faced men who were spreading the
fires of vengeance from cabin to cabin and from tepee to tepee. Through
his lips there came a sobbing breath of exultation, of joy. He did not
tire. At times he wanted to run on ahead of Jean and the dogs. Yet he
saw that no such desire seized upon Jean. Steadily--with a precision
that was almost uncanny--the half-breed led the way. He did not hurry,
he did not hesitate. He was like a strange spirit of the night itself,
a voiceless and noiseless shadow ahead, an automaton of flesh and blood
that had become more than human to Philip. In this man's guidance he
lost his fear for Josephine.

At last they came to the foot of a rock ridge. Up this the dogs toiled,
with Jean pulling at the lead-trace. They came to the top. There they
stopped. And standing like a hewn statue, his voice breaking in a
panting cry, Jean Jacques Croisett pointed down into the plain below.

Half a mile away a light stood out like a glowing star in the darkness.
It was a campfire.

"It is a fire at the Forks," spoke Jean above the wind. "Mon Dieu,
M'sieur--is it not something to have friends like that!"

He led the way a short distance along the face of the ridge, and then
they plunged down the valley of deeper gloom. The forest was thick and
low, and Philip guessed that they were passing through a swamp. When
they came out of it the fire was almost in their faces. The howling of
dogs greeted them. As they dashed into the light half a dozen men had
risen and were facing them, their rifles in the crooks of their arms.
From out of the six there strode a tall, thin, smooth-shaven man toward
them, and from Jean's lips there fell words which he tried to smother.

"Mother of Heaven, it is Father George, the Missioner from Baldneck!"
he gasped.

In another moment the Missioner was wringing the half-breed's mittened
hand. He was a man of sixty. His face was of cadaverous thinness, and
there was a feverish glow in his eyes.

"Jean Croisset!" he cried. "I was at Ladue's when Pierre came with the
word. Is it true? Has the purest soul in all this world been stolen by
those Godless men at Thoreau's? I cannot believe it! But if it is so, I
have come to fight!"

"It is true, Father," replied Jean. "They have stolen her as the wolves
of white men stole Red Fawn from her father's tepee three years ago.
And to-morrow--"

"The vengeance of the Lord will descend upon them," interrupted the
Missioner. "And this, Jean, your frie