talking in the hush of expectancy.
Further afield an outpost held the entrance to the gorge to the north
of the camp. A steep rugged split deeply wooded and dropping sharply
from the heights above to the great foreshore. It was an admirable
point to hold. No living soul could approach the camp from above that
way without running the gauntlet of the ambushed rifles in skilful
hands. No rush could make the passage, only costly effort. Nature had
seen to that.

The white men leaders of the camp were squatting about the doorway of
the shanty which had witnessed the brief interview with the chief,
Thunder-Cloud. Kars occupied the sill of the doorway. His great body
in its thick pea-jacket nearly filled it up. Talk was spasmodic. Kars
had little enough inclination, and the others seemed to have exhausted
thought upon the work of preparations.

Kars' thoughts were far away at the bald knoll of Fort Mowbray, and the
little Mission nestling at its foot. Out of the gray shadows of
twilight a pair of soft eyes were gazing pitifully into his, as he had
seen them gaze in actual life. His mind was passing over the tragic
incidents which had swept down upon that ruddy brown head with such
merciless force, and a tender pity made him shrink before his thought,
as no trouble of his own could have done.

The moment was perhaps the moment for such feeling. It was the moment
preceding battle. It was the moment when each man realized that a
thousand chances were crowding. When the uncertainties of the future
were so many and so deeply hidden. Resolve alone was definite. Life
and purpose were theirs to-day. To-morrow? Who could say of tomorrow?
So it was that the mind groped back amongst memories which had the
greatest appeal. For Kars all his memories were now centred round the
home of the girl who had taught him the real meaning of life.

Bill Brudenell was sitting on a rough log, within a yard or two. He,
too, was gazing out into the approaching night while he smoked on in
meditative silence. His keen face and usually twinkling eyes were
serious. He had small enough claims behind him. There was no woman in
his life to hold his intimate regard. The present was his, and the
future. The future had his life's work of healing in it. The present
held his friend, beside whom he was ranged in perfect loyalty against
the work of desperate men.

His purpose? Perhaps he would have found it difficult to explain.
Perhap