th the man
on his master's behalf.

Mackenzie struggled to his feet, holding the bottle carefully in his
outside coat pocket. Kalman made up his mind to possess himself of that
bottle at all costs. The opportunity occurred when Mackenzie, stooping
to unhitch the last trace, allowed the bottle to slip from his pocket.
Like a cat on a mouse, Kalman pounced on the bottle and fled.

The change in Mackenzie was immediate and appalling. His smiling
face became transformed with fury, his black eyes gleamed with the
cunning malignity of the savage, he shed his soft Scotch voice with
his genial manner, the very movements of his body became those of
his Cree progenitors. Uttering hoarse guttural cries, with the quick
crouching run of the Indian on the trail of his foe, he chased Kalman
through the bluffs. There was something so fiendishly terrifying in
the glimpses that Kalman caught of his face now and then that the
boy was seized with an overpowering dread, and ceasing to tantalize
his pursuing enemy, he left the bluffs and fled toward the house,
with Mackenzie hard upon his track. Through the shed the boy flew
and into the outer room, banging the door hard after him. But
there was no lock upon the door, and he could not hope to hold
it shut against his pursuer. He glanced wildly into the inner room.
French was nowhere to be seen. As he stood in unspeakable terror,
the door opened slowly and stealthily, showing Mackenzie's face,
distorted with rage and cunning hate. With a silent swift movement
he glided into the room, and without a sound rushed at the boy.
Once, twice around the table they circled, Kalman having the
advantage in quickness of foot. Suddenly, with a grunt of
satisfaction, Mackenzie's eye fell upon a gun hanging upon the
wall. In a moment he had it in his hand. As he reached for it,
however, Kalman, with a loud cry, plunged headlong through the open
window and fled again toward the bluffs. Mackenzie followed swiftly
through the door, gun in hand. He ran a few short steps after the
flying boy, and was about to throw his gun to his shoulder when
a voice arrested him.

"Here, Mackenzie, what are you doing with that gun?"

It was French, standing between the stable and the house,
dishevelled, bloated, but master of himself. Mackenzie stopped
as if gripped by an unseen arm.

"What are you doing with that gun?" repeated French sternly.
"Bring it to me."

Mackenzie stood in sullen, defiant silence, his gun thro