ggles.

A shadow fell upon them, and the man whirled, dodging quickly as the
sharp bit of an axe grazed his shoulder and tore through the wall of
the tepee. He released the girl and lunged toward the old squaw, who
was reaching for the pot with its scalding contents.

Seizing her by the arm, he threw her heavily to the ground, where she
lay while the girl fled to the edge of the clearing and paused, for she
knew that in the forest she could easily elude the heavy-footed lumber
boss. Moncrossen, too, realized that pursuit would be useless, and in
his rage leveled his rifle at the figure upon the ground.

"Come back here!" he cried. "Come back, or by God I'll plug her like I
plugged----" He stopped abruptly and glanced along the sights.

The girl hesitated, and the voice of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta fell sharply upon
her ear:

"No! No! Do not come! He will not shoot! Even now his finger flutters
upon the trigger! He is afraid to shoot!" And she glared defiantly into
the glittering eyes that squinted above the gun-barrel. Slowly the
muzzle lowered and the man laughed--a hard, dry laugh.

"You're right!" he sneered. "I won't shoot. But if she don't come back
you'll wish to God I had shot!"

He turned to the girl: "I ain't goin' to chase you. I'm goin' to stand
pat. When you git ready you c'n come to me--up to the camp. Meanwhile
I'll put the old hag where the dogs won't bite her, an' while you stay
away she don't eat--see? She ain't nothin' but a rack o' bones nohow,
an' a few days'll fix her clock."

"Go find Jacques!" cried the old woman, fumbling at her blanket.

The man laughed. "Sure, go find him!" he taunted.

A skinny hand was withdrawn from the blanket and the clawlike fingers
clutched a fragment of broken knife-blade. She held it before the man
and the shrunken lips mumbled unintelligible words; then, with a swift
movement, she flung it from her and it rang upon the ice at the feet of
the girl, who stooped swiftly and seized it.

"Go!" cried the old woman. "Far up the river to the camp of the
One-Good-White-Man!"

Again Moncrossen laughed harshly.

"You can't work none of your damned charms on me!" he sneered. "G'wan
up the river. There ain't no one up there but Fallon's camp, an' you
might better stick with me. Only don't stay too long. This here old
leather image can't live without eatin', an' when you come we'll have
heap big potlatch."

The wigwam of old Wabishke, the Indian trapper, was pitched in a dens