o a diabolical smile.

Lapierre was a man who took no chances. What was one Indian, more or
less, beside the absolute integrity of his organization? He stepped
outside, and instantly the guy-ropes of the tent were loosened; the
canvas slouched to the ground and was folded into a neat pack. The
blankets were made into a compact roll, with the precious guitar in the
centre and deposited in the head canoe. Lapierre glanced swiftly about
him; nothing but the dying fires and the abandoned lodge-poles
indicated the existence of the camp. On the shore the canoemen,
leaning on their paddles, awaited the word of command.

He stepped to the water's edge, where, Apaw the Indian, stood with the
others. For just a moment the baleful eyes of Lapierre fixed the
silent figure; then his words cut sharply upon the silence.

"Apaw--_Chahco yahkwa_!" The Indian advanced, evidently proud of
having been singled out by the chief, and stood before him, paddle in
hand. Lapierre spoke no word; seconds passed, the silence grew
intense. The hand that gripped the paddle shook suddenly; and then,
looking straight into the man's eyes, Lapierre drew his revolver and
fired. There was a quick spurt of red flame--the sound of the shot
rang sharp, and rang again as the opposite bank of the river hurled
back the sound. The Indian pitched heavily forward and fell across his
paddle, snapping it in two.

Lapierre glanced over the impassive faces of the canoemen.

"This man was a traitor," he said in their own language. "I have
dismissed him from my service. Weight him and shove off!"

The quarter-breed stepped into his canoe. The canoemen bound heavy
stones to the legs of the dead Indian, laid the body upon the camp
equipage amidship, and silently took their places.

During the evening meal, Chloe was unusually silent, answering Miss
Penny's observations and queries in short, detached monosyllables.
Later she stole out alone to a high, rocky headland that commanded a
sweeping view of the river, and sat with her back against the broad
trunk of a twisted banskian.

The long Northern twilight hung about her like a pall--seemed
enveloping, smothering her. No faintest breath of air stirred the piny
needles above her, nor ruffled the surface of the river, whose black
waters, far below, flowed broad and deep and silent--smoothly--like a
river of oil. Ominously hushed, secretive, it slipped out of the
motionless dark. Silently portentous,