r knife, and Nawadlook with her gun--for the bird
was singing, and Alan Holt was laughing, and Mary Standish was
very still.

Another moment later, from where he sat cross-legged at the little
window in the attic, keeping his unsleeping vigil with a rifle across
his knees, old Sokwenna saw his master walk across the open, and
something in the manner of his going brought back a vision of another
day long ago when Ghost Kloof had rung with the cries of battle, and
the hands now gnarled and twisted with age had played their part in the
heroic stand of his people against the oppressors from the
farther north.

Then he saw Alan go into the cabin where Rossland was, and softly his
fingers drummed upon the ancient tom-tom which lay at his side. His eyes
fixed themselves upon the distant mountains, and under his breath he
mumbled the old chant of battle, dead and forgotten except in Sokwenna's
brain, and after that his eyes closed, and again the vision grew out of
darkness like a picture for him, a vision of twisting trails and of
fighting men gathering with their faces set for war.

CHAPTER XXII

At the desk in Alan's living-room sat Rossland, when the door opened
behind him and the master of the range came in. He was not disturbed
when he saw who it was, and rose to meet him. His coat was off, his
sleeves rolled up, and it was evident he was making no effort to conceal
his freedom with Alan's books and papers.

He advanced, holding out a hand. This was not the same Rossland who had
told Alan to attend to his own business on board the _Nome_. His
attitude was that of one greeting a friend, smiling and affable even
before he spoke. Something inspired Alan to return the smile. Behind
that smile he was admiring the man's nerve. His hand met Rossland's
casually, but there was no uncertainty in the warmth of the
other's grip.

"How d' do, Paris, old boy?" he greeted good-humoredly. "Saw you going
in to Helen a few minutes ago, so I've been waiting for you. She's a
little frightened. And we can't blame her. Menelaus is mightily upset.
But mind me, Holt, I'm not blaming you. I'm too good a sport. Clever, I
call it--damned clever. She's enough to turn any man's head. I only wish
I were in your boots right now. I'd have turned traitor myself aboard
the _Nome_ if she had shown an inclination."

He proffered a cigar, a big, fat cigar with a gold band. It was
inspiration again that made Alan accept it and light it. His blood