CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HARVEST OF BATTLE

The sun rose on a scene of great activity. It was the garnering of the harvest of battle. The light of day smiled down on this oasis on a barren foreshore of Bell River and searched it from end to end. It was so small in the immensity of its surroundings. Isolated, cut off from all outside help, it looked as though a deep breath of the Living Purpose of Life must have swept it away like some ant heap lying in the path of a thrusting broom. Yet it had withstood the shock of battle victoriously, and those surviving were counting the harvest.

But there was no smile in the heart of man. A hundred dead lay scattered on the foreshore. They congested the defences of the camp. They had even breathed their last agony within the precincts which they had sought to conquer. Mean, undersized, dusky-skinned, half-nude creatures sprawled everywhere, revealing in their attitudes something of that last suffering before the great release. Doubtless the price had been paid with little enough regret, for that is the savage way. It was for their living comrades to deplore the loss, but only for the serious depletion of their ranks.

The victorious defenders had no thought beyond the blessings of the harvest. They had no sympathy to waste. These dead creatures were so much carrion. The battle was the battle for existence which knows neither pity nor remorse.

So the dead clay was gathered and thrown to its last rest on the bosom of the waters, to be borne towards the eternal ice-fields of the Pole, or lie rotting on barren, rock-bound shores, where only the cries of the wilderness awaken the echoes. There was no reverence, no ceremony. The perils of existence were too near, too real in the minds of these men.

With the last of the human sheaves disposed of the real work of the day began under the watchful eyes of the leaders. The garrison was divided in half. One-half slept while the other half labored at the defences. Only the leaders seemed to be denied the ease of body their night's effort demanded. Picks and shovels were the order of the day, and all the shortcomings of the defences, discovered during battle, were made good. The golden "pay dirt" which had drawn the sweepings of Leaping Horse into the service of John Kars was the precious material of salvation.

The fortifications rose on all sides. The river front was no longer neglected. None could say whence the next attack would come. None could estimate for sure the subtleties of the bastard white mind which had so long successfully manipulated the secret of Bell River.

Not a man but had been impressed by the battle of the night. Not a man but knew that the losses in defence had been detrimentally disproportionate. Life to them was sweet enough. But even greater than the passionate desire to live was lust for possession of the treasure upon which their feet trod.

So they worked with a feverish effort. Nothing must be spared. Nothing neglected that could make for security.

The leaders conferred, and planned. And the result was concrete practice. Kars was the guiding spirit, and Abe Dodds was the machine-like energy that drove the labor forward. Bill took no part in the work. His work lay in one direction only, and it was a work he carried out with a self-sacrifice only to be expected from him. His hospital was full to overflowing, and for all his skill, for all his devotion, five times, during the day, bearers had to be summoned to carry out the cold remains of one of their comrades.

The question in all minds was a speculation as to whether a fresh attack would mature on the second night. This speculation was confined to the rank and file of the outfit. The clearer vision of the leaders searched their own understanding of the position. It was pretty definitely certain there would be no attack in force. The enemy had hoped for a victory as the result of surprise and overwhelming odds. It had failed. It had failed disastrously. The Indians were supposed to be five hundred strong. They had lost a fifth of their force without making any apparent impression on the defenders. There could be no surprise on the second night. It would take longer than twelve hours to spur the Indians to a fresh attack of a similar nature.

No, there would be no attack of a serious nature—yet. And Kars unfolded the plans he had so carefully thought out long months ago. He set them before his three companions late in the afternoon, and detailed them with a meticulous care and exactness which revealed the clarity of vision he had displayed in their construction.

But they were not plans such as these men had expected. They were daring and subtle, and they involved a risk only to be contemplated by such a nature as that of their author. But they promised success, if fortune ran their way. And in failure they would be left little more embarrassed than they now stood.

The meeting terminated as it was bound to terminate with Kars guiding its council. Joe Saunders, whose mentality limited him to a good fight, and the understanding of a prospector's craft, had neither demur nor suggestion. Bill admitted he had no better proposition to offer, and only stipulated that his share in the scheme should be completely adequate. Abe protested at the work imposed upon him, but admitted its necessity.

"Sit around this layout punchin' daylight into the lousy carcases of a bunch of neches, while you an' Doc here get busy, seems to me a sort o' Sunday-school game I ain't been raised to. It's a sort of pie that ain't had no sweetenin', I guess. An' my stomach's yearnin' for sugar. That play of yours has got me itching to take a hand. Still, I guess this darn ol' camp needs holding up, an' if you need me here you can count me in to the limit."

Kars nodded unsmilingly. He knew Abe, second only to his knowledge of Bill Brudenell. That limit was a big one. It meant all he desired.

"It had to be you or Bill, Abe," he said. "I fixed on you because you got the boys of this camp where you need them. You'll get all the fight out of them when you want it. The Doc, here, can dope 'em all they need, but he hasn't spent half his days driving for gold with an outfit of scallawags same as you have. Hold this camp to the limit, boy, and when the work's through I don't guess your share in things'll be the least. I'm going to bank on you as I've never banked before. And I don't worry a thing."

It was a tribute as generous as it was diplomatic, and its effect was instantaneous.

"It goes, chief," exclaimed the engineer, with the nearest approach to real enthusiasm he ever permitted himself. "The limit! An' they'll need a big bank roll of fight to call my hand."

Half an hour later Peigan Charley was surprised into wakefulness under the southern embankment, where he had fallen asleep over his pipe. His boss was standing over him, gazing down at him with steady, gray, unsmiling eyes. The scout was sitting up in a moment. He was not yet certain what the visitation portended.

"Had a good sleep, Peigan?" Kars demanded,

"Him sleep plenty, boss."

"Good."

Kars turned and glanced out over the great volume of water passing down the river in a ponderous tide. Peigan Charley waited in mute, unquestioning fashion for what was to come.

Presently Kars turned back to his trusted henchman. He began to talk rapidly. And as he talked the scout thrust his pipe away into a pocket in his ragged coat, which had once formed part of his boss's wardrobe. He stood up. Nor did he interrupt. The keen light in his big black eyes alone betrayed any emotion. There was no doubt as to the nature of that emotion. For the sparkle in them grew, and robbed them of the last shadow of their native lack of expression.

Following upon his boss's words came the Indian's brief but cordial expression of appreciation. Then came a few minutes of sharp question, and eager reply. And, at last, came Kars' final injunctions.

"Well, you'll get right up to the cook-house and eat your belly full. Get fixed that way good. Maybe you'll need it. Then start right in, when it's dark, and don't pass word to a soul, or I'll rawhide you. Get this good. If the neches get wise to you the game's played, and we've lost."

The Indian's reply came on the instant, and it was full to the brim of that contempt which the mention of his race never failed to arouse.

"Damn fool neche not know," he said icily.

Kars watched him set out for the cook-house. Then he moved over to the hospital where Bill was at work.

He passed within the crude storehouse. He had not come out of any curiosity. He had not come to contemplate the havoc wrought on the bodies of this flotsam of dissolute life. He had come for the simple purpose of offering some cheer in the darkness of suffering.

For all the ruggedness of exterior displayed by this man when the call of the northern wilderness claimed him, deep in his heart there were warm fires glowing which the bond of loyal comradeship never failed to fan. These Breeds and scallawag Indians were no less to him for their color, or their morals. They were fighters—fighters of the trail like himself. It was enough.

A desultory rifle fire played over the camp. It was the signal of passing day. It was a reminder that the day's cessation of hostilities marked no abatement in the enemy's purpose. The defence was at its post. A long line of rifles held their vicious muzzles searching for a target that would repay. Wastage of ammunition was strictly forbidden. The night, like its predecessor, was obscure. The targets were far off, and, as yet, invisible. So the defence remained unanswering, but ready.

Beyond the new defences on the river front a shadowy figure was stirring. His movements were stealthy. His moccasined feet gave out no sound. But there was sound. It was the muffled grating of something being slid over the gravelly beach at the water's edge. Then came a gentle splash of water. It was scarcely more than the sound of a leaping fish. After that came the lapping of the stream against an obstruction to its course.

The figure stood up, tall and slim. The rawhide rope in his hand strung taut. A moment later he secured the end of it by the simple process of resting a small boulder upon its knotted extremity.

The canoe had swung to the stream and lay in against the river bank. The silent figure stooped over its gunwale and deposited various articles within its shallow depths. It was the merest cockle-shell of stoutly strutted bark, a product of the northland Indian which leaves modern invention far behind in the purpose for which it is designed.

The sound of a footstep on the beach drew the crouching figure to its full height. Then, at the sound of a familiar voice, all suspicion died out.

"All fixed right, Charley?"

"Sho', boss. Him fix plenty good."

"Got sow-belly an'—hardtack? Maybe you'll need him. Gun? Plenty cartridge?"

"Him plenty—all thing."

"Good. Say, you need to get around before daylight. Good luck."

The Indian grunted his reply while he stooped again to release the rawhide painter. Then, with a nice sense of balance, he sprang lightly into the shell-like vessel.

John Kars waited only till he heard the muffled dip of the paddle. Then he withdrew, a sigh escaping him, an expression of pent feeling which had hope and doubt closely intermingling for its inspiration. He passed up to the defences for his second night's vigil. He had arranged that Abe should sleep unless emergency demanded otherwise.

The night passed without incident. Kars was thankful. It was so much valuable time gained. The labors had been hard following upon the night of battle. The whole garrison had needed rest. This had been achieved by systematic relief, which was almost military in its method. But sleep had been taken at the defences. There had been no relaxing of vigilance. Nor had the enemy any intention of permitting it. His loose fire went on the whole time, stirring the echoes of the gorge in protest at the disturbance of the night.

Towards morning Kars and Bill were at the water's edge, searching the black distance, while they strained for a sound other than the echoes of the spasmodic rifle fire.

"Charley'll find a trail, if he hasn't broken his fool neck," Kars said. "Guess he'd find a trail in a desert of sand that's always shifting. This darn gorge must be scored with them. If he don't, why, I guess we'll need to chance it up-stream past those workings."

"Yes."

Bill sat on the boulder Charley had used as a mooring. He had had his sleep, but a certain weariness still remained.

"You'd stake a roll on Charley," he said, with an upward glance of amusement that was lost in the darkness.

"Sure." Kars gave a short laugh. "He's a mascot. It's always been that way since I grabbed him when he quit the penitentiary for splitting another neche's head open in a scrap over a Breed gal. Charley's got all the brains of his race, and none of its virtues. But he's got virtues of a diff'rent sort. They're sometimes found in white folk."

"You mean he's loyal."

"That's it. Every pocket he's got is stuffed full of it. He'll find a trail or break his fool neck—because I'm needing one. He's the sort of boy, if I needed him to shoot up a feller, it wouldn't be sufficient acting the way I said. He'd shoot up his whole darn family, too, and thieve their blankets, even if he didn't need 'em. He's quite a boy—when you got him where you need him. I——"

Kars broke off listening acutely. He turned his head with that instinct of avoiding the night breeze. Bill, too, was listening, his watchful eyes turned northward.

The moments grew. The splutter of rifle fire still haunted the night. But, for all its breaking of the stillness, the muffled sound of a paddle grew out of the distance. Kars sighed a relief he would not have admitted.

"Back to—schedule," he said. "Guess it needs a half hour of dawn."

There was no muffle to the sound of the paddle now, and the waiting men understood. The Indian was up against the full strength of the heavy stream, and, light as was his craft, it was no easy task to breast it. For some minutes the rhythmic beat went on. Then the little vessel grated directly opposite them, with an exactness of judgment in the darkness that stirred admiration. A moment later Peigan Charley was giving the results of his expedition in the language of his boss, of which he considered himself a perfect master.

"Charley, him find him," he said with deep satisfaction. "Him mak' plenty trail. Much climb. Much ev'rything. So."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE LAP OF THE GODS

He looked like a disreputable image carved in mahogany, and arrayed in the sittings of a rag-picker's store. He was seated on the earthen door-sill of the hut where Kars was sleeping. He was contemplating with a pair of black, expressionless eyes the shadows growing in the crevices of the far side of the gorge. The occasional whistle of a bullet passing harmlessly overhead failed to disturb him in the smallest degree. Why should he be disturbed? They were only fired by "damn-fool neche."

He sat quite still in that curious haunch-set fashion so truly Indian. It was one of the many racial characteristics he could not shake off—for all his boasted white habits—just as his native patience was part of his being. Nothing at that moment seemed to concern him like the watching of those growing shadows of night, and the steady darkening of the evening sky.

The defences were alive with watchful eyes. The movement of men was incessant. The smell of cooking hung upon the evening air blending with the smoke of the cook-house fire. Only the sluices stood up still and deserted, and the dumps of pay dirt. But, for the moment, none of these things were any concern of his. He had been detached from the work of the camp. His belly was full to the brim of rough food, and he was awaiting the psychological moment when the orders of his boss must be carried out. Peigan Charley was nothing if not thorough in all he undertook.

It mattered very little to him if he were asked to cut an Indian's throat, or if he were told by Kars to attend Sunday-school. He would do as his "boss" said. The throat would be cut from ear to ear, if he had to spend the rest of his days in the penitentiary. As for the Sunday-school he would sing the hymns with the best, or die in the attempt.

Half an hour passed under this straining vigil. He had stirred slightly to ease his lean, stiffening muscles. The rough buildings of the camp slowly faded under the growing darkness. The activity of the camp became swallowed up, and only his keen ears told him of it. The pack ponies at their picketings, under the sheer walls beyond the cook-house, abandoned their restless movements over their evening meal of grain. The moment was approaching.

At last he stirred. He rose alertly and peered within the darkened doorway. Then his moccasined feet carried him swiftly and silently to the side of the bunk on which his "boss" was sleeping.

Kars awoke with a start. He was sitting up with his blankets flung back. The touch of a brown hand upon his shoulder had banished completely the last of his deep slumber.

"Boss come. Him dark—good."

The Indian had said all he felt to be necessary. He stood gazing down at the great shadowy figure sitting up on the bunk.

"You're an infernal nuisance," Kars protested. But he swung himself round and stood up. "Everything ready?" he went on, strapping a revolver belt about his waist. "Boss Bill? He ready?" He picked up his heavy automatic lying on the table at the head of his bunk, and examined it with his fingers to ascertain if the clip of cartridges was full. He reached under the bunk for some spare clips. Then he drew on his pea-jacket and buttoned it up.

"Boss Bill all ready. Him by hospital."

"Good. Then come right on. Go tell Boss Bill. I go to the river."

The dusky Indian shadow melted away in the darkness. Kars watched it go. Then he filled up a brandy flask and thrust it into his pocket. A moment later he passed down to the water's edge, only diverging to exchange a few parting words with Abe Dodds who was in charge of the defences.

Bill Brudenell sat in the middle of the canoe, a smallish, thickly coated figure with a beaver cap pressed low down on his iron gray head. Kars and the Indian were at the paddles, kneeling and resting against the struts. Kars was in the bow. He was a skilled paddle, but just now the Indian claimed responsibility for their destination and the landing. Charley, in consequence, felt his importance. Besides, there was the praise for his skilful navigation yet to come.

The rhythmic pressure of the paddles was perfectly muffled. The stream was with them. It was a swift and silent progress. For all his knowledge and experience Kars had difficulty in recognizing their course. Then there were possible submerged boulders and other "snags" and their danger to the frail craft. But these things were quite undisturbing to the scout. His sight seemed to possess something of feline powers. His sense of locality, and of danger, were something almost uncanny on the water. He had made their present journey once before, and his sureness was characteristic of his native instincts.

The journey occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then a low spoken order came from the Indian.

"Charley tak' him," was all he said, and Kars, obediently, shipped his paddle.

Then came an exhibition of canoeing which rewarded the white men for their faith in their disreputable henchman. Charley played with the light craft in the great volume of stream as a feather might yield to a gentle breeze. The canoe sidled in to the shore through a threatening shoal of rocky outcrop, and the first stage of the journey was completed.

The second stage began after the little craft had been lifted and placed high above the water's level. Scarcely a word was spoken as the various articles were taken out of it, and matters were adjusted. There was nothing slipshod in the arrangements. Every precaution was taken. These men knew, only too well, the hazard of their undertaking, and the necessity for provision against emergency.

The profound darkness was their cover. It was also their danger. There was no light anywhere under the clouded sky. The northern lights were hidden, and not even a star was visible. It was what they desired, what they needed. But the gaping jaws of the profound gorge might easily form a trap for their undoing.

Charley led the way over the rocks, and the murmur of cascading waters greeted the white men's ears. It was another of those draining waterways which scored the rock-bound river. The sound of the water grew as they approached its outlet. Then, in a moment, it seemed they were swallowed up by an inky blackness.

Charley came to a halt and uncoiled the rawhide rope which he had taken from the canoe. He paid it out, and passed one end of it to his boss. He fastened the other end about his waist. Half-way down its length Bill took possession of it. It was a guiding life-line so that those behind him should not lose the trail. Then the upward struggle began.

It was a fierce effort, as Charley's information had indicated. It was a blind climb surrounded by every pitfall conceivable. The white men had recollections of a climb of lesser degree, in full daylight, on the far shore of the river. It had taken something like an hour of tremendous effort. The difficulties and danger of it had been incomparable with their present task. Not once, but a dozen times the life-line was the saving clause for these men who had studied nature's book in the northern wilderness from end to end. And none realized better than they how much reliance they were placing in the hands of the untutored Indian who was guiding them.

Never for a moment was Charley at a loss. His movements were precise, definite. He threaded his way amongst tree-trunks and a tangle of undergrowth with a certainty that never faltered. He surmounted jutting, slippery crags as though broad daylight marked out for him the better course. There were moments when he stood on the brink of a black abyss into which heavy waters fell to a depth of thirty or forty feet. But always he held the life-line so that the course lay clear behind him for those who had to follow.

So the struggle went on. Higher and higher; up, up to what seemed immeasurable heights. Always was there the threat of the water at hand, a warning and a constant fear, as well as the main guide. There was not a moment when life and limb were not threatened. It was only the pliability of the moccasins, which each man was wearing, that made the journey possible. It gave them foothold at times where no foothold seemed possible. It was, as Charley had warned them, "much climb."

But the task had been contemplated by minds tuned to great purpose. Nor was there anything in the nature of the northern world that could daunt that purpose. Bill might have found complaint to offer in the cool contemplation of his philosophic mind, but the nature of him defied all better sense, and drove him to a resolution as stubborn and invincible as that of Kars himself. And Kars had no other thought but of the objective to be gained. Only physical disaster could stop him. So his whole strength was flung into the melting pot of achievement.

The Indian had no other feeling than the pride of a brief leadership. The aboriginal in him was intensely stirred. Here he was in his native element. Here he could teach the great man who was, in his curiously warped mind, far above all others. Besides, was there not at the end to be a satisfaction of all the savage instincts in him? He knew the Bell River neches, whom he hated so cordially in common with all others of his race, were to be outwitted, defeated. And his share in that outwitting was to be a large one, and would only go to prove further what a contemptible thing the neche really was.

So he brought to his aid all those faculties which he owed to his forebears, and which had been practised in the purposes of his crooked youth. Nor had he the wit to understand that the "contemptible" Indian in him was serving him to the limit in this effort he was putting forth.

The tremendous climb terminated on the wooded crests of the walls of the great gorge. And the white men paused, thankful enough for the moment of relaxation, while Charley scouted for his bearings. But the pause was of the briefest. Charley was back almost before the tired muscles had relaxed. The briefest announcement in the scout's pigeon English and the journey was resumed.

"Charley's eye all clear. We go?"

The life-line was recoiled, and the scout wore it over one shoulder, and across his chest. He had secret hopes for that rope which he imparted to no one.

The way through the virgin forest was almost brief. In a half hour they stood clear of it with a dark stretch of open country stretching out before them. Nor was there the least hesitation. Charley picked out his way, as a cat will pass through the darkest apartment without colliding with the furnishings. He seemed to read through the darkness with a mental torch.

A mile of the way lay over a stretch of attenuated grass along a ridge that sloped away to the depths of a narrow valley, which converged upon the river some miles to the north. Then came a drop, a steady decline which brought them to a wider and shallower part of the valley they had been skirting. What obstacles might lie in that hollow the white men were powerless to estimate. They were entirely in the hands of the Indian, and were content that this was so.

None spoke, and the scout moved on with the swiftness of absolute certainty. Shadowy bluffs loomed up, were skirted, were left behind. Once or twice a grunted warning came from the leader as marshy ground squelched under the soft moccasins. But that was all. Charley's whole mind was set in deep concentration. Pitfalls, which might trap, were of small enough importance. The trail was all-absorbing.

A shallow lapping stream crossed their path. The banks were low and quaking. They plunged into the knee-deep water, and their feet sank into the bed of soft, reed-grown mud. They crossed the deep nearly waist high, and floundered out on to the far bank. Then came a further groping progress through a thicket of saplings and lesser growth. This passed, they emerged upon an upward slope and firm patchy grassland. It was at the summit of this that the Indian paused.

He stood staring out in a southwesterly direction. For a while he remained silent. Kars and Bill squeezed the water from their stout moleskin trousers.

Suddenly Charley flung out an arm. He was pointing with a lean forefinger.

"Neche lodge," he said. "Louis Creal him shack."

Kars and Bill were at either side of him searching the dark horizon. A light was shining dimly in the distance. Nor did it need much understanding to realize that it came from behind a primitive, cotton-covered window.

"Good. How far?"

It was Kars who spoke.

"Piece down. Piece up. So. One mile. Bluff. Small piece. Bell River neches—plenty teepee."

Charley spoke with his outstretched hand indicating a brief decline, and the corresponding rise of ground beyond. Again it was the Indian in him that would not be denied illustration by gesture.

Again they moved forward. Again was the scout's rightness and accuracy proved. The ground fell away into a short dip. It rose again in the far side of the moist bottom, and its summit confronted them with a clean cut barrier of tall pine woods. It was the end of the toilsome journey. The screening bluff to the northeast, without which no Indian village, however primitive, is complete.

They were not to pass through it. The scout turned off sharply to the left, and moved down its length with swift, untiring steps. Nor did he pause again till the great bluff was passed, and once more the square, yellow patch of light gazed out at them from the dark vault of night.

With a brief explanation the Indian yielded up his command.

"Him Louis Creal," he said pointing. Then he swung his arm away to the right. "Him Indian lodge. Much teepee. Much dog." He paused. "Charley him finish—yes?" he added almost regretfully.

Kars promptly led the way back to the cover of the woods.

"Guess we'll sit around," he said, in a low voice. "I'll hand out the talk."

Under the deep hush of night the village of the Bell River terror slumbered. The raw-pelt teepees, their doors laced fast, stood up like shadowy mausoleums with rigid arms stretched high above their sharp crowns, as though in appeal to the frowning night heavens. In vain glory an occasional log hut, with flattened reed roof, stood out surrounded by its complement of teepees to mark the petty chieftainship of its owner. Otherwise there was nothing to vary the infinite squalor of the life of a northern race. Squalor and filth, and almost bestial existence, made up the life of aboriginal man in a land where glacier and forest vied with each other as the dominating interpretation of Nature.

Nor was there need for optical demonstration of the conditions. It was there to faculties of scent. It was there in the swarms of night flies. It was there in the howl of the scavenging camp dogs, seeking, in their prowling pack, that which the daylight denied them. Savage as a starving wolf pack these creatures wallowed in the refuse of the camp, and fought for offal as for a coveted delicacy. And so the women and men laced tight their doors that the fly-tormented pappooses might sleep in security. In daylight these foraging beasts were curs who labored under the shadow of the club, at night they were feared even by their masters.

Kars, and those with him, understood the conditions. The night hid no secrets from them with regard to the village which sheltered their enemy. They had learned it all in years of the long trail, and accepted it as a matter of course. But, for the present, the village was not their concern. It was the yellow patch of light shining in the darkness that held them and inspired their council.

The light was widely apart from the village. It was on a rising ground which overlooked the surroundings. It was one of the many eyes of a low, large, rambling building, half store, half mere dwelling, which searched the movements of the degraded tribe which yielded something approaching slavery to the bastard white mind which lurked behind them.

The silence of the place was intense. There was no yap of angry cur here. There was no sign of life anywhere, beyond that yellow patch of light. The place was large and stoutly constructed. The heavy dovetailed logs suggested the handicraft of the white. The dimly outlined roof pitches had nothing of the Indian about them. But in other respects it was lacking. There were no fortifications. It was open to approach on all sides. And its immediate neighborhood reeked with the native odors of the Indian encampment. It suggested, for all its aloofness, intimate relations with the aboriginal life about it. It suggested the impossibility of escape for its owner from the taint of his colored forebears.

Though no sound broke the stillness about this habitation shadows were moving under its outer walls. Gliding shadows moving warily, stealing as though searching out its form, and measuring its vulnerability. They hovered for moments at darkened window openings. The closed doors afforded attraction for them. For half an hour the silent inspection went on.

These movements seemed to have system. No doorway or window escaped attention. No angle but was closely searched. Yet for all the movement, it was ghostly in its completeness of silence. Finally the lighted window drew their whole attention, and, for many minutes, nothing further interested them.

At last, however, the gathering broke up. One figure passed away around an angle of the building and disappeared in the direction of a closed doorway. A second figure, larger than the others, passed on in the direction of another door. The third, a slim, alert creature, remained at the window. In one hand he held a long, keen-edged knife. In the other a heavy pistol loaded in every barrel.

Within the building an equally silent scene was being enacted.

The room was low roofed, with a ceiling of cotton billowing downwards between the nails which held it to the rafters. No minute description could adequately picture the scene. It was half living-room, half store for Indian trade, and wholly lacking in any sort of order or cleanliness.

One wall was completely covered with shelves laden with merchandise. There were highly colored cotton prints and blankets. There were bottles and canned goods. There were tobacco and kegs of fiery rye whisky. There were packets and bundles, and deep partitioned trays of highly colored beads. A counter, which stood before this piled up litter, was no less laden. But that which was under the counter was hidden from view.

A corner of the room was crowded to the ceiling with valuable furs in their rough-dried state. Another was occupied by a fuel box stacked with split cord-wood, for the box stove which stood in the centre of all. The earthen floor was foul with dust and litter, and suggested that no broom had passed over it for weeks.

But the quality of the place was of less interest than its human occupants. There were two. Both were clad in the thick, warmth-giving garments characteristic of the north. One stood behind the counter leaning over an account book of considerable proportions and was absorbed in its perusal. The other was seated with his feet resting on the steel rail of the stove, basking in its warmth. His back was to the lamp and the cotton-covered window, and he was gazing in the direction of the man at the counter through a haze of smoke from his pipe. He was lounging in the only piece of furniture the room boasted, except for the table on which a large glass of spirits stood adjacent to the oil lamp. Not once, but several times he plied himself with the ardent spirits, while the man absorbed in his ledger turned the pages before him. The man in the chair continued to drink without stint. He drank with the abandon of one who has long since done with the restraint imposed by civilization.

The man at the counter worked on silently. He, too, had a charged glass beside him. But, for the moment, it was neglected. His figures absorbed his whole attention.

At last he looked up. His yellow skin was shining. His wicked black eyes were twinkling, which, with the scars distorting his features, gave him a look of curiously malevolent triumph.

"Guess they're kind of rough figgers," he apologized. "But they're near enough to make good readin'."

"What's the total?" The demand was sharp and masterful.

"Just under ten thousand ounces since last reckoning. That's the last half of last summer's wash-up. There's nigh a thousand tons of dirt to clean still. It's the biggest wash we've had, an' it's growing. When we've cleaned out this gang we won't need to do a thing but shout. There ain't no limit to the old gorge," he added gleefully. "When we've passed the bones of John Kars to the camp dogs, why, we can jest make up our bank roll how we darn please."

"Yes."

The man at the stove emptied and replenished his glass, and sat handling it like one who treasures its contents. But there was a frowning discontent in his eyes.

"We need to pass those bones along quick," he demurred. "We haven't done it yet."

The half-breed at the counter searched the discontented face with speculative eyes.

"You guessin' we can't?"

There was incredulity in his tone.

"I don't guess a thing. We've just—got to." The surly determination was unconvincing.

"An' why not?" The half-breed's eyes were widely questioning. "It don't worry me a thing. We fixed Mowbray all right. He was no blamed sucker. I tell you right here there's no white outfit goin' to dip into my basket, an' get away with it. We'll hammer 'em good and proper. An' if that don't fix 'em, why, I guess there's always the starvation racket. That don't never fail when it's backed by winter north of 'sixty.' Them curs'll get his bones all——"

But the man at the stove was no longer paying attention. He had turned in his chair, and his eyes were on the door. His glass was poised in the act of raising it to his lips. It remained untouched.

"I thought——" Nor did he complete that which he had been about to say.

The door was thrust wide with a jolt. There was the swift clash of a knife ripping the cotton window behind him. Then came an incredulous ejaculation, as two guns were held leveled in the doorway.

"God! Murray McTavish!"

The movements of those moments were something electrical. Everything seemed to happen at once. Every man playing his little part in the drama of it was accustomed to think and act in the moment of emergency. These men owed their present existence to their capacity for survival where danger was ever lurking.

Seconds counted on the fingers on one hand were sufficient to decide the issue. A shot sung in through the uncovered window which carried back no "spat" to the man who fired it. But the eyes which had guided it beheld the half-breed at the counter sprawl across the account book which had yielded him so much satisfaction. Almost at the instant of his fall a lean, agile, dusky, disreputable figure leaped into the room through the aperture which his knife had freed of its covering.

Kars in the doorway had been no less swift. His automatic spoke, but it spoke no quicker than a similar weapon in the hands of Murray McTavish.

It was a situation pregnant with possibilities. The bulky body of the trader of Fort Mowbray had moved with the quickness, the agility of lightning. His glass had dropped to the filthy floor with a crash, and its place in his hand had been taken by a pistol in the twinkle of an eye. He was on his feet, and had hurled his bullet at the figure in the doorway in the space of time elapsing between John Kars' startled exclamation and the discharge of his weapon, which had been almost on the instant.

With deadly purpose and skill Murray had taken no aim. He had fired for the pit of the stomach with the instinct of the gunman. Perhaps it was the haste, perhaps the whisky had left its effect on him. His shot tore its way through Kars' pea-jacket, grazing the soft flesh of his side below his ribs. The second and third shots, as the automatic did its work, were even less successful. There was no fourth shot, for the weapon dropped from Murray's nerveless hand as Kars' single shot tore through his adversary's extended arm and shattered the bones.

The injured man promptly sought to recover his weapon with the other hand. But no chance remained. A dusky figure leaped upon his back from behind, and the dull gleam of a long knife flourished in the lamplight.

Then came Kars' fierce tones.

"Push your hands up, blast you!"

Peigan Charley's arm was crooked about the trader's neck. There was no mercy in his purpose. The fierce joy of the moment was intoxicating him. The knife. He yearned, with savage lust, to drive it deep into the fat body struggling under his hold. But Murray understood. One hand went up. The other made an effort, but remained helpless at his side. Instantly Kars stayed the ruthless hand of the savage.

"Quit it, Charley!" he cried. "Loose your hold and see to the other. I got this one where I need him."

The Indian yielded reluctantly. He looked on for a moment while Kars advanced and secured the trader's fallen weapon. Then he passed across to the counter.

The half-breed was badly wounded. But the Indian had neither pity nor scruple. He turned him over where he lay groaning across his counter. He searched him and relieved him of a pair of loaded revolvers. Then, standing over him, he waited for his chief.

Nor had he to wait long. Kars completed his work in silence. For the time words were unnecessary. Murray was suffering intensely, but he gave no sign. His great eyes, glowing with malevolent fire, watched his victorious rival's movements, and a growing dread took possession of him at his silence. He was searched, carefully searched. Then Kars turned to the Indian as a thin haze of smoke crept in through the jamb of a door which communicated with some other portion of the building.

"Get him outside," he said. "Pass that rope along."

The Indian uncoiled the rawhide rope from about his chest and brought it across. Kars pointed at the fat figure of Murray.

"Get it about his feet so he can walk—that's all."

The Indian's appreciation rose. It was displayed in the fashion in which he secured the trader. He erred generously on the side of security. When he had finished Murray could hobble. There was no chance of his escape.

The mist of smoke was deepening. The smell of burning was in the air. The prisoner suddenly displayed alarm.

"For God's sake get out of here," he cried, in a sudden access of panic. "The place is afire. The cellars under are full of explosives."

"That's how I figgered."

Kars' rejoinder was calmly spoken. He pointed at the half-breed.

"See to him, Charley," he said. And he waited till the Indian had roughly dragged the wounded man into the open. Then he turned to the panic-stricken trader.

"Now you," he commanded, and pointed at the doorway.