaps he had not expected the trooper to brave him single-handed, but had hoped for more time to obliterate tracks, and let matters quiet down. Many a dark breast within hearing quailed at the sound of the policeman's ringing voice, though his words were not understood. The one determined man struck more terror than a troop.

"Myengeen, you and your people have defied the law! Swift and terrible punishment awaits you. Don't think you can escape it. You have carried off a white woman. Such a thing was never known. If a single hair of her head is harmed, God help you! Where is she?"

Myengeen's reply was a pantomime of general denial.

Stonor marched him back of the tepees where the Kakisas' horses were feeding on the flat. He silently pointed to their hanging heads and sweaty flanks. Many of the beasts were still too weary to feed: one or two were lying down done for. Stonor pointed out certain peculiarities in their feet, and indicated that he had been following those tracks. This mute testimony impressed Myengeen more than words; his eyes bolted; he took refuge in making believe not to understand.

Stonor's inability to command them in their own tongue made him feel maddeningly impotent.

"Where is the woman who speaks English?" he cried, pointing to his own tongue.

Myengeen merely shrugged.

Stonor then ordered all the people into their tepees, and such is the power of a single resolute voice that they meekly obeyed. Proceeding from tepee to tepee he called out likely-looking individuals to be questioned out of sight of the others. For a long time it was without result; men and women alike, having taken their cue from Myengeen, feigned not to understand. Such children as he tried to question were scared almost into insensibility. Stonor began to feel as if he were butting his head against a stone wall.

At last from a maiden he received a hint that was sufficient. She was a comely girl with a limpid brown eye. Either she had a soul above the Kakisas or else the bright-haired trooper touched her fancy. At any rate, when he looked in the tepee, where she sat demurely beyond her male relatives, she gave him a shy glance that did not lack humanity. Calling her outside, he put the invariable question to her, accompanied with appropriate signs: where was the white woman?

She merely glanced towards the mouth of the creek where the canoes lay, then looked up the lake. It was sufficient. Stonor gave her a grateful glance and let her go. He never knew her name. That the Kakisas might not suspect her of having betrayed them, he continued his questioning for awhile. Last of all he re-interrogated Myengeen. He did not care if suspicion fell on him.

Stonor coolly picked out the best-looking canoe in the creek, and loaded aboard what he required of his outfit. Myengeen and his men sullenly looked on. The trooper, seeing that a fair breeze was blowing up the lake, cut two poplar poles, and with a blanket quickly rigged mast and sail. When he was ready to start he delivered the rest of his outfit to Myengeen, and left his horses in his care.

"This is government property," he said sternly. "If anything is lost full payment will be collected."

He sailed down the creek followed by the wondering exclamations of the Kakisas. Sailing was an unknown art to them, and in their amazement at the sight, like the children they were, they completely forgot the grimness of the situation. Stonor thought: "How can you make such a scatter-brained lot realize what they're doing!"

Stonor had supposed that Imbrie would take to the lake. On arriving at the brow of the last ridge his first thought had been to search its expanse, but he had seen nothing. Since then various indications suggested that they had between four and five hours' start of him. He had been delayed on the trail by his pack-horses. The speed he was making under sail was not much better than he could have paddled, but it enabled him to take things easy for a while.

Swan Lake is about thirty miles long. Fully ten miles of it was visible from the start. It is shaped roughly like three uneven links of a chain, and in width it varies from half a mile to perhaps five miles. It seems vaster than it is on account of its low shores which stretch back, flat and reedy, for miles. Here dwelt the great flocks of wild geese or "wavies" that gave both lake and river their names.

As he got out into the lake the wind gradually strengthened behind him, and his canoe was blown hither and yon like an inflated skin on the water. She had no keel, she took no grip of the water, and much of the goodly aid of the wind was vainly measured against the strength of Stonor's arms as he laboured to keep her before it. When he did get the wind full in his top-heavy sail it blew him almost bodily under. Stonor welcomed the struggle. He was now making much better time than he could have hoped for by his paddle. He grimly carried on.

In order to accommodate the two women and their necessary outfit, Stonor supposed that Imbrie must have taken one of the dug-outs. He did not believe that any of the Kakisas had accompanied the fugitive. The prospect of a long journey would appal them. And Stonor was pretty sure that Mary was not over-working herself at the paddle, so that it was not too much to hope that he was catching up on them at this rate. Thinking of their outfit, Stonor wondered how Imbrie would feed Clare; the ordinary fare of the Kakisas would be a cruel hardship on her. Such are the things one worries about in the face of much more dreadful dangers.

It had been nearly six o'clock before Stonor left Myengeen's village, and the sun went down while he was still far from the head of the lake. He surveyed the flat shores somewhat anxiously. Nowhere, as far as he could see, was there any promising landing-place. In the end he decided to sail on through the night. As darkness gathered he took his bearings from the stars. With the going-down of the sun the wind moderated, but it still held fair and strong enough to give him good steerage-way. After an hour or two the shores began to close around him. He could not find the outlet of the river in the dark, so he drove into the reeds, and, taking down his sail, supped on cold bread and lake-water and lay down in his canoe.

In the morning he found the river without difficulty. It was a sluggish stream here, winding interminably between low cut banks, edged with dangling grass-roots on the one side and mud-flats on the other. From the canoe he could see nothing above the banks. Landing to take a survey, Stonor beheld a vast treeless bottom, covered with rank grass, and stretching to low piny ridges several miles back on either hand. No tell-tale thread of smoke on the still air betrayed the camp of the man he was seeking.

He resumed his way. Of his whole journey this part was the most difficult trial to his patience. There was just current enough to mock at his efforts with the paddle. He seemed scarcely to crawl. It was maddening after his brisk progress up the lake. Moreover, each bend was so much like the last that he had no sense of getting on, and the invariable banks hemmed in his sight. He felt like a man condemned to a treadmill.

He had been about two hours on the river when he saw a little object floating towards him on the current that instantly caught his eye because it had the look of something fashioned. He paddled to it with a beating heart. It proved to be a tiny raft contrived out of several lengths of stout stick, tied together with strips of rag. On the little platform, out of reach of the water, was tied with another strip a roll of the white outer bark of the birch. Stonor untied it and spread it out on his knee with a trembling hand. It was a letter printed in crooked characters with a point charred in the fire.



A warm stream forced its way into the trooper's frozen breast, and the terrible strained look in his eyes relaxed. For a moment he covered his eyes with his arm, though there was none to see. His most dreadful and unacknowledged fear was for the moment relieved. Gratitude filled him.

"Good old Mary!" he thought. "She went to all that trouble just on the chance of easing my mind. By God! if we come through this all right I'll do something for her!"

"Him scar of crazee," puzzled him for a while, until it occurred to him that Mary wished to convey that Imbrie let Clare alone because he believed that her loss of memory was akin to insanity. This was where the red strain in him told. All Indians have a superstitious awe of the insane. The sign at the end of the letter was for mountains, of course. The word, no doubt, was beyond Mary's spelling. What care and circumspection must have gone to the writing and the launching of the note! It must all have been done while Imbrie slept.

Stonor applied himself to his paddle again with a better heart. After two hours more he came to their camping-place of the night before. It was a spot designed by Nature for a camp, with a little beach of clean sand below, and a grove of willow and birch above. Stonor landed to see what tell-tale signs they had left behind them.

He saw that they were in a dug-out: it had left its furrow in the sand where it was pulled up. He saw the print of Clare's little common-sense boot in the sand, and the sight almost unmanned him; Mary's track was there too, that he knew well, and Imbrie's; and to his astonishment there was a fourth track unknown to him. It was that of a small man or a large woman. Could Imbrie have persuaded one of the Kakisas to accompany him? This was all he saw. He judged from the signs that they had about five hours' start of him.

From this point the character of the country began to change. The river-banks became higher and wooded; there were outcroppings of rock and small rapids. Stonor saw from the tracks alongshore that where the current was swift they had towed the dug-out up-stream, but he had to stick to his paddle. Though he put forth his best efforts all day he scarcely gained on them, for darkness came upon him soon after he had passed the place where they spelled in mid-afternoon.

On the next day in mid-morning he was brought to stand by a fork in the river. There was nothing to tell him which branch to choose, for the current was easy here and the trackers had re-embarked. Both branches were of about equal size: one came from the south-east, one from due east; either might reach to the mountains if it was long enough. Stonor had pondered on the map of that country, but on it the Swan River was only indicated as yet by a dotted line. All that was known of the stream by report was that it rose in the Rocky Mountains somewhere to the north of Fort Cheever, and, flowing in a north-westerly direction, roughly parallel with the Spirit, finally emptied into Great Buffalo Lake. Stonor remembered no forks on the map.

He was about to choose at random, when he was struck by a difference in the colour of the water of the two branches. The right-hand fork was a clear brown, the other greenish with a milky tinge. Now brown water, as everybody knows, comes from swamps or muskegs, while green water is the product of melting snow and ice. Stonor took the left-hand branch.

Shortly afterwards he was rewarded by a sight of the spot where they had made their first spell of the day. Landing, he found the ashes of their fire still warm; they could not have been gone more than an hour. This was an unexpected gain; some accident of travel must have delayed them. Embarking, he bent to his paddle with a renewed hope. Surely by going without a meal himself he ought to come on them before they finished their second spell.

But the river was only half of its former volume now, and the rapids were more brawling, and more tedious to ascend. However, he consoled himself with the thought that if they held him back they would delay the dug-out no less. The river was very lovely on these upper reaches; in his anxiety to get on he scarcely marked that at the moment, but afterwards he remembered its park-like shores, its forget-me-nots and raspberry-blossoms, and the dappled sunlight falling through the aspen-foliage. It was no different from the rivers of his boyhood in a sheltered land, with swimming-holes at the foot of the little rapids: only the fenced fields and the quiet cattle were lacking above the banks, and church-spires in the distant vistas.

Within an hour Stonor himself became the victim of one of the ordinary hazards of river-travel. In a rapid one of his paddles broke in half; the current carried him broadside on a rock, and a great piece of bark was torn from the side of his frail craft. Landing, he surveyed the damage, grinding his teeth with angry disappointment. It meant the loss of all he had so hardly gained on the dug-out.

To find a suitable piece of bark, and spruce-gum to cement it with, required a considerable search in the bush. It then had to be sewed on with needle and thread, the edges gummed, and the gum given time to dry partly, in the heat of the fire. The afternoon was well advanced before he got afloat again, and darkness compelled him to camp in the spot where they had made their second, that is to say, the mid-afternoon, spell.

The next two days, his third and fourth in the river, were without especial incident. The river maintained its sylvan character, though the bordering hills or bench were gradually growing higher and bolder. Stonor, by putting every ounce that was in him into his paddle, slowly gained again on the dug-out. He knew now that Imbrie, irrespective of Mary, had a second paddle to help him. It gave the dug-out an advantage, especially in swift water, that more than neutralized its extra weight.

By evening of the fourth day all signs indicated that he was drawing close to his quarry again. He kept on until forced to stop by complete darkness. On this night the sky was heavily overcast, and it was as dark as a winter's night. He camped where he happened to be; it was a poor spot, no more than a stony slope among willows. He had done all his necessary cooking during the day, so there was no need to wait for his supper.

The mosquitoes were troublesome, and he put up his tent, hastily slinging it between two trees, and weighing down the sides and the back with a few stones. To his tent he afterwards ascribed the preservation of his life. It was the simplest form of tent, known as a "lean-to," or, as one might say, merely half a tent sliced along the ridge-pole, with a roof sloping to the ground at the back, and the entire front open to the fire except for a mosquito-bar.

His bed was hard, but he was too weary to care. He lay down in his blanket, but not to achieve forgetfulness immediately; strong discipline was still required to calm his hot impatience. How could he sleep, not knowing perhaps but that one more mile might bring him to his goal? Indeed, Imbrie's camp might be around the next bend. But he could not risk his frail canoe in the shallow river after dark.

Stonor was on the borderland of sleep when he was suddenly roused to complete wakefulness by a little sound from behind his tent. A woodsman soon learns to know all the normal sounds of night, and this was something different, an infinitely stealthy sound, as of a body dragging itself an inch at a time, with long waits between. It seemed to be slowly making its way around his tent towards the open front.

Now Stonor knew that there was no animal in his country that stalks human prey, and he instantly thought of his two-legged enemy. Quick and noiselessly as a cat he slipped out of his blankets, and rolling his dunnage-bag in his place drew the blanket over it. In the faint light reflected from the embers outside it might be supposed that he still lay there. He then cautiously moved the stones aside, and slipped out under the wall of his tent on the side opposite to that whence the creeping sounds now came.

On hands and knees he crawled softly around the back of his tent, determined to stalk the stalker. He felt each inch of the way in advance, to make sure there was nothing that would break or turn under his weight. He could hear no sounds from the other side now. Rounding the back of his tent, at the corner he lay flat and stuck his head around. At first he could see nothing. The tall trees on the further shore cut off all but the faintest gleam of light from the river. A little forward and to the left of his tent there was a thick clump of willow, making a black shadow at its foot that might have concealed anything. Stonor watched, breathing with open mouth to avoid betraying himself. Little by little he made out a shadowy form at the foot of the willows, a shape merely a degree blacker than its background. He could be sure of nothing.

Then his heart seemed to miss a beat, for against the wan surface of the river he saw an arm raised and a gun point—presumably at the dummy he had left under the tent. Oddly enough his shock of horror was not primarily that one should seek to kill him, Stonor; he was first of all appalled at the outrage offered to the coat he wore.

The gun spoke and flame leaped from the barrel. Stonor, gathering himself up, sprang forward on the assassin. At the first touch he recognized with a great shock of surprise that it was a woman he had to deal with. Her shoulders were round and soft under his hands; the grunt she uttered as he bore her back was feminine. He wrenched the gun from her hands and cast it to one side.

When she caught her breath she fought like a mad cat, with every lithe muscle of her body and with teeth and claws too. She was strong; strong and quick as a steel spring. More than once she escaped him. Once she got half-way up the bank; but here he bore her down on her face and locked her arms behind her in a grip she was powerless to break.

Jerking her to her feet—one is not too gentle even with a woman who has just tried to murder one—he forced her before him back to his tent. Here, holding her with one arm while she swayed and wrenched in her efforts to free herself, he contrived to draw his knife, and to cut off one of the stay-ropes of his tent. With this he bound her wrists together behind her back, and passed the end round a stout trunk of willow. The instant he stood back she flung herself forward on the rope, but the jerk on her arms must have nearly dislocated them. It brought a shriek of pain from her. She came to a standstill, sobbing for breath.

Stonor collected dead twigs, and blew on the embers. In a minute or two he had a bright blaze, and turned, full of curiosity to see what he had got. He saw a breed woman of forty years or more, still, for a wonder, uncommonly handsome and well-formed. The pure hatred that distorted her features could not conceal her good looks. She had the fine straight features of her white forebears, and her dusky cheeks flamed with colour. She bore herself with a proud, savage grace.

More than the woman herself, her attire excited Stonor's wonder. It was a white woman's get-up. Her dress, though of plain black cotton, was cut with a certain regard to the prevailing style. She wore corsets—strange phenomenon! Stonor had already discovered it before he got a look at her. Her hair had been done on top of her head in a white woman's fashion, though it was pretty well down now. Strangest of all, she wore gold jewellery; rings on her fingers and drops in her ears; a showy gold locket hanging from a chain around her neck. On the whole a surprising apparition to find on the banks of the unexplored river.

Stonor, studying her, reflected that this was no doubt the woman he had seen with Imbrie at Carcajou Point two months before. The Indians had referred to her derisively as his "old woman." But it was strange he had heard nothing of her from the Kakisas. She must have been concealed in the very tepee from which Imbrie had issued on the occasion of Stonor's first visit to the village at Swan Lake. The Indians down the river had never mentioned her. He was sure she could not have lived with Imbrie down there. Where, then, had he picked her up? Where had she been while Imbrie was down there? How had she got into the country anyway? The more he thought of it the more puzzling it was. Certainly she had come from far; Stonor was well assured he would have heard of so striking a personage as this anywhere within his own bailiwick.

Another thought suddenly occurred to him. This of course would be the woman who had tried to decoy him out of his camp with her cries for help in English. At least she explained that bit of the all-enveloping mystery.

"Well, here's a pretty how-de-do!" said Stonor with grim humour. "Who are you?"

She merely favoured him with a glance of inexpressible scorn.

"I know you talk English," he said, "good English too. So there's no use trying to bluff me that you don't understand. What is your name, to begin with?"

Still no answer but the curling lip.

"What's the idea of shooting at a policeman? Is it worth hanging for?"

She gave no sign.

He saw that it only gratified her to balk his curiosity, so he turned away with a shrug. "If you won't talk, that's your affair."

He had thrown only light stuff on the fire, and he let it burn itself out, having no mind to make of himself a shining mark for a bullet from another quarter. He lit his pipe and sat debating what to do—or rather struggling with his desire to set off instantly in search of Imbrie's camp. Knowing it must be near, it was hard to be still. Yet better sense told him he would be at a fatal disadvantage in the dark, particularly as Imbrie must now be on the alert. There was no help for it. He must wait for daylight.

He knew that above all he required sleep to fit him for his work next day, and he determined to impose sleep on himself if will-power could do it. As he rose to return to his tent a sullen voice from the direction of the willow-bushes spoke up in English as good as his own:

"The mosquitoes are biting me."

"Ha!" said Stonor, with a grim laugh. "You've found your tongue, eh? Mosquitoes! That's not a patch on what you intended for me, my girl! But if you want to be friends, all right. First give an account of yourself."

She relapsed into silence.

"I say, tell me who you are and where you came from."

She said, with exactly the manner of a wilful child: "You can't make me talk."

"Oh, all right! But I can let the mosquitoes bite you."

Nevertheless he untied her from the willows and let her crawl under his mosquito-bar. Here he tied ankles as well as wrists, beyond any possibility of escape. It was not pure philanthropy on his part, for he reflected that when she failed to return, Imbrie might come in search of her, and take a shot inside his tent just on a chance. For himself he took his blanket under the darkest shadow of the willows and covered himself entirely with it excepting a hole to breathe through.

He did succeed in sleeping, and when he awoke the sky was clear and the stars paling. Before crawling out of his hiding-place he took a careful survey from between the branches. Nothing stirred outside. Under his tent his prisoner was sleeping as calmly as a child. Apparently a frustrated murder more or less was nothing to disturb her peace of mind. Stonor thought grimly—for perhaps the hundredth time in dealing with the red race: "What a rum lot they are!" He ate some bread that he had left, and began to pack up.

The woman awoke as he took down the tent over her head, and watched his preparations in a sullen silence.

"Haven't you got a tongue this morning?" asked Stonor.

She merely glowered at him.

However, by and by, when she saw everything being packed in the canoe, she suddenly found her tongue. "Aren't you going to feed me?" she demanded.

"No time now," he answered teasingly.

Her face turned dark with rage. "You hangman!" she muttered savagely. "You've got a hangman's face all right! Anybody would know what you are without your livery!"

Stonor laughed. "Dear! Dear! We are in a pleasant humour this morning! You believe in the golden rule, don't you?—for others!"

When he was ready to start he regarded her grimly. He saw no recourse but to take her with him, thus quadrupling his difficulties. He did consider leaving her behind on the chance of returning later, but he could not tell what hazards the day might have for him. He might be prevented from returning, and murderess though she were, she was human, and he could not bring himself to leave her helpless in the bush. She stolidly watched the struggle going on in him.

He gave in to his humanitarian instincts with a sigh. As a final precaution he gagged her securely with a handkerchief. He wished to take no chances of her raising an alarm as they approached Imbrie's camp. He then picked her up and laid her in the canoe. She rolled the light craft from side to side.

"If you overturn us you'll drown like a stone," said Stonor, grinning. "That would help solve my difficulties."

After that she lay still, her eyes blazing.

Stonor proceeded. This part of the river was narrow and fairly deep, and the current ran steadily and slow. Through breaks in the ranks of the trees he caught sight from time to time of the bench on either hand, which now rose in high bold hills. From this he guessed that he had got back to the true prairie country again. As is always the case in that country, the slope to the north of the river was grassy, while the southerly slope was heavily wooded to the top.

He peered around each bend with a fast-beating heart, but Imbrie's camp proved to be not so near as he had expected. He put a mile behind him, and another mile, and there was still no sign of it. Evidently the woman had not made her way through the bush, as he had supposed, but had been dropped off to wait for him. After giving him his quietus she had no doubt intended to take his canoe and join her party. Well, it was another lovely morning, and Stonor was thankful her plan had miscarried.

The river took a twist to the southward. The sun rose and shot his beams horizontally through the tree-trunks, lighting up the underbrush with a strange golden splendour. It was lovely and slightly unreal, like stage-lighting. The surface of the river itself seemed to be dusted with light. Far overhead against the blue, so tender and so far away at this latitude, eagles circled and joyously screamed, each one as if he had an intermittent alarm in his throat.

In the bow the woman lay glaring at him venomously. Stonor could not help but think: "What a gorgeous old world to be fouled with murder and hatred!"

At last, as he crept around an overhanging clump of willows, he saw what he was in search of, and his heart gave a great leap. Arresting his paddle, he clung to the branches and peered through, debating what to do. They were still far off and he had not been perceived. With straining eyes he watched the three tiny figures that meant so much to him. Unfortunately there was no chance of taking Imbrie by surprise, for he had had the wit to choose a camping-place that commanded a view down-stream for half a mile. Stonor considered landing, and attempting to take them from the rear, but even as he looked he saw Imbrie loading the dug-out. They would be gone long before he could make his way round through the bush. There was nothing to do but make a dash for it.

They saw him as soon as he rounded the bend. There was a strange dramatic quality in the little beings running this way and that on the beach. Stonor, straining every nerve to reach them, was nevertheless obliged to be the witness of a drama in which he was powerless to intervene. He saw Imbrie throw what remained of his baggage into the dug-out. He saw the two petticoated figures start running up the beach towards him, Stonor. Imbrie started after them. The larger of the two figures dropped back and grappled with the man, evidently to give the other a chance to escape. But Imbrie succeeded in flinging her off, and, after a short chase, seized the other woman. Stonor could make out the little green Norfolk suit now.

Mary snatched up a billet of wood, and as the man came staggering back with his burden, she attacked him. He backed towards the dug-out, holding Clare's body in front of him as a shield. But under Mary's attacks he was finally compelled to drop Clare. She must have fainted, for she lay without moving. Imbrie closed with Mary, and there was a brief violent struggle. He succeeded in flinging her off again. He reached the dug-out. Mary attacked him again. Snatching up his gun, he fired at her point-blank. She crumpled up on the stones.

Imbrie picked up Clare and flung her in the dug-out. He pushed off. All this had been enacted in not much more time than it takes to read of it. Stonor was now within a furlong, but still helpless, for he dared not fire at Imbrie for fear of hitting Clare. The dug-out escaped out of sight round a bend.



CHAPTER XV

UPS AND DOWNS

Stonor, raging in his helplessness, was nevertheless obliged to stop. He found Mary conscious, biting her lips until they bled to keep from groaning. Her face was ashy. Yet she insisted on sitting up to prove to him that she was not badly hurt.

"Go on! Go on!" she was muttering as he reached her. "I all right. Don' stop! Go after him!"

"Where are you hurt?" Stonor demanded.

"Just my leg. No bone broke. It is not'ing. Go after him!"

"I can't leave you like this!"

"Give me your little medicine-bag. I dress it all right myself. Go quick!"

"Be quiet! Let me think!" cried the distracted trooper. "I can't leave you here helpless. I can't tell when I'll be back. You must have food, a blanket, gun and ammunition."

As he spoke, he set about getting out what she needed; first of all the little medicine chest that he never travelled without. He laid aside the breed woman's gun and shells for her, and one of his two blankets. The delay was maddening. With every second he pictured Imbrie drawing further and further away, Clare without a protector now. Though the dug-out was heavier than the bark-canoe, he would be handicapped by the devilish breed woman, who would be sure to hinder him by every means within her power. Yet he still closed his ears to Mary's urgings to be off. He built up Imbrie's fire and put on water to heat for her. He carried her near the fire, where she could help herself.

As he worked a new plan came to him, a way out of part of his difficulties. "Mary," he said suddenly, "I'm going to leave the canoe with you, too, and this woman to take care of for me. I'll take to the bench. I can cut him off above."

"No! No!" she groaned. "Leave the woman and take the canoe. You can come back when you get her."

But his mind was made up. A new hope lightened his despair. "No! He might get me. Then you'd starve to death. I don't mean to let him get me, but I can't take the chance. I'll travel faster light. Even if I don't get him to-day, he shan't shake me off. The river is bound to get more difficult as he goes up. And it's prairie-land above."

He hastened to get together his pack: gun and ammunition, knife, hatchet, matches, and a little cooking-pot; a small store of flour, salt, baking-powder and smoked meat.

"Mary, as soon as you feel able to travel, you are to start down-stream in the canoe with the woman. It is up to you to take her out, and deliver her to the authorities. The charge is attempted murder. You are to tell John Gaviller everything that has happened, and let him act accordingly."

All this was said in low tones to keep it from reaching the breed woman's ears. Stonor now dropped to his knees and put his lips to Mary's ear. "Tell Gaviller we know for sure that Imbrie is trying to escape over the mountains by way of the head-waters of the Swan, and to make sure that he is intercepted there if he slips through our fingers below."

"I onerstan'," said Mary.

He gave her a pull from his flask, and she was able to sit up and attend to the dressing of her own wound.

In ten minutes Stonor was ready to start. He put on a cheery air for Mary's benefit. Truly the Indian woman had a task before her that might have appalled the stoutest-hearted man.

"Good-bye, Mary!" he said, gripping her hand. "You're a good pardner. I shan't forget it. Keep up a good heart. Remember you're a policeman now. Going down you're only about three days' journey from Myengeen's village. And you'll have company—though I can't recommend it much. Keep the gun in your own hands."

Mary shrugged, with her customary stoicism. "I make her work for me." She added simply: "Good-bye, Stonor. Bring her back safe."

"I won't come without her," he said, and with a wave of his hand struck into the bush.

He laid a course at right angles to the river. The floor of this part of the valley was covered with a forest which had never known axe nor fire, and the going was difficult and slow over the down timber, some freshly-fallen, making well-nigh impassable barricades erected on the stumps of its broken branches, some which crumbled to powder at a touch. There was no undergrowth except a few lean shrubs that stretched great, pale leaves to catch the attenuated rays that filtered down. It was as cool and still as a room with a lofty ceiling. High overhead the leaves sparkled in the sun.

It was about half a mile to the foot of the bench, that is to say, to the side of the gigantic trough that carried the river through the prairie country, though it required an amount of exertion that would have carried one over ten times that distance of road. As soon as Stonor began to climb he left the forest behind him; first it diminished into scattered trees and scrub and then ceased altogether in clean, short grass, already curing under the summer sun. Presently Stonor was able to look clear over the tops of the trees; it was like rising from a mine.

The slope was not regular, but pushed up everywhere in fantastic knolls and terraces. He directed his course as he climbed for a bold projecting point from which he hoped to obtain a prospect up the valley. Reaching it at last, he gave himself a breathing-space. He saw, as he hoped, that the valley, which here ran due north and south, returned to its normal course from the westward a few miles above. Thus, by making a bee-line across the prairie, he could cut off a great bend in the watercourse, not to speak of the lesser windings of the river in its valley. He prayed that Imbrie might have many a rapid to buck that day.

On top of the bench the prairie rolled to the horizon with nothing to break the expanse of grass but patches of scrub. Stonor's heart, burdened as it was, lifted up at the sight. "After all, there's nothing like the old bald-headed to satisfy a man's soul," he thought. "If I only had Miles Aroon under me now!" Taking his bearings, he set off through the grass at the rolling walk he had learned from the Indians.

Of that long day there is little to report. The endless slopes of grass presented no distinguishing features; he was alone with the west wind's noble clouds. He came up on the wind on a brown bear with cream-coloured snout staying his stomach with the bark of poplar shoots until the berries should be ripe, and sent him doubling himself up with a shout. Time was too precious to allow of more than one spell. This he took beside a stream of clear water at the bottom of a vast coulee that lay athwart his path. While his biscuits were baking he bagged a couple of prairie-chickens. One he ate, and one he carried along with him, "for Clare's supper."

At about four o'clock in the afternoon, that is to say, the time of the second spell, he struck the edge of the bench again, and once more the valley was spread below him. He searched it eagerly. The forest covered it like a dark mat, and the surface of the river was only visible in spots here and there. He found what he was looking for, and his heart raised a little song; a thin thread of smoke rising above the trees alongside the river, and at least a couple of miles in his rear.

"I'll get him now!" he told himself.

He debated whether to hasten directly to the river, or continue further over the prairie. He decided that the margin of safety was not yet quite wide enough, and took another line along the bench.

Three hours later he came out on the river's edge with a heart beating high with hope. The placid empty reach that opened to his view told him nothing, of course, but he was pretty sure that Imbrie was safely below him. His principal fear was that he had come too far; that Imbrie might not make it before dark. The prospect of leaving Clare unprotected in his hands through the night was one to make Stonor shudder. He decided that if Imbrie did not come up by dark, he would make his way down alongshore until he came on their camp.

Meanwhile he sought down-stream for a better point of vantage. He came to a rapid. The absence of tracks on either side proved positively that Imbrie had not got so far as this. Stonor decided to wait here. The man would have to get out to track his dug-out up the swift water, and Stonor would have him where he wanted him. Or if it was late when he got here, he would no doubt camp.

Stonor saw that the natural tracking-path was across the stream; on the other side also was the best camping-spot, a shelving ledge of rock with a low earth bank above. In order to be ready for them, therefore, he stripped and swam across below the rapid, towing his clothes and his pack on an improvised raft, that he broke up immediately on landing. Dressing, he took up his station behind a clump of berry-bushes that skirted the bank. Here he lay at full length with his gun in his hands. He made a little gap in the bushes through which he could command the river for a furlong or so.

He lay there with his eyes fixed on the point around which the dug-out must appear. The sun was sinking low; they must soon come or they would not come. On this day he was sure Imbrie would work to the limit. He smiled grimly to think how the man would be paddling with his head over his shoulder, never guessing how danger lay ahead. Oh, but it was hard to wait, though! His muscles twitched, the blood hammered in his temples.

By and by, from too intense a concentration on a single point, the whole scene became slightly unreal. Stonor found himself thinking: "This is all a dream. Presently I will wake up."

In the end, when the dug-out did come snaking around the bend, he rubbed his eyes to make sure they did not deceive him. Though he had been waiting for it all that time, it had the effect of a stunning surprise. His heart set up a tremendous beating, and his breath failed him a little. Then suddenly, as they came closer, a great calm descended on him. He realized that this was the moment he had planned for, and that his calculations were now proved correct. For the last time he threw over the mechanism of his gun and reloaded it.

Imbrie was paddling in the stern, of course. The man looked pretty nearly spent, and there was little of his cynical impudence to be seen now. Clare lay on her stomach on the baggage amidships, staring ahead with her chin propped in her palms, a characteristic boy's attitude that touched Stonor's heart. Her face was as white as paper, and bore a look of desperate composure. Stonor had never seen that look; seeing it now he shuddered, thinking, what if he had not found them before nightfall!

Imbrie grounded the canoe on the shelf of rock immediately below Stonor, and no more than five paces from the muzzle of his gun. Clare climbed out over the baggage without waiting to be spoken to, and walked away up-stream a few steps, keeping her back turned to the man. Her head was sunk between her shoulders; she stared out over the rapids, seeing nothing. At the sight of the little figure's piteous dejection rage surged up in Stonor; he saw red.

Imbrie got out and went to pick his course up the rapids. He cast a sidelong look at Clare's back as he passed her. The man was too weary to have much devilry in him at the moment. But in his dark eyes there was a promise of devilry.

Having laid out his course he returned to the bow of the dug-out for his tracking-line. This was the moment Stonor had been waiting for. He rose up and stepped forward through the low bushes. Clare saw him first. A little gasping cry broke from her. Imbrie spun round, and found himself looking into the barrel of the policeman's Enfield. No sound escaped from Imbrie. His lips turned back over his teeth like an animal's.

Stonor said, in a voice of deceitful softness: "Take your knife and cut off a length of that line, say about ten feet."

No one could have guessed from his look nor his tone that an insane rage possessed him; that he was fighting the impulse to reverse his gun and club the man's brains out there on the rock.

Imbrie did not instantly move to obey.

"Look sharp!" rasped Stonor. "It wouldn't come hard for me to put a bullet through you!"

Imbrie thought better of it, and cut off the rope as ordered.

"Now throw the knife on the ground."

Imbrie obeyed, and stepped towards Stonor, holding the rope out. There was an evil glint in his eye.

Stonor stepped back. "No, you don't! Keep within shooting distance, or this gun will go off!"

Imbrie stopped.

"Miss Starling," said Stonor. "Come and tie this man's wrists together behind his back, while I keep him covered."

She approached, still staring half witlessly as if she saw an apparition. She was shaking like an aspen-leaf.

"Pull yourself together!" commanded Stonor with stern kindness. "I am not a ghost. I am depending on you!"

Her back straightened. She took the rope from Imbrie's hands, and passed a turn around his extended wrists. Stonor kept his gun at the man's head.

"At this range it would make a clean hole," he said, grinning.

To Clare he said: "Tie it as tight as you can. I'll finish the job."

When she had done her best, he handed his gun over and doubled the knots. Forcing Imbrie to a sitting position, he likewise tied his ankles.

"That will hold him, I think," he said, rising.

The words seemed to break the spell that held Clare. She sank down on the stones and burst into tears, shaking from head to foot with uncontrollable soft sobs. The sight unnerved Stonor.

"Oh, don't!" he cried like a man daft, clenching his impotent hands.

Imbrie smiled. Watching Stonor, he said with unnatural perspicacity: "You'd like to pick her up, wouldn't you?"

Stonor spun on his heel toward the man. "Hold your tongue!" he roared. "By God! another word and I'll brain you! You damned scoundrel! You scum!"

If Imbrie had wished to provoke the other man to an outburst, he got a little more than enough. He cringed from the other's blazing eyes, and said no more.

Stonor bent over Clare. "Don't, don't grieve so!" he murmured. "Everything is all right now."

"I know," she whispered. "It's just—just relief. I'm just silly now. To-day was too much—too much to bear!"

"I know," he said. "Come away with me."

He helped her to her feet and they walked away along the beach. Imbrie's eyes as they followed were not pleasant to see.

"Martin, I must touch you—to prove that you're real," she said appealingly. "Is it wrong?"

"Take my arm," he said. He drew her close to his side.

"Martin, that man cannot ever have been my husband. It is not possible I could ever have given myself to such a one!"

"I don't believe he is."

"Martin, I meant to throw myself in the river to-night if you had not come."

"Ah, don't! I can't bear it! I saw."

"My flesh crawls at him! To be alone with such a monster—so terribly alone—I can't tell you——!"

"Don't distress yourself so!"

"I'm not—now. I'm relieving myself. I've got to talk, or my head will burst. The thing that keeps things in broke just now. I've got to talk. I suppose I'm putting it all off on you now."

"I guess I can stand it," he said grimly.

She asked very low: "Do you love me, Martin?"

"You know I do."

"Yes, I know, but I had to make you say it, because I've got to tell you. I love you. I adore you. If loving you in my mind is wicked, I shall have to be a wicked woman. Oh, I'll keep the law. From what I told you in the beginning, I must have already done some man a wrong. I shall not wrong another. But I had to tell you. You knew already, so it can do no great harm."

He glanced back at Imbrie. "If the law should insist on keeping up such a horrible thing it would have to be defied," he said—"even if I am a policeman!"

"I tell you he is not the man."

"I hope you're right."

"But if I am not free, I should not let you ruin yourself on my account."

"Ruin? That's only a word. A man's all right as long as he can work."

"Oh, Martin, it seems as if I brought trouble and unhappiness on all whom I approach!"

"That's nonsense!" he said quickly. "You've made me! However this thing turns out. You've brought beauty into my life. You've taken me out of myself. You've given me an ideal to live up to!"

"Ah, how sweet for you to say it!" she murmured. "It makes me feel real. I am only a poor wandering ghost of a woman, and you're so solid and convincing!

"There! I'm all right now!" she said, with an abrupt return to the boyish, prosaic air that he found utterly adorable. "I have exploded. I'm hungry. Let's go back and make supper. It's your turn to talk. Tell me how you got here in advance of us, you wonderful man! And Mary——!" She stopped short and her eyes filled. "How selfish of me to forget her even for a moment!"

"She was not badly wounded," he said. "We'll probably overtake her to-morrow."

"And you? I thought I saw a ghost when you rose up from the bushes."

"No magic in that," said Stonor. "I just walked round by the hills."

"Just walked round by the hills," she echoed, mocking his offhand manner, and burst out laughing. "That was nothing at all!" Her eyes added something more that she dared not put into words: "You were made for a woman to love to distraction!"

When they returned to the dug-out, Imbrie studied their faces through narrowed lids, trying to read there what had passed between them. Their serenity discomposed him. Hateful taunts trembled on his lips, but he dared not utter them.

As for Clare and Stonor, neither of them sentimental persons, their breasts were eased. Each now felt that he could depend on the other in the best sense until death: meanwhile passion could wait. They made a fire together and cooked their supper with as unconscious an air as if they had just come out from home a mile or two to picnic. They ignored Imbrie, particularly Clare, who, with that wonderful faculty that women possess, simply obliterated him by her unconsciousness of his presence. The prisoner could not understand their air towards each other. He watched them with a puzzled scowl. Clare was like a child over the prairie-chicken. An amiable dispute arose over the division of it, which Stonor won and forced her to eat every mouthful.

She washed the dishes while he cleared a space among the bushes on top of the bank, and pitched her little tent. The camp-bed was still in Imbrie's outfit, and Stonor set it up with tender hands, thinking of the burden it would bear throughout the night. Also in Imbrie's outfit he found his own service revolver, which he returned to Clare for her protection.

Afterwards they made a little private fire for themselves a hundred feet or so from Imbrie, and sedately sat themselves down beside it to talk.

Stonor said: "If you feel like it, tell me what happened after I went to hunt my horses that morning."

"I feel like it," she said, with a smile. "It is such a comfort to be able to talk again. Mary and I scarcely dared whisper. You had been gone about half an hour that morning when all the Indians rode down out of the woods, and crossed the ford to our side. There were about thirty of them, I should say. I did just what you told me, that is, went on with my packing as if they were not there. For a little while they stood around staring like sulky children. Finally one of them said to me through Mary with a sort of truculent air, like a child experimenting to see how far he can go, that they were going to take Imbrie back. I told Mary to tell him that that was up to him; that he would have to deal with you later, if they did. Meanwhile I noticed they were edging between me and Imbrie, and presently Imbrie stood up, unbound. He took command of the band. It seemed he had known they were coming. I was only anxious to see them all ride off and leave us.

"Soon I saw there was worse coming. At first I knew only by Mary's scared face. She argued with them. She would not tell me what it was all about. Gradually I understood that Imbrie was telling them I was his wife, and they must take me, too. I almost collapsed. Mary did the best she could for me. I don't know all that she said. It did no good. The principal Indian asked me if I was Imbrie's wife, and I could only answer that I did not know, that I had lost my memory. I suppose this seemed like a mere evasion to them. When Mary saw that they were determined, she said they must take her, too. She thought this was what you would want. They refused, but she threatened to identify every man of them to the police, so they had to take her.

"One man's horse had been killed, and they sent him and three others off to the Horse Track village on foot to get horses to ride home on. That provided horses for Imbrie, Mary, and me. They made them go at top speed all day. I expect it nearly killed the horses. I was like a dead woman; I neither felt weariness nor anything else much. If it had not been for Mary I could not have survived it.

"We arrived at their village near Swan Lake early in the afternoon. Imbrie stopped there only long enough to collect food. We never had anything to eat but tough smoked meat of some kind, dry biscuits, and bitter tea, horrible stuff! It didn't make much difference, though.

"Imbrie told the Indians what to say when the police came. He couldn't speak their language very well, so he had to use Mary to translate, and Mary told me. Mary was trying to get on Imbrie's good side now. She said it wouldn't do any harm, and might make things easier for us. If we lulled his suspicions we might get a chance to escape later, she said. She wanted me to make up to Imbrie, too, but I couldn't.

"Imbrie told the Indians to go about their usual work as if nothing had happened, and simply deny everything if they were questioned. Nothing could be proved he said, for he and Mary and I would never be found nor heard of again. He was going to take us back to his country, he said. By that they understood, I think, that we were going to disappear off the earth. They seemed to have the most absolute faith in him. They thought you wouldn't dare follow until you had secured help from the post, which would take many days."

"What about the breed woman?" interrupted Stonor.

"She was waiting there at the Swan Lake village. She came with us as a matter of course, and helped paddle the dug-out. Mary paddled, too, but she didn't work as hard as she made believe. We got in the river before dark, but Imbrie made them paddle until late. I dreaded the first camp, but Imbrie let me alone. Mary said he was afraid of me because he thought I was crazy. After that, you may be sure, I played up to that idea. It worked for a day or two, but I saw from his eyes that he was gradually becoming suspicious.

"At night Imbrie and the breed woman took turns watching. Whenever we got a chance Mary and I talked about you, and what you would do. We knew of course that the man was coming out from Fort Enterprise, and I was sure that you would send him back for aid, and come right after us yourself. So Mary wrote you the note on a piece of bark, and set it adrift in the current. It was wonderful how she deceived them right before their eyes. But they gave us a good deal of freedom. They knew we could do nothing unless we could get weapons, or steal the canoes. She went down the shore a little way to launch her message to you.

"Well, that's about all I can remember. The days on the river were like a nightmare. All we did was to watch for you, and listen at night. Then came yesterday. By that time Imbrie was beginning to feel secure, and was taking it easier. We were sitting on the shore after the second spell when the breed woman came running in in a panic. We understood from her gestures that she had seen you turning into the next reach of the river below. Mary's heart and mine jumped for joy. Imbrie hustled us into the dug-out, and paddled like mad until he had put a couple of bends between us and the spot.

"Later, he put the breed woman ashore. She had her gun. We were terrified for you, but could do nothing. Imbrie carried us a long way further before he camped. That was a dreadful night. We had no way of knowing what was happening. Then came this morning. You saw what happened then."

Stonor asked: "What did you make of that breed woman?"

"Nothing much, Martin. I felt just as I had with Imbrie, that I must have known her at some time. She treated me well enough; that is to say, she made no secret of the fact that she despised me, but was constrained to look after me as something that Imbrie valued."

"Jealous?"

"No."

"What is the connection between her and Imbrie?"

"I don't know. They just seemed to take each other for granted."

"How did Imbrie address her?"

"I don't know. They spoke to each other in some Indian tongue. Mary said it sounded a little like the Beaver language, but she could not understand it."

"Where do you suppose this woman kept herself while Imbrie was living beside the falls?"

Clare shook her head.

"If we knew that it would explain much!"

"Well, that's all of my story," said Clare. "Now tell me every little thing you've done and thought since you left us."

"That's a large order," said Stonor, smiling.

When he had finished his tale he took her to the door of her tent.

"Where are you going to sleep?" she asked anxiously.

"Down by the fire."

"Near—him?"

"That won't keep me awake."

"But if he should work loose and attack you?"

"I'll take precious good care of that."

"It's so far away!" she said plaintively.

"Twenty-five feet!" he said smiling.

"Couldn't you—sleep close outside my tent where I could hear you breathing if I woke?"

He smiled, and gave her his eyes deep and clear. There comes a moment between every two who deeply love when shame naturally drops away, and to assume shame after that is the rankest hypocrisy. "I couldn't," he said simply.

She felt no shame either. "Very well," she said. "You know best. Good-night, Martin."

Stonor went back to the fire. He was too much excited to think of sleeping immediately, but it was a happy excitement; he could even afford at the moment not to hate Imbrie. The prisoner watched his every movement through eyes that he tried to make sleepy-looking, but the sparkle of hatred betrayed him.

"You seem well pleased with yourself," he sneered.

"Why shouldn't I be?" said Stonor good-naturedly. "Haven't I made a good haul to-day?"

"How did you do it?"

"I just borrowed a little of your magic for the occasion and flew through the air."

"Well, you're not out of the woods yet," said Imbrie sourly.

"No?"

"And if you do succeed in taking me in, you'll have some great explaining to do."

"How's that?"

"To satisfy your officers why you hounded a man simply because you were after his wife."

Stonor grinned. "Now that view of the matter never occurred to me!"

"It will to others."

"Well, we'll see."

"What's become of the two women?" asked Imbrie.

"They're on their way down-stream."

"What happened anyway, damn you?"

Stonor laughed and told him.

Later, after a thoughtful silence, Stonor suddenly asked: "Imbrie, how did you treat measles among the Kakisas last year? That would be a good thing for me to know."

"No doubt. But I shan't tell you," was the sullen answer.

"The worst thing we have to deal with up here is pneumonia; how would you deal with a case?"

"What are you asking me such questions for?"

"Well, you're supposed to be a doctor."

"I'm not going to share my medical knowledge with every guy who asks. It was too hard to come by."

"That's not the usual doctor's attitude."

"A hell of a lot I care!"

Stonor took out his note-book, and wrote across one of the pages: "The body was not carried over the falls." He then poked the fire into a bright blaze, and showed the page to Imbrie.

"What have I written?" he asked, watching the man narrowly.

Imbrie glanced at it indifferently, and away again. There was not the slightest change in his expression. Stonor was convinced he had not understood it.

"I won't tell you," muttered Imbrie.

"Just as you like. If I untie your hands, will you write a line from my dictation?"

"No. What foolishness is this?"

"Only that I suspect you can neither read nor write. This is your opportunity to prove that you can."

"Oh, go to hell!"

"I'm satisfied," said Stonor, putting away the book.

Travelling down the river next morning was child's play by comparison with the labour of the ascent. The current carried them with light hearts. That is to say, two of the hearts on board were light. Imbrie, crouched in the bow with his inscrutable gaze, was hatching new schemes of villainy perhaps. Clare sat as far as possible from him, and with her back turned. All day she maintained the fiction that she and Stonor were alone in the dug-out. In the reaction from the terrors of the last few days her speech bubbled like a child's. She pitched her voice low to keep it from carrying forward. All her thoughts looked to the future.

"Three or four days to the village at Swan Lake, you say. We won't have to wait there, will we?"

"My horses are waiting."

"Then four days more to Fort Enterprise. You said there was a white woman there. How I long to see one of my own kind! She'll be my first—in this incarnation. Then we'll go right out on the steamboat, won't we?"

"We'll have to wait a few days for her August trip."

"You'll come with me, of course."

"Yes, I'll have to take my prisoners out to headquarters at Miwasa landing—perhaps all the way to town if it is so ordered."

"And when we get to town, what shall I do? Adrift on the world!"

"Before that I am sure we will meet with anxious inquiries for you."

"Yes, I have a comfortable feeling at the back of my head that I have people somewhere. Poor things, what a state they must be in! It will be part of your duty to take me home, won't it? Surely the authorities wouldn't let me travel alone."

"Surely not!" said Stonor assuming more confidence than he felt.

"Isn't it strange and thrilling to think of a civilized land where trolley cars clang in the streets, and electric lights shine at night; where people, crowds and crowds of people, do exactly the same things at the same hours every day of their lives except Sundays, and never dream of any other kind of life! Think of sauntering down-town in a pretty summer dress and a becoming hat, and chatting with scores of people you know, and looking at things in the stores and buying useless trifles—where have I done all that, I wonder? Think of pulling up one's chair to a snowy tablecloth—and, oh, Martin! the taste of good food! Funny, isn't it, when I have forgotten so much, that I should remember things so well!"

Clare insisted that Stonor had overtired himself the last few days, and made him loaf at the paddle with many a pause to fill and light his pipe. Even so their progress was faster than in the other direction. Shortly after midday she told him that they were nearing the spot where Mary had been shot the day before. They looked eagerly for the place.

To their great disappointment Mary had gone. However, Stonor pointed out that it was a good sign she had been able to travel so soon.

They camped for the night at a spot where Mary had spelled the day before. Stonor observed from the tracks that it was the breed woman who had moved around the fire cooking. Mary apparently had been unable to leave the canoe. It made him anxious. He did not speak of it to Clare. He saw Imbrie examining the tracks also.

This camping-place was a bed of clean, dry sand deposited on the inside of one of the river-bends, and exposed by the falling water. Stonor chose it because it promised a soft bed, and his bones were weary. The bank above was about ten feet high and covered with a dense undergrowth of bushes, which they did not try to penetrate, since a dead tree stranded on the beach provided an ample store of fuel. Clare's tent was pitched at one end of the little beach, while Imbrie, securely bound, and Stonor slept one on each side of the fire a few paces distant.

In the morning Stonor was the first astir. A delicate grey haze hung over the river, out of which the tops of the willow-bushes rose like islands. He chopped and split a length of the stranded trunk, and made up the fire. Imbrie awoke, and lay watching him with a lazy sneer. Stonor had no warning of the catastrophe. He was stooping over sorting out the contents of Imbrie's grub-bag, his back to the bushes, when there came a crashing sound that seemed within him—yet outside. That was all he knew.



CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST STAGE ON SWAN RIVER.

When Stonor's sense returned the first thing of which he was conscious was Clare's soft hand on his head. He opened his eyes and saw her face bending over him, the nurse's face, serious, compassionate and self-forgetful. No one knows what reserves may be contained in a woman until another's wound draws on them. He found himself lying where he had fallen; but there was a bag under his neck to hold his head up. Putting up his hand he found that his head was tightly bandaged. There seemed to be a mechanical hammer inside his skull.

"What happened?" he whispered.

She scarcely breathed her reply. "The woman shot you. She was hidden in the bush."

Looking beyond her, Stonor saw Imbrie and the breed woman eating by the fire in high good humour. He observed that the woman was wearing the revolver he had given Clare.

"She disarmed me before I could fire," Clare went on. "Your wound is not serious. The bullet only ploughed the scalp above your ear."

"Who bandaged me?"

"I did. They didn't want to let me, but I made them. I sewed the wound first. I don't know how I did it, but I did."

Imbrie looked over and saw them talking. "Let him alone," he said harshly. "Come over here and get your breakfast."

"Go," said Stonor with his eyes and lips. "If he attempted to ill-treat you in my sight I——"

She understood, and went without demur. Imbrie motioned her to a place beside him and put a plate before her. She went through the motions of eating, but her eyes never left Stonor's face. Stonor closed his eyes and considered their situation. Frightful enough it was in good sooth, yet it might have been worse. For as he lay quiet he felt his powers returning. Beyond a slight nausea he was himself again. He thanked God for a hard skull.

Meanwhile the breed woman was bragging of her exploit. She spoke in English for the pleasure it gave her to triumph over the whites.

"He gave Mary his canoe and made for the bench."

"I know that," said Imbrie. "Go on."

"Well, as soon as Mary had bound up her leg she wanted to start. But her leg got worse on the way. When it came time to spell, she had to untie me and let me cook, while she kept watch over me with the gun—my gun that Stonor gave her. It was at this place that we spelled. When we went on, her leg kept getting worse, and soon she said we'd have to stop for the night. So I made camp. Then she ordered me to come up to her and get my hands tied, and patted the gun as a sort of hint. I went up to her all right, and when she put down the gun and took up the rope, I snatched up the gun, and then I had her!"

The woman and Imbrie roared with laughter.

"Then I just took her knife and her food, and went," the woman said, callously.

"Damned inhuman—!" Stonor cried involuntarily.

"What's the matter with you!" she returned. "Do you think I was going to let her take me in and turn me over for shooting at a policeman? Not if I know it! I was charitable to her if it comes to that. I could have taken her canoe, too, and then she would properly have starved. But I left her the canoe and a piece of bread, too. Mary Moosa is fat enough. I guess she can live off her fat long enough to get to Myengeen's village."

"What then?" asked Imbrie.

"I just walked off up the river. She couldn't follow me with her leg. She couldn't track the canoe up the rapids. All she can do is to go on down."

"How did you know where I was?" asked Imbrie.

"I didn't know. I took a chance. I had the gun and a belt of cartridges. I can snare fool-hens and catch fish. It was a sight better than going to jail. I knew if the policeman got you he'd bring you down river, and I figured I'd have another chance to get him. And if you got him I figured there wouldn't be any hurry, and you'd wait for awhile for me."

"You did well," said Imbrie with condescending approval.

"Nearly all night I walked along the shore looking for your camp. At last I saw the little tent and I knew I was all right. Then I waited for daylight to shoot. The damned policeman turned his head as I fired, or I would have finished him."

Imbrie dropped into the Indian tongue that they ordinarily used. From his knowledge of the Beaver language Stonor understood it pretty well, though a word escaped him here and there.

"What will we do with him?" he said.

"Be careful," she said. "They may understand."

"No fear of that. We know that Clare doesn't speak our tongue."

"Maybe the policeman speaks Beaver."

"He doesn't, though. He spoke English to them. I asked Shose Cardinal if he spoke Beaver, and he said no. And when I pushed off I insulted him in our tongue, and he paid no attention. Listen to this——"

Imbrie turned, and in the Indian tongue addressed an unrepeatable insult to the wounded trooper. Stonor, though almost suffocated with rage, contrived to maintain an unchanged face.

"You see?" said Imbrie to the woman, laughing. "No white man would take that. We can say what we like to each other. Speak English now just to torment him, the swine! Ask me in English what I'm going to do with him."

She did so.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered carelessly. "Just tie him up, I guess, and leave him sitting here."

"Tie him up?" she said with an evil smile.

"Sure! Give him leisure to prepare for his end."

They laughed together.

Stonor dreaded the effect of this on Clare. She, however, seemed to be upborne by some inner thought.

"I know something better than that," the woman said presently.

"What?"

"Don't tie him up. Leave him just as he is, without gun, axe or knife. Let him walk around until he goes off his nut or starves to death. Then there'll be no evidence. But if you leave him tied they'll find his body with the rope round it."

"That's a good idea. But he might possibly make his way to Myengeen's village."

"Just let him try it. It's a hundred and fifty miles round by land. Muskeg and down timber."

"But if he sticks to the river, Mary Moosa might bring him back help."

"She'll get no help from Myengeen. She's got to go to Enterprise for help. Two weeks. Even a redbreast couldn't last two weeks in the bush. And by that time we'll be——"

"Easy!" said Imbrie warningly.

"We'll be out of reach," she said, laughing.

"All right, it's a go," said Imbrie. "We'll leave him just as he is. Pack up now."

Stonor glanced anxiously at Clare. Her face was deathly pale, but she kept her head up.

"Do you think I'm going to go and leave him here?" she said firmly to Imbrie.

"Don't see how you're going to help yourself," said he, without meeting her eyes.

"If you put me in the dug-out I'll overturn it," she said promptly.

Imbrie was taken aback. "I'll tie you up," he muttered, scowling.

"You cannot tie me so tight that I can't overturn that cranky boat."

"You'll be the first to drown."

She smiled. "Do you think I value the life you offer me?" She held out her hands to him. "Tie me and see."

There could be no mistaking the firmness of her resolve. Imbrie hesitated and weakened. He turned to the breed woman questioningly.

She said in the Indian tongue: "What do you look at me for? I've told you before that you're risking both our necks by taking her. The world is full of skinny little pale-faced women, but you've only got one neck. Better leave her with the man."

Imbrie shook his head slowly.

The woman shrugged. "Well, if you got to have her, fix it to suit yourself." She ostentatiously went on with the packing.

Imbrie looked sidewise at Clare with a kind of hungry pain in his sullen eyes. "I won't leave her," he muttered. "I'll take them both."

The woman flung up her hands in a passionate gesture. "Foolishness!" she cried.

A new idea seemed to occur to Imbrie; he said in English: "I'll take the redbreast for my servant. Upstream work is no cinch. I'll make him track us. It'll be a novelty to have a redbreast for a servant."

Clare glanced anxiously at Stonor as if expecting an outbreak.

Imbrie asked with intolerable insolence: "Will you be my servant, Redbreast?"

Clare's hands clenched, and she scowled at Imbrie like a little fire-eater.

Stonor answered calmly: "If I have to be."

Clare's eyes darted to him full of relief and gratitude; she had not expected so great a sacrifice. The brave lip trembled.

Imbrie laughed. "Good!" he cried. "Redbreasts don't relish starving in the bush any better than ordinary men!"

The breed woman, on the verge of an angry outburst, checked herself, and merely shrugged again. She said quietly in her own tongue: "He thinks he's going to escape."

"Sure he does!" answered Imbrie, "and I'm the man who will prevent him. I'll keep the weapons in my own hands."

True to his word he collected all the weapons in the outfit; three guns, the revolver and three knives. He gave the breed woman her own gun and her ammunition-belt, which she strapped round her; he kept his gun, and the other two fire-arms he disabled by removing parts of the mechanism, which he put in his pocket. He stuck two knives in his belt, and gave the woman the third, which she slipped into its customary resting-place in the top of her moccasin. Imbrie ordered Stonor to get up and strike Clare's tent.

"He must be fed," said Clare quickly.

"Sure, I don't mind feeding him as long as he's going to earn it," said Imbrie.

Clare hastened to carry Stonor her untasted plate, but Imbrie intercepted her. "No more whispering," he said, scowling. "Eat your own breakfast. The woman will feed him."

In half an hour they were on their way back up the river. They allowed Stonor to rest and recuperate in the dug-out until they came to the first rapid. Later, the policeman bent to the tracking-line with a good will. This was better luck than he had hoped for. His principal fear was that he might not be able to dissemble sufficiently to keep their suspicions lulled. He knew, of course, that if they should guess of what he was thinking his life would not be worth a copper penny. His intuition told him that even though he was a prisoner, Clare was safe from Imbrie while he was present, and he had determined to submit cheerfully to anything in order to keep alive. He only needed three or four more days!

So, with a loop of the tracking-line over his shoulder, he plodded through the ooze of the shore, and over the stones; waded out round reefs, and plunged headlong through overhanging willows. Imbrie walked behind him with his gun over his arm. Clare lay on the baggage in the dug-out wistfully watching Stonor's back, and the breed woman steered. In the more sluggish reaches of the river, the men went aboard and paddled.

When they spelled in mid-morning Imbrie and the woman became involved in a discussion of which Stonor understood almost every word. They had finished eating, and all four were sitting in a row on a beach with great stones sticking up through the sand. Clare was at one end, Stonor at the other. They were giving Stonor a rest as they might have rested a horse before putting him in harness again.

The woman said impatiently: "How long are you going to keep up this foolishness?"

"What foolishness?" Imbrie said sullenly.

"Letting this man live. He's your enemy and mine. He's not going to forget that I shot at him twice. He's got some scheme in his head right now. He's much too willing to work."

"That's just women's talk. I know what I'm doing. I've got him just right because he's scared of losing the girl."

"All right. Many times you ask me what to do. Sometimes you don't do what I say, and then you're sorry afterwards. I tell you this is foolishness. You want the white-face girl and you let the man live to please her! What sense is there in that? She won't take you as long as he lives."

"If I kill him she'll kill herself."

"Wah! That's just a threat. She'll hold it over you as long as he lives. When he's dead she'll have to make the best of it. You'll have to kill him in the end. Why not do it now?"

"I know what I'm doing," repeated Imbrie stubbornly. "I'm the master now. Women turn naturally to the master. In a few days I'll put this white man so low she'll despise him."

The woman laughed. "You don't know much about women. The worse you treat him the crazier she'll be about him. And if she gets a knife, look out!"

"She won't get a knife. And if my way doesn't work I can always kill him. He's useful. We're getting up-stream faster than we would without him."

"He's too willing to go up the river, I think."

"There's no help for him up there, is there?"

"I don't know. You'd better do what I say."

"Oh, shut up. Go and pack the grub. We'll start soon."

The woman went to obey with her customary shrug.

Stonor had much food for thought in this conversation. He marked with high satisfaction that the way the woman spoke did not for a moment suggest that Imbrie had any rights over Clare, nor that he had ever possessed her in the past. Listen as he might, he could gain no clue to the relationship between the two speakers. He hoped they might betray themselves further later on. Meanwhile the situation was hazardous in the extreme. There was no doubt the woman would soon wear Imbrie down. If he, Stonor, could only communicate with Clare it would help.

Imbrie turned to Clare with what he meant for an ingratiating smile. "Is your memory coming back at all?" he asked.

In itself there was nothing offensive in the question, and Clare had the wit to see that nothing was to be gained by unnecessarily snubbing the man. "No," she said simply.

"But you're all right in every other way. There's nothing the matter with you?"

She let it go at that.

"You don't remember the days when I was courting you?"

"No," she said with an idle air, "where was that?"

He saw the trap. "I'll tell you some other time.—Redbreast has long ears."

While Imbrie's attention was occupied by Clare a possible way of sending her a message occurred to Stonor. The woman was busy at some paces' distance. Stonor was sitting on a flat stone with his feet in the sand. Carelessly picking up a stick, he commenced to make letters in the sand. Clare, whose eyes never left him for long, instantly became aware of what he was doing; but so well did she cover her glances that Imbrie took no alarm.

Stonor, printing a word at a time, and instantly rubbing it out with his foot, wrote: "Make out to scorn me."

Meanwhile Imbrie was making agreeable conversation and Clare was leading him on sufficiently to keep him interested. Small as his success was, he was charmed with it. Finally he rose regretfully.

"Time to go," he said. "Go get in your harness, Stonor."

The trooper arose and slouched to the tracking-line with a hang-dog air. Clare's eyes followed him in well-assumed indignation at his supineness.

"He'll make a good pack-horse yet," said Imbrie with a laugh.

"So it seems," she said bitterly.

They started. Imbrie, much encouraged by this little passage, continued to bait Stonor at intervals during the afternoon. The policeman, fearful of appearing to submit too suddenly, sometimes rebelled, but always sullenly gave in when Imbrie raised his gun. Stonor saw that, so far as the man was concerned, he need have little fear of overdoing his part. Imbrie in his vanity was quite ready to believe that Clare was turning from Stonor to him. On the other hand, the breed woman was not at all deceived. Her lip curled scornfully at all this by-play.

Clare's glance at Stonor, keeping up what she had begun, progressed from surprise through indignation to open scorn. Meanwhile in the same ratio she held herself less and less aloof from Imbrie. She, too, was careful not to overdo it. She made it clear to Imbrie that it would be a good long time yet before he could expect any positive favours from her. She did it so well that Stonor, though he had himself told her to act in that manner, was tormented by the sight. After all, he was human.

Once and once only during the day did Stonor's and Clare's glances meet unobserved by the others. It happened as the trooper was embarking in the dug-out preparatory to paddling up a smooth reach. Imbrie and the woman were both behind Clare, and she gave Stonor a deep look imploring his forgiveness for the wrong she seemed to do him. It heartened him amazingly. Bending low as he laid the coiled rope in the bow, his lips merely shaped the words:

"Keep it up!"

So long and so hard did they work that day that they were able to camp for the night only a few miles short of the highest point they had yet reached on the river. The camping-place was a pleasant opening up on top of the bank, carpeted with pine-needles. The murmur of the pines reminded Clare and Stonor of nights on the lower river—nights both happy and terrible, which now seemed years past.

While supper was preparing Clare appeared out of her tent with some long strips of cotton. She went unhesitatingly to where Stonor sat.

Imbrie sprang up. "Keep away from him!" he snarled.

Clare calmly sat down by Stonor. "I'm going to dress his wound," she said. "I'd do the same for a dog. I don't want to speak to him. You can sit beside me while I work."

Imbrie sullenly submitted.

After supper it appeared from Imbrie's evil grin that he was promising himself a bit of fun with the policeman. But this time he was taking no chances.

"I'm tired of toting this gun around; tie his hands," he ordered the woman.

The night was chilly and they had a good fire on the edge of the bank. It lighted them weirdly as they sat in a semi-circle about it, the four strangely-assorted figures backed by the brown trunks of the pines, and roofed by the high branches. Stonor safely tied up, Imbrie put down his gun and lighted his pipe. He studied the policeman maliciously. He was not quite satisfied; even in Stonor's submission he felt a spirit that he had not yet broken.

"You policemen think pretty well of yourselves, don't you?" he said.

Stonor, clearly perceiving the man's intention, was nevertheless undisturbed. This vermin was beneath him. His difficulty was to curb the sly desire to answer back. Imbrie gave him such priceless openings. But the part he had imposed on himself required that he seemed to be cowed by the man's crude attempts at wit. A seeming sullen silence was his only safe line. It required no little self-control.

Imbrie went on: "The government sets you fellows up as a kind of bogey. For years they've been teaching the natives that a red-coat is a kind of sacred monkey that all must bow down to. And you forget you're only a man like the rest of us. When you meet a man who isn't scared off by all this hocus-pocus it comes pretty hard on you. You have to sing small, don't you, Redbreast?"

Silence from Stonor.

"I say you have to sing small, Redbreast."

"Just as you like."

"I've heard ugly tales about the police," Imbrie went on. "It seems they're not above turning a bit of profit out of their jobs when it's safe. Is that so, Stonor?"

"I hear you say it."

"You yourself only took me up in the first place because you thought there was a bit of a bribe in it, or a jug of whisky maybe. You thought I was a whisky-runner, but you couldn't prove it. I guess you're sorry now that you ever fooled with me, aren't you, Redbreast?"

Stonor said nothing.

"Answer me when I speak to you. Aren't you sorry now that you interfered with me?"

This was a hard one. A vein stood out on Stonor's forehead. He thought: "I wouldn't say it for myself, but for her——!" Aloud he muttered: "Yes!"

Imbrie roared with laughter. "I'm putting the police in their place!" he cried. "I'm teaching them manners! I'll have him eating out of my hand before I'm through with him!"

Clare, seeing the swollen vein, bled for Stonor, yet she gave him a glance of scorn, and the look she gave Imbrie caused him to rise as if moved by a spring, and cross to her.

As he passed the breed woman he said in the Indian tongue: "Well, who was right, old woman?"

He sat down beside Clare.

The woman answered: "You fool! She's playing with you to save her lover. Any woman would do the same."

"You lie!" said Imbrie, with a fatuous side-glance at Clare. "She's beginning to like me now."

"Beginning to like you!" cried the woman scornfully. "Fool! Watch me! I'll show you how much she likes you!"

Springing to her feet, and stooping over, she drew the knife from her moccasin. She turned on Stonor. "Redbreast!" she cried in English. "I'm sick of looking at your ugly face. Here's where I spoil it!"

She raised the knife. Her eyes blazed. Stonor really thought his hour had come. He scrambled to his feet. Clare, with a scream, ran between them, and flung her arms around Stonor's neck.

"You beast!" she cried over her shoulder to the woman. "A bound man! You'll have to strike him through me!"

The woman threw back her head and uttered a great, coarse laugh. She coolly returned the knife to her moccasin. "You see how much she likes you," she said to Imbrie.

Clare, seeing how she had been tricked, unwound her arms from Stonor's neck, and covered her face. It seemed too cruel that all their pains the livelong day should go for nothing in a moment. Imbrie was scowling at them hatefully.

"Don't distress yourself," whispered Stonor. "It couldn't be helped. We gained a whole day by it anyway. I'll think of something else for to-morrow."

"Keep clear of him!" cried Imbrie. "Go to your tent!"

"I won't!" Clare said.

"Better go!" whispered Stonor. "I am safe for the present."

She went slowly to her tent and disappeared.

Stonor sat down again. Across the fire Imbrie scowled and pulled at his lip. The breed woman, returning to her place, had the good sense to hold her tongue.

After a long while Imbrie said sullenly in the Indian tongue: "Well, you've got your way. You can kill him to-morrow."