starvation and their bones bleached in the rusted steel.

That story has such small relish for Ba'tiste that he hitches farther
away from the others and lies back flat on the ground close to the
willow under-tangle with his head on his hand.

"For sure," says Ba'tiste contemptuously, "nobody doesn't need no tree
to climb here! Sacre!--cry wolf!--wolf!--and for sure!--diable!--de beeg
loup-garou will eat you yet!"

Down somewhere from those stars overhead drops a call silvery as a
flute, clear as a piccolo--some night bird lilting like a mote on the
far oceans of air. The trappers look up with a movement that in other
men would be a nervous start; for any shrill cry pierces the silence of
the prairie in almost a stab. Then the men go on with their yarn telling
of how the Blackfeet murdered some traders on this very ground not long
ago till the gloom gathering over willow thicket and encircling cliffs
seems peopled with those marauding warriors. One man rises, saying that
he is "goin' to turn in" and is taking a step through the dark to his
canoe when there is a dull pouncing thud. For an instant the trappers
thought that their comrade had stumbled over his boat. But a heavy
groan--a low guttural cry--a shout of "Help--help--help Ba'tiste!" and
the man who had risen plunged into the crashing cane-brake, calling out
incoherently for them to "help--help Ba'tiste!"

In the confusion of cries and darkness, it was impossible for the other
two trappers to know what had happened. Their first thought was of the
Indians whose crimes they had been telling. Their second was for their
rifles--and they had both sprung over the fire where they saw the third
man striking--striking--striking wildly at something in the dark. A low
worrying growl--and they descried the Frenchman rolling over and over,
clutched by or clutching a huge furry form--hitting--plunging with his
knife--struggling--screaming with agony.

"It's Ba'tiste! It's a bear!" shouted the third man, who was attempting
to drive the brute off by raining blows on its head.

Man and bear were an indistinguishable struggling mass. Should they
shoot in the half-dark? Then the Frenchman uttered the scream of one in
death-throes: "Shoot!--shoot!--shoot quick! She's striking my
face!--she's striking my face----"

And before the words had died, sharp flashes of light cleft the
dark--the great beast rolled over with a coughing growl, and the
trappers raised their comrade from th