ng of buttons and the smooth rip of flannel, and
a small, white-brown hand slipped beneath the tattered cloth and
pressed tight against the white skin of the mighty chest.

For a long moment it rested there while the old woman looked on in
wonder. Then the girl faced her, speaking rapidly, with shining eyes:

"He is not dead!" she gasped. "There is life in the heart that moves!
See! It is not the face of Moncrossen, but of the great _chechako_ of
whom Jacques told us. The man who is hated of Moncrossen. Who killed
Diablesse, the _loup-garou_, with a knife.

"The man whom Creed fears, and of whom he spoke the night he came
whining to the tepee with his heart turned to water within him, and
told Jacques of how this man lay helpless in the flames of the burning
shack, and the next day walked unscorched into the store at Hilarity.

"He is The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die. Quick! Help me, and together we will
bring him to life!"

The old squaw held aloof, scowling.

"Lacombie is dead," she muttered. "There is no good white man. The men
of the logs are bad. Where is Pierre, thy brother? And where are the
fathers of the light-skinned breeds of the rivers?

"Who bring sorrow and death among the women of my people? Whence comes
the whisky that is the curse of the red men of the North? Would you
warm the rattlesnake in your bosom, to die from its poisoned tooth? All
men die! Lacombie, who was good, is dead. And this one who, being a man
of logs, is bad, will die also. Come away while yet there is time!"

The girl sprang to her feet and, with uplifted hand, faced
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, and in her eyes was the compelling light of prophecy.

"Is it not enough, O Wa-ha-ta-na-ta," she cried, "that Moncrossen, the
evil one, hates this man? He is M's'u Bill, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die.
Neither by wolves nor fire nor water can he die, nor will he be killed
in the fighting of men. But one day he will kill Moncrossen, that thou
mayest lay upon the head of the evil one the black curse of the Yaga
Tah! And then will the blood of Pierre, thy son, be avenged."

At the words, the smoldering black eyes of the old squaw wavered, they
swept the limp form upon the ground, and returned a long, searching
gaze into the blazing eyes of the girl. With a low guttural
throat-sound, she dropped to her knees, and together they bent to their
task. At the end of an hour the breath fluttered irregularly between
the bearded lips and the gray eyes closed of their own accor