been gone down to Yuga--after
supplies."

"Yes--but we can't go now." Joe's face grew crafty. The wolfish
character of his eyes was for the moment all the more pronounced. There
was a hint of excitement in his swarthy, unclean face.

"That means--big doin's," he pronounced gravely. "We go."

Pete agreed, and they made swift preparations for their departure. Some
of these preparations would have been an amazement to the white woodsmen
of the region,--for instance, the slow cleaning and oiling of their
weapons. The red race--at least such representatives of it as lived
in Clearwater--was not greatly given to cleanliness in any form. It
was noticeable that Joe looked well to see if his pistol was loaded, and
Pete slapped once at the long, cruel blade that he wore in his belt.
Then they put on their snowshoes and mushed away.

There was no nervous waiting at the appointed meeting place,--a spring
a half-mile from Bill's cabin. Harold Lounsbury was already there. The
look on his face confirmed Joe's predictions very nicely. There would,
it seemed, be big doings, and very soon.

A stranger to this land might have thought that Harold was drunk.
Unfamiliar little fires glittered and glowed in his eyes, his features
were drawn, his word of greeting was heavy and strained. His hands,
however, were quite steady as he rolled his cigarette.

For all that the North had failed to teach him so many of its lessons
Harold knew how to deal with Indians. It was never wise to appear too
eager; and he had learned that a certain nonchalance, an indifference,
gave prestige to his schemes. The truth was, however, that Harold was
seared by inner and raging fires. He had just spent the most black and
bitter night of his life. The hatred that had been smoldering a long
time in his breast had at last burst into a searing flame.

There was one quality, at least, that he shared with the breeds; hatred
was an old lesson soon learned and never forgotten. He had hated Bill
from the first moment, not only for what he was and what he stood
for--so opposite to Harold in everything--but also for that first
mortifying meeting in his own cabin. He felt no gratitude to him for
rescuing him from his degenerate life. The fact that Bill's agency, and
Bill's alone, had brought Virginia to his arms was no softening factor
in his malice. Every day since, it seemed to him, he had further cause
for hatred, till now it stung and burned him li