ings in this wild world of his. He was immensely proud
of Wyola, his royal-blooded wife. He was proud of his daughter; and he
was proud of his reputation as a hunter. Until the Red Death came, life
was quite complete for him. It was then--two years ago--that the
smallpox killed his princess wife. He still lived in the little cabin
on the Gray Loon, but he was a different Pierrot. The heart was sick in
him. It would have died, had it not been for Nepeese, his daughter. His
wife had named her Nepeese, which means the Willow.

Nepeese had grown up like the willow, slender as a reed, with all her
mother's wild beauty, and with a little of the French thrown in. She
was sixteen, with great, dark, wonderful eyes, and hair so beautiful
that an agent from Montreal passing that way had once tried to buy it.
It fell in two shining braids, each as big as a man's wrist, almost to
her knees. "Non, M'sieu," Pierrot had said, a cold glitter in his eyes
as he saw what was in the agent's face. "It is not for barter."

Two days after Baree had entered his trapping ground, Pierrot came in
from the forests with a troubled look in his face.

"Something is killing off the young beavers," he explained to Nepeese,
speaking to her in French. "It is a lynx or a wolf. Tomorrow--" He
shrugged his thin shoulders, and smiled at her.

"We will go on the hunt," laughed Nepeese happily, in her soft Cree.

When Pierrot smiled at her like that, and began with "Tomorrow," it
always meant that she might go with him on the adventure he was
contemplating.

Still another day later, at the end of the afternoon, Baree crossed the
Gray Loon on a bridge of driftwood that had wedged between two trees.
This was to the north. Just beyond the driftwood bridge there was a
small clearing, and on the edge of it Baree paused to enjoy the last of
the setting sun. As he stood motionless and listening, his tail
drooping low, his ears alert, his sharp-pointed nose sniffing the new
country to the north, there was not a pair of eyes in the forest that
would not have taken him for a young wolf.

From behind a clump of young balsams, a hundred yards away, Pierrot and
Nepeese had watched him come over the driftwood bridge. Now was the
time, and Pierrot leveled his rifle. It was not until then that Nepeese
touched his arm softly. Her breath came a little excitedly as she
whispered:

"Nootawe, let me shoot. I can kill him!"

With a low chuckle Pierrot gave the gun to her