at infernal river-hog had to fall
off a boom. By God, it's a shame! Those scalawags have done us after
all!"

Out from the shadows of the woods stole Injin Charley. The whole bearing
and aspect of the man had changed. His eye gleamed with a distant
farseeing fire of its own, which took no account of anything but some
remote vision. He stole along almost furtively, but with a proud upright
carriage of his neck, a backward tilt of his fine head, a distention
of his nostrils that lent to his appearance a panther-like pride and
stealthiness. No one saw him. Suddenly he broke through the group and
mounted the steps beside Collins.

"The enemy of my brother is gone," said he simply in his native tongue,
and with a sudden gesture held out before them--a scalp.

The medieval barbarity of the thing appalled them for a moment. The days
of scalping were long since past, had been closed away between the pages
of forgotten histories, and yet here again before them was the thing in
all its living horror. Then a growl arose. The human animal had tasted
blood.

All at once like wine their wrongs mounted to their heads. They
remembered their dead comrades. They remembered the heart-breaking
days and nights of toil they had endured on account of this man and his
associates. They remembered the words of Collins, the little bookkeeper.
They hated. They shook their fists across the skies. They turned and
with one accord struck back for the railroad right-of-way which led to
Shingleville, the town controlled by Morrison & Daly.

The railroad lay for a mile straight through a thick tamarack swamp,
then over a nearly treeless cranberry plain. The tamarack was a screen
between the two towns. When half-way through the swamp, Red Jacket
stopped, removed his coat, ripped the lining from it, and began to
fashion a rude mask.

"Just as well they don't recognize us," said he.

"Somebody in town will give us away," suggested Shorty, the chore-boy.

"No, they won't; they're all here," assured Kerlie.

It was true. Except for the women and children, who were not yet about,
the entire village had assembled. Even old Vanderhoof, the fire-watcher
of the yard, hobbled along breathlessly on his rheumatic legs. In a
moment the masks were fitted. In a moment more the little band had
emerged from the shelter of the swamp, and so came into full view of its
objective point.

Shingleville consisted of a big mill; the yards, now nearly empty of
lumber;