led, his rifle
jerked into position, there was a loud report, and Bob MacNair sank
slowly down upon the grass mound that was his mother's grave.

CHAPTER XI

BACK ON THE YELLOW KNIFE

The whole affair had been so sudden that Chloe scarcely realized what
had happened before a man stepped quickly into the clearing, at the
same time slipping a revolver into its holster. The girl gazed at him
in amazement. It was Pierre Lapierre. He stepped forward, hat in
hand. Chloe glanced swiftly from the dark, handsome features to the
face of the man on the ground. The grey eyes opened for a second, and
then closed; but in that brief, fleeting glance the girl read distrust,
contempt, and silent reproach. The man's lips moved, but no sound
came--and with a laboured, fluttering sigh, he sank into
unconsciousness.

"Once more, it seems, my dear Miss Elliston, I have arrived just in
time."

A sudden repulsion for this cruel, suave killer of men flashed into the
girl's brain. "Get some water," she cried, and dropping to her knees
began to unbutton MacNair's flannel shirt.

"But--" objected Lapierre.

"Will you get some water? This is no time to argue! You can explain
later!" Lapierre turned and without a word, walked to the lake and,
taking a pail from the canoe, filled it with water. When he returned,
Chloe was tearing white bandages from a garment essentially feminine,
while Big Lena endeavoured to stanch the flow of blood from a small
wound high on the man's left breast, and another, more ragged wound
where the bullet had torn through the thick muscles of his back.

The two women worked swiftly and capably, while Lapierre waited,
frowning.

"Better hurry, Miss Elliston," he said, when the last of the bandages
was in place. "This is no place for us to be found if some of
MacNair's Indians happen along. Your canoe is ready. Mine is farther
down the lake."

"But, this man--surely----"

"Leave him there. You have done all you can do for him. His Indians
will find him."

"What!" cried Chloe. "Leave a wounded man to die in the bush!"

Lapierre stepped closer. "What would you do ?" he asked. "Surely you
cannot remain here. His Indians would kill you as they would kill a
_carcajo_." The man's face softened. "It is the way of the North," he
said sadly. "I would gladly have spared him--even though he is my
enemy. But when he whirled with his rifle upon my heart, his finger
upon the trigger, and mur