prisoner was sleeping as calmly as a child. Apparently a
frustrated murder more or less was nothing to disturb her peace of mind.
Stonor thought grimly--for perhaps the hundredth time in dealing with
the red race: "What a rum lot they are!" He ate some bread that he had
left, and began to pack up.

The woman awoke as he took down the tent over her head, and watched his
preparations in a sullen silence.

"Haven't you got a tongue this morning?" asked Stonor.

She merely glowered at him.

However, by and by, when she saw everything being packed in the canoe,
she suddenly found her tongue. "Aren't you going to feed me?" she
demanded.

"No time now," he answered teasingly.

Her face turned dark with rage. "You hangman!" she muttered savagely.
"You've got a hangman's face all right! Anybody would know what you are
without your livery!"

Stonor laughed. "Dear! Dear! We are in a pleasant humour this morning!
You believe in the golden rule, don't you?--for others!"

When he was ready to start he regarded her grimly. He saw no recourse
but to take her with him, thus quadrupling his difficulties. He did
consider leaving her behind on the chance of returning later, but he
could not tell what hazards the day might have for him. He might be
prevented from returning, and murderess though she were, she was human,
and he could not bring himself to leave her helpless in the bush. She
stolidly watched the struggle going on in him.

He gave in to his humanitarian instincts with a sigh. As a final
precaution he gagged her securely with a handkerchief. He wished to take
no chances of her raising an alarm as they approached Imbrie's camp. He
then picked her up and laid her in the canoe. She rolled the light craft
from side to side.

"If you overturn us you'll drown like a stone," said Stonor, grinning.
"That would help solve my difficulties."

After that she lay still, her eyes blazing.

Stonor proceeded. This part of the river was narrow and fairly deep,
and the current ran steadily and slow. Through breaks in the ranks of
the trees he caught sight from time to time of the bench on either hand,
which now rose in high bold hills. From this he guessed that he had got
back to the true prairie country again. As is always the case in that
country, the slope to the north of the river was grassy, while the
southerly slope was heavily wooded to the top.

He peered around each bend with a fast-beating heart, but Imbrie's camp
proved