the hearts of these two, of all
those gathered in this hour of vengeance, there ran deepest the thirst
for blood. With Kaskisoon it was the dormant instinct of centuries of
forebears, roused now into fierce desire. With Jean it was necessity.

In the face of John Adare's words that there was to be no quarter, Jean
still feared the possibility of a parley, a few minutes of truce, the
meaning of which sent a shiver to the depths of his soul. He said
nothing to the Cree. And Kaskisoon's lips were as silent as the great
flakes of snow that began to fall about them now in a mantle so thick
that it covered their shoulders in the space of two hundred yards. When
the timber thinned out Kaskisoon picked his way with the caution of a
lynx. At the edge of the clearing they crouched side by side behind a
low windfall, and peered over the top.

Three hundred yards away was the Nest. The man whose trail they had
followed had disappeared. And then, suddenly, the door opened, and
there poured out a crowd of excited men. The lone hunter was ahead of
them, talking and pointing toward the forest. Jean counted--eight, ten,
eleven--and his eyes searched for Lang and Thoreau. He cursed the thick
snow now. Through it he could not make them out. He had drawn back the
hammer of his rifle.

At the click of it Kaskisoon moved. He looked at the half-breed. His
breath came in a low monosyllable of understanding. Over the top of the
windfall he poked the barrel of his gun. Then he looked again at Jean.
And Jean turned. Their eyes met. They were eyes red and narrowed by the
beat of storm. Jean Croisset knew what that silence meant. He might
have spoken. But no word moved his lips. Unseen, his right hand made a
cross over his heart. Deep in his soul he thought a prayer.

Jean looked again at the huddled group about the door. And beside him
there was a terrible silence. He held his breath, his heart ceased to
beat, and then there came the crashing roar of the Cree's heavy gun,
and one of the group staggered out with a shriek and fell face downward
in the snow. Even then Jean's finger pressed lightly on the trigger of
his rifle as he tried to recognize Lang. Another moment, and half a
dozen rifles were blazing in their direction. It was then that he
fired. Once, twice--six times, as fast as he could pump the empty
cartridges out of his gun and fresh ones into the chamber. With the
sixth came again the thunderous roar of the Cree's single-loader.

"