d in the log fortress now. Eight half-starved creatures
whose bones were beginning to thrust at the fleshless skin.

Allan Mowbray's hollow eyes scanned the distant reaches of the gorge
where it opened out southward upon low banks. His straining gaze was
searching for a sign--one faint glimmer of hope. All his plans were
laid. Nothing had been left to the chances of his position. His
calculations had been deliberate and careful. He had known from the
beginning, from the moment he had realized the full possibilities of
his defence, that the one thing which could defeat him was--hunger.
Once the enemy realized this, and acted on it, their doom, unless
outside help came in time, was sealed. His enemies had realized it.

There were no longer any attacks. Only desultory firing. But a cordon
had been drawn around the fortress, and the process of starvation had
set in.

He was giving his Fate its last chance now. If the sign of help he was
seeking did not appear before the feeble wintry light had passed then
the die was cast.

The minutes slipped by. The meagre light waned. The sign had not
come. As the last of the day merged into the semi-arctic night he left
his lookout and wearily lowered himself to the ground. His men were
gathered, huddled in their blankets for warmth, about a small fire
burning within the hut.

Allan Mowbray imparted his tidings in the language of the men who
served him. With silent stoicism the little band of defenders listened
to the end.

Keewin, he told them, had had time to get through. Full time to reach
the Fort, and return with the help he had asked for. That help should
have been with them three days ago. It had not come. Keewin, he
assured them, must have been killed. Nothing could otherwise have
prevented the help reaching them. He told them that if they remained
there longer they would surely die of hunger and cold. They would die
miserably.

He paused for comment. None was forthcoming. His only reply was the
splutter of the small fire which they dared not augment.

So he went on.

He told them he had decided, if they would follow him, to die fighting,
or reach the open with whatever chances the winter trail might afford
them. He told them he was a white man who was not accustomed to bend
to the will of the northern Indian. They might break him, but he would
not bend. He reminded them they were Sioux, children of the great
Sitting Bull. He reminded them