th its mass of black tresses, rested upon his breast, where it rose
and fell to the heave of his labored breathing.

Long the half-breed looked, uttering no word, while the old squaw
searched his face which remained as expressionless as a face of stone.

"Make a fire," he commanded gruffly, and slung his pack upon the
ground. She obeyed, muttering the while, and Jacques watched her as he
filled and lighted his pipe.

"The man is M's'u' Bill," he observed, apparently talking to himself,
"The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."

The old woman shot him a keen glance as she hovered over the tiny flame
that licked at the twigs of dry larchwood. "All men die," she muttered
dully. "Did not Lacombie die?"

"At midnight I passed through the deserted camp of Moncrossen," the man
continued, paying no heed to her remark. "Creed did not go out with the
drive, but stayed behind to guard the camp, and he told me of the death
of this man; how he himself saw him sink beneath the waters of the
river and saw the logs of the jam rush over him.

"As we talked, and because he had been drinking much whisky, he told me
that it was he who locked this man in the shack last winter and then
set fire to the shack. He told me also Moncrossen desired this man's
death above any other thing, and had ordered the breaking of the jam at
a moment when he knew the _chechako_ could not escape, so that he was
hurled into the water and killed."

The old woman interrupted him. "I drew him upon the bank, thinking he
was Moncrossen, and that I might breathe upon him the curse. Because
his heart is bad, being a man of logs, I would have returned him to the
river whence he came; but Jeanne prevented." Jacques smiled at the
bitter disappointment in her voice.

"It is well," he returned. "See to it that he lives. Moncrossen is
great among the white men--and his heart is bad. But the heart of the
_chechako_ is good, and one day will come a reckoning, and in that day
the curse of the Yaga Tah shall fall from thy lips upon the dead face
of Moncrossen."

"All white men are bad," grumbled the squaw. "There is no good white
man."

Jacques silenced her with a gesture of impatience. "What is that to
you, oh, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, good or bad, if he kills Moncrossen?"

The old woman leaped to her feet and pointed a sharp skinny finger
toward the tepee, her eyes flashed, and the cracked voice rang thin
with anger.

"The girl!" she cried. "Jeanne, thy sister!"

Her son stepped clos