riole. An invisible hand seemed to clutch tightly at her
throat. For what she and her father had seen were crimson splashes
in the white. Some one or something had been killed or wounded here.
Onistah, of course! He must have changed his mind, tried to follow
her, and been shot by West as he was crossing the lake.

She groaned, her heart heavy.

McRae offered comfort. "He'll likely be only wounded. The lads wouldna
hae moved him yet if he'd no' been livin'."

The train moved forward, Jessie running beside Angus.

Morse came to the door. He closed it behind him.

"Onistah?" cried Jessie.

"He's been--hurt. But we were in time. He'll get well."

"West shot him? We saw stains in the snow."

"No. He shot Whaley."

"Whaley?" echoed McRae.

"Yes. Wanted to get rid of him. Thought your daughter was hidden in
the woods here. Afraid, too, that Whaley would give him up to the
North-West Mounted."

"Then Whaley's dead?" the Scotchman asked.

"No. West hadn't time right then to finish the job. Pretty badly hurt,
though. Shot in the side and in the thigh."

"And West?"

"We came too soon. He couldn't finish his deviltry. He lit out over
the hill soon as he saw us."

They went into the house.

Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the balsam boughs and
knelt beside him. Beresford was putting on one of his feet a cloth
soaked in caribou oil.

"What did he do to you?" she cried, a constriction of dread at her
heart.

A ghost of a smile touched the immobile face of the native. "Apache
stuff, he called it."

"But--"

"West burned his feet to make him tell where you were," Beresford told
her gently.

"Oh!" she cried, in horror.

"Good old Onistah. He gamed it out. Wouldn't say a word. West saw us
coming and hit the trail."

"Is he--is he--?"

"He's gone."

"I mean Onistah."

"Suffering to beat the band, but not a whimper out of him. He's not
permanently hurt--be walking around in a week or two."

"You poor boy!" the girl cried softly, and she put her arm under the
Indian's head to lift it to an easier position.

The dumb lips of the Blackfoot did not thank her, but the dark eyes
gave her the gratitude of a heart wholly hers.

All that night the house was a hospital. The country was one where men
had learned to look after hurts without much professional aid. In a
rough way Angus McRae was something of a doctor. He dressed the wounds
of both the injured, using the small medical kit he had b