nder!" he exclaimed in admiration. "That's exactly what's
been bothering me." She blushed furiously under his gaze and, with
lowering eyes, continued:

"I do not know how it can be managed, but Jacques will know. You may
trust Jacques as you trust me. For we are your friends, and his hatred
of Moncrossen is a real hatred."

She raised her eyes to his.

"Do you know why Jacques hates Moncrossen, and why Wa-ha-ta-na-ta hates
all white men?" she asked. Bill shook his head and listened as the
girl, with blazing eyes, told him of the death of Pierre, and then, of
the horror of that night on Broken Knee.

At her words Bill Carmody's face darkened, and his great fists clenched
until the nails bit deep into his palms. The steel-gray eyes narrowed
to slits and, as the girl finished, he arose and gently lifted one of
the little hands between his own.

"I, too, could kill Moncrossen for _that_," he said, and the tone of
his voice was low, and soft, with a tense, even softness that sounded
in the ears of the girl more terrible than a thousand loud hurled
threats.

She looked up quickly into the face of the glinting eyes, her tiny hand
trembled in his, and a sudden flush deepened the warm color of her
neck.

"For me?" she faltered. "_Me?_" And, with a half-smothered, frightened
gasp, tore her hand free and fled swiftly into the forest.

Bill stared a long time at the place where she disappeared, and,
smiling, stooped and picked up her needlework where it had fallen at
his feet.

He examined it idly for a moment and then more closely as a puzzled
look crept into his eyes. The garment he held in his hand was never
designed for a covering for the girl's own lithe body, nor was it small
enough even for Jacques.

"She's worked on it every day for a month," he murmured, as he glanced
from the intricate embroidered design to his own shirt of ragged
flannel, and again he smiled--bitterly.

"She's a queer kid," he said softly, as he recovered his crutch; "and a
mighty good kid, too."

CHAPTER XXX

CREED

That night the four sat late about the campfire.

Old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, silent and forbidding, as usual, but with a sharp
ear for all that was said, listened as they laid their plans.

At their conclusion the others sought their blankets, while Jacques
took the trail for the camp of old Wabishke whose help was needed in
the undertaking which was to involve no small amount of labor.

As the two women finished the