winter. The storming, the cruel terror of winter which they dared not
face would surely be too much for any white man. Maybe they thought
that way, but if they did they were wrong. Marcel determined to use
their sleep time to discover the secret he needed. He and Cy were ready
for any chances. They would stand for nothing. That was their way. So,
with our own boys, they made the long trail every winter.

"But they failed. Oh, yes, they failed." The woman sighed. "Sometimes it
was climate beat them. Sometimes it wasn't. Anyway they never found the
growing stuff. They never got a clue to its whereabouts. Maybe it was
all buried up in snow. We always reckoned on that. The winter passed,
and with each year that slipped away the chances seemed to recede
farther and farther. Then all of a sudden the Indians got suspicious
again. That was three years ago. I just don't know how it happened.
Maybe one of our boys gave it away. Anyhow they turned sulky. That was
the first sign. Then they refused to trade their weed. Then we knew the
trouble had come. But Marcel was ready for them. He was ready for most
things. He refused to trade their seals if they refused their weed. It
was a bad time, but we finally got through. You see they needed our
trade, once having begun it, and in the end Marcel managed to patch
things up. But they frankly told us they knew of our winter expeditions
to rob them, and, if they were continued, they would kill us all, and
burn up the post. Well, things settled down after that and trade went
on. But it wasn't the same. The Indians became desperately watchful, and
for one whole winter half of them didn't sleep. I knew trouble was
coming.

"Then came the time when Marcel had to make a trip to Seal Bay. He'd
postponed it as long as he could. But our stuff had accumulated, and we
had to get rid of it, and so, at last, he was forced to go. The post was
well fortified, as you've seen, and we were liberally supplied with
means of defence. Lupite was faithful, and I could rely on my other
fighting neches. So Marcel and Cy set out, and--well, there's nothing
more to tell," she said wearily. "They've both disappeared, vanished.
And they should have been back more than a year ago. In desperation I
sent the message by Lupite. He's not returned either, and, one by one,
all our own Indians have deserted me. Oh," she went on passionately,
"it's no accident that's happened. Marcel has been killed, murdered by
these miser