ront of the recorder's office stood Jackpine, bellowing through his
horn. O'Grady and his Indian were already shoving their canoe out into
the stream, and even as he looked there came a break in the line of
excited spectators, and through it hurried the agent toward the
recorder's cabin.

Side by side, Jan and his Indian ran to their canoe. Jackpine was
stripped to the waist, like O'Grady and his Chippewayan. Jan threw off
only his caribou-skin coat. His dark woolen shirt was sleeveless, and
his long slim arms, as hard as ribbed steel, were free. Half the crowd
followed him. He smiled, and waved his hand, the dark pupils of his
eyes shining big and black. Their canoe shot out until it was within a
dozen yards of the other, and those ashore saw him laugh into O'Grady's
sullen, set face. He was cool. Between smiling lips his white teeth
gleamed, and the women stared with brighter eyes and flushed cheeks,
wondering how Marie Cummins could have given up this man for the giant
hulk and drink-reddened face of his rival. Those among the men who had
wagered heavily against him felt a misgiving. There was something in
Jan's smile that was more than coolness, and it was not bravado. Even
as he smiled ashore, and spoke in low Cree to Jackpine, he felt at the
belt that he had hidden under the caribou-skin coat. There were two
sheaths there, and two knives, exactly alike. It was thus that his
grandfather had set forth one summer day to avenge a wrong, nearly
seventy years before.

The agent had entered the cabin, and now he reappeared, wiping his
sweating face with a big red handkerchief. The recorder followed. He
paused at the edge of the stream and made a megaphone of his hands.

"Gentlemen," he cried raucously, "both claims have been thrown out!"

A wild yell came from O'Grady. In a single flash four paddles struck
the water, and the two canoes shot bow and bow up the stream toward the
lake above the bend. The crowd ran even with them until the low swamp
at the lake's edge stopped them. In that distance neither had gained a
yard advantage. But there was a curious change of sentiment among those
who returned to Porcupine City. That night betting was no longer two
and three to one on O'Grady. It was even money.

For the last thing that the men of Porcupine City had seen was that
cold, quiet smile of Jan Larose, the gleam of his teeth, the something
in his eyes that is more to be feared among men than bluster and brute
strength