ives. Not so,
however, with the head engineer from Montreal, who regarded it
always with baleful eye, and half laughingly, half seriously,
called it his "Jonah."

"Not a thing has gone right since we worked in sight of that old
monster," he was heard to say frequently; and it did seem as if
there were some truth in it. There had been deaths, accidents and
illness among the men. Once, owing to transportation difficulties,
the rations were short for days, and the men were in rebellious
spirit in consequence. Twice whiskey had been smuggled in, to the
utter demoralization of the camp; and one morning, as a last straw,
"Cookee" had nearly severed his left hand from his arm with a meat
axe. Young Wingate, the head engineer, and Mr. Brown, the foreman,
took counsel together. For the three meals of that day they tried
three different men out of the gang as "cookees." No one could eat
the atrocious food they manufactured. Then Brown bethought himself.
"There's an Indian woman living up the canyon that can cook like
a French chef," he announced, after a day of unspeakable gnawing
beneath his belt. "How about getting her? I've tasted pork and
beans at her shack, and flapjacks, and--"

"Get her! get her!" clamored Wingate. "Even if she poisons us, it's
better than starving. I'll ride over to-night and offer her big
wages."

"How about her staying here?" asked Brown. "The boys are pretty
rough and lawless at times, you know."

"Get the axe men to build her a good, roomy shack--the best logs in
the place. We'll give her a lock and key for it, and you, Brown,
report the very first incivility to her that you hear of," said
Wingate crisply.

That evening Mr. Wingate himself rode over to the canyon; it was a
good mile, and the trail was rough in the extreme. He did not
dismount when he reached the lonely log lodge, but rapping on the
door with the butt of his quirt, he awaited its opening. There was
some slight stirring about inside before this occurred; then the
door slowly opened, and she stood before him--a rather tall woman,
clad in buckskin garments, with a rug made of coyote skins about
her shoulders; she wore the beaded leggings and moccasins of her
race, and her hair, jet black, hung in ragged plaits about her dark
face, from which mournful eyes looked out at the young Montrealer.

Yes, she would go for the wages he offered, she said in halting
English; she would come to-morrow at daybreak; she would cook their
breakfa