purpose of carrying education and civilization to the
Indians of the far North, turned her back upon the world-fashionable,
and without fanfare or trumpetry, headed into the land of primal things.

When the three women had taken their places in the head scow, Vermilion
gave the order to shove off, and with the swarthy crew straining at the
rude sweeps, the heavy scows threaded their way into the North.

Once through the swift water at the tail of Slave Rapids, the four
scows drifted lazily down the river. The scowmen distributed
themselves among the pieces in more or less comfortable attitudes and
slept. In the head scow only the boss and the three women remained
awake.

"Who is Pierre Lapierre?" Chloe asked suddenly.

The man darted her a searching glance and shrugged. "Pierre Lapierre,
she free-trader," he answered. "Dees scow, she Pierre Lapierre scow."

If Chloe was surprised at this bit of information, she succeeded
admirably in disguising her feelings. Not so Harriet Penny, who sank
back among the freight pieces to stare fearfully into the face of the
younger woman.

"Then you are Pierre Lapierre's man? You work for him?"

The man nodded. "On de reevaire I'm run de scow--me--Vermilion! I'm
tak' de reesk. Lapierre, she tak' de money." The man's eyes glinted
wickedly.

"Risk? What risk?" asked the girl.

Again the man eyed her shrewdly and laughed. "Das plent' reesk--on de
reevaire. De scow--me'be so, she heet de rock in de rapids--bre'k all
to hell--_Voila_!" Somehow the words did not ring true.

"You hate Lapierre!" The words flashed swift, taking the man by
surprise.

"_Non_! _Non_!" he cried, and Chloe noticed that his glance flashed
swiftly over the sprawling forms of the five sleeping scowmen.

"And you are afraid of him," the girl added before he could frame a
reply.

A sudden gleam of anger leaped into the eyes of the half-breed. He
seemed on the point of speaking, but with an unintelligible muttered
imprecation he relapsed into sullen silence. Chloe had purposely
baited the man, hoping in his anger he would blurt out some bit of
information concerning the mysterious Pierre Lapierre. Instead, the
man crouched silent, scowling, with his gaze fixed upon the forms of
the scowmen.

Had the girl been more familiar with the French half-breeds of the
outlands she would have been suspicious of the man's sudden taciturnity
under stress of anger--suspicious, also, of the gradual s