"Long time now, Swimming Wolf no grub too." He
opened his mouth and pointed a shaking finger down his throat. "No
grub, no water, no sleep, t'ree day." He held up three fingers turning
his head slowly from side to side. "T'ree day lost. Plenty tired."

His voice was weary, plaintive, as only an Indian voice can be. Jean
wondered how she had for one instant attributed his Indian cry to
supernatural powers--she who had often heard him calling to members of
his tribe along the shores of Katleean.

Noting his weak condition, the girl checked the eager questions that
rose to her lips, and when Ellen came up, between them they managed to
get the worn man to the cabin. They fed him bread and hot sea-parrot
broth. He ate ravenously as much as Ellen thought good for him, but
when she tried to induce him to lie down in Kayak Bill's bunk, he shook
his head, and started unsteadily for the door.

"No, no!" he said sharply. "You come along. Other man with Swimming
Wolf."

They followed him down the trail to the beach and turned with him
toward Sunset Point. He paid no attention to their eager questions,
but suddenly stopped and pointed ahead. In the maw of the surf inside
the Point a whaleboat was churning. At the sight of it cries of alarm
broke from the women's throats, but again the Indian shook his head.

"Him not there," he assured them. "Him up _there_!" He indicated the
high-tide-line. He lurched along beside them, intent on taking them to
where his friend lay.

They saw the still dark form lying prone on the edge of the rice-grass
where Swimming Wolf had dragged it. Ellen, with a bottle of water and
some bread in her hand, ran forward toward the prostrate man. Within a
few feet of him, Jean saw her check herself and shrink back. Then,
reluctantly the girl thought, she went on. Jean quickened her pace.

As she approached Ellen turned swiftly to her.

"Jean!" she said hardly above her breath. "Look!"

Jean gazed with incredulous eyes into the face on the sand. The black
beard was matted with seawater. Below the bandaged forehead two weary
grey eyes opened. A moment a faint look of surprise crept into them.
Then they closed again and the man lay still as death.

"Oh-o-o!" Jean's voice held an uncontrollable quiver. "Oh-o-o! It's
the White Chief of Katleean!"

[1] Ghost.

CHAPTER XXXII

BENEATH THE BLOOD-RED SUN

A week had gone by since the day the White Chief and Swimming Wo