him at once.

Moving slowly forward, he came to the end of the tracks that had been
made in the snow. They ended abruptly, in a thicket of underbrush. His
first thought was that she must be hidden here, but when he had beat
through it half a dozen times, he knew this was impossible. Then where
was she?

He had told Whaley that she could not fly away. But if she hadn't
flown, what had become of her? There were no trees near enough to
climb without showing the impressions of her feet in the snow as she
moved to the trunk. He had an uneasy sense that she was watching him
all the time from some hidden place near at hand. He looked up into
the branches of the trees. They were heavy with snow which had not
been shaken from them.

West smothered a laugh and an oath. He saw the trick now. She must
have back-tracked carefully, at each step putting her feet in exactly
the same place as when she had moved forward. Of course! The tracks
showed where she had brushed the deep drifts occasionally when the
moccasin went in the second time.

It was slow business, for while he studied the sign he must keep a
keen eye cocked against the chance of a shot from his hidden prey.

Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew he had reached the
place where the back-tracking ceased. Close to the spot was a pine.
A pile of snow showed where a small avalanche had plunged down. That
must have been when she disturbed it on the branches in climbing.

His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt. With his rifle he
covered the figure crouching close to it on the far side.

"Come down," he ordered.

He was due for one of the surprises of his life. The tree-dweller slid
down and stood before him. It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, an
Indian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil
his triumph over the red-coat Beresford.

For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. "Whad you
doin' here?" he asked at last.

"No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said.

"Tha's a lie. Where's the McRae girl?"

The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expressionless as a blank
wall.

West repeated the question. He might have been talking to a block of
wood for all the answer he received. His crafty, cruel mind churned
over the situation.

"Won't talk, eh? We'll see about that. You got her hid somewheres an'
I'm gonna find where. I'll not stand for yore Injun tricks. Drop that
gun an' marche-back to the cabin.