almost obliterated by
the brilliance of the blaze, now made themselves definitely evident.
A few of the men, with rough fishing-tackle and axes, had already
started toward the edge of the lake for the morning's catch.

Seguis watched them with somber eyes, pausing for a moment in his
walk. Fish, fish, fish; nothing between starvation and life for
forty men except that staple of fish. And suppose the French traders
did not get through! Suppose something had gone wrong in that five
hundred-odd miles to civilization!

Where, then? Where in this wilderness could he turn for abundant
supplies easily secured--except one place. A grim smile set his
face into hard lines. ... Yes, he would go there. His mother's
words of the day before returned to him. Perhaps he would _see
her!_ He called a man to him.

"Tell the boys to get ready to march. I'll leave five here to guard
the furs. The rest of us are going up to the Hudson Bay camp, and
get food. If we don't, we'll starve to death, or get scurvy, or
something. Tell everybody to be ready at ten o'clock."

CHAPTER XX

AWAITING THE HANGMAN

Stretched on a rough bed of blanket-covered branches, in a low,
squat log cabin, a man lay smoking his pipe, and conversing in
snatches with two other men who sat by the door, also smoking pipes.

The man on the bed was not yet thirty years old, but his face was
furrowed with lines of care--not only lines of care, but of character.
The hair about his temples was sprinkled with gray, a fact that
added to the dignity of his countenance. In his whole attitude, as
he lay, there was a certain masterful repose and self-confidence,
an air of peace and understanding that sat well upon him.

The men at the door, on the other hand, were nervous and miserable,
and shifted their positions uneasily now and again. A small fire
burned in the middle of the room.

"What time is it, boys?" asked the man on the bunk.

"Three o'clock, Mac," replied Timmins, pulling on his watch with
fingers that shook, and straining his eyes in the dim light.

"Four or five hours more. That's what I hate, this waiting. I'll
be mighty glad when I hear the steps outside."

"Don't, Mac, for heaven's sake!" muttered Buxton hoarsely, his
languid drawl gone for once. Then, he burst out: "McTavish, I can't
stand this--this thing that's going to happen. It's murder, that's
what it is! Why don't you tell all the circumstances of that night
Indian Tom was killed?

"It