oonlight at the man standing over him.

"Feeling better?" the white, man demanded coldly.

As he received no answer he went on.

"Guess you acted foolish trailing up so close on me. Maybe you were
scared you'd miss me in the dark? Anyway, you gave me a chance no real
gunman would have given. Guess you weren't more than a rabbit in my
hands. Say, can you swim? Ah, don't feel like talking," he added, as
the man still kept to his angry silence. "Anyway you'll need to.
You've got off mighty light. Maybe a bath won't come amiss."

He bent down and before the Breed was aware of his intention he seized
him in his arms and picked him up much as he might have picked up some
small child.

Then the struggle began afresh. But it was hopeless from the outset.
Louis Creal, unarmed, was powerless in the bear-like embrace of John
Kars. Struggling and cursing, the half-breed was borne to the water's
edge, held poised for a few seconds, then flung with all the strength
of the white man into the rapid waters of the Bell River.

Kars only waited to see him rise to the surface. Then, as the man was
carried down on the swift tide, swimming strongly, he turned away with
a laugh and hurried from the scene.

John Kars halted abruptly in response to a whistle. The sound came
from the thick scrub with which the low bank of the river beyond the
gorge was deeply overgrown. It was a whistle he knew. It came low and
rose to a piercing crescendo. Then it died away to its original note.
His answer was verbal.

"That you, Charley?" he demanded.

His demand was answered by the abrupt appearance of the figure of his
faithful scout from within the bush.

"Sure, Boss. Charley him wait. Charley him hear much shoot. Boss
kill 'em plenty good?"

Kars laughed.

"Not kill 'em," he said. "Half-breed wash 'em in river."

"Boss no kill 'em?" The Indian's disappointment was pathetic.

"No-o."

Kars passed a hand wearily across his eyes. There was a drag, too, in
his negative. It was almost indifferent.

But the display of weakness was instantly swept aside by an energy
which cost him more than he knew.

"It don't matter anyway," he cried. "We need to make camp--we must
make it quick."

There was irritation in his manner, as well as energy. But then his
neglected wound was causing him infinite pain, and the loss of blood
aggravated it by a feeling of utter weariness.

CHAPTER XII

DR. BILL DISPENSES AID AND AR