."

"God's curse on ye, no!" came the swift response, and the man's eyes
blazed.

Suddenly a long-drawn cry rose upon the air. It reached a great pitch
and died lingeringly away. It was near by and told its tale. And the
woman shuddered involuntarily. It was the wolf cry of the mountains; the
cry of the human. And, as if in answer, came a chorus from wolfish
throats. The last moment had come.

Davia caught Jean's arm as though seeking protection.

"I will go," she cried, and the man took her answer to be a final
submission.

The stillness of the day had passed. Life thrilled the air although no
life was visible. Davia's fear was written in her face, Jean's
expression was inscrutable; only was it sure that he listened.

But Jean was not without the superstitious dread which madness inspires.
And as they raced, he bearing the burden of the treasure-chest, for the
wood-covered banks of the creek, he was stirred to horror by the
familiar sounds that pursued him. It was their coming, at that time, in
daylight; and in answer to the human cry that had first broken up the
silence of the hills. How came it that the legions of the forest were
marching in the wake of that other upon the valley of Little Choyeuse
Creek?

Jean halted when they stood upon the rotten ice of the creek. Now he
released his sister, and they stood facing each other well screened from
view from the store.

The sullen peace of the valley had merged into the deep-toned,
continuous howl of hoarse throats. A terrible threat was in the sound.
Jean unslung his rifle and looked to his pistol.

"Ther's six in this gun," he said deliberately. "Five of 'em is fer them
beasties, if ne'sary. The other's fer you if you git playin' tricks.
Mebbe ye'll thank me later fer what I'm doin'. It don't cut no figger
anyway."

Then he prodded the ice with his iron-shod staff.

Davia watched him while she listened to the din of the forest world. At
length the staff had beaten its way to the water below.

"What are ye doin'?" she asked, quite suddenly.

And Jean's retort was a repetition of her own words.

"It's cursed--it's blood-money!"

She took his meaning, and her cupidity cried out in revolt. But her
protest was useless.

"You're not goin'--" she began.

"It goes," cried Jean fiercely, "wher' he ain't like to touch it, 'less
Hell gits him. Father Lefleur, at the mission, says as gold's Hell's
pavin', an' mebbe this'll git back wher' it come." And with