e drank
greedily. The generous spirit warmed the Frenchman's chilled body and
roused him. Then Jean performed the same merciful operation upon
Ambrose, and the two unrepentant sinners were on their legs again, with
racking heads, and feeling very ill.

But Jean cared nothing for their sufferings; he wanted to be rid of
them. He gave them no chance to question him; not that they had any
desire to do so, in fact it was doubtful if they fully realized anything
that was happening. And he launched into his carefully considered story.

"Victor's gone up to the hills 'way back ther'," he said. "Ther's been a
herd o' moose come down, from the moose-yard, further north, an' he's
after their pelts. Say, he left word fer you to git right on loadin' the
furs, an' when ye hit the trail ye're to take three bottles o' the Rye,
an' some o' the rum. He says he ain't like to be back fer nigh on three
days."

And while he was speaking the two men supped their coffee, and, as they
moistened their parched and burning throats, they nodded assent to all
Jean had to say. At that moment Victor, or any one else, might go hang.
All they thought of was the awful thirst that assailed them.

Breakfast over, the work of loading the sleds proceeded with the utmost
dispatch. Thus it was that at noon, without question, without the
smallest suspicion of the night's doings, they set out for the weary
"long trail."

Jean saw them go. He stood at the door of the store and watched them
until they disappeared behind the rising ground of the great Divide.
Then his solemn eyes turned away indifferently, and he gazed out into
the hazy distance. His gaunt face showed nothing of what was passing in
the brain behind it. He rarely displayed emotion of any sort. The Indian
blood in his veins preponderated, and much of the stoical calm of the
Redskin was his. Now he could wait, undisturbed, for the return of
Davia. He felt that he had mastered the situation. He could not make
Victor marry the sister he had wronged, but at least he could pay off
the wrong in his own way, and to his entire satisfaction. Two years he
had waited for the adjustment of these matters. He was glad that he had
exercised patience. He might have slain Victor a hundred times over, but
he had refrained, vainly hoping to see his sister righted. Besides, he
knew that Davia had loved Victor, and women are peculiar. Who might say
but that she would have fled from the murderer of her lover? Jean f