On the way up the lake the surveyor's party had been driven to seek shelter in the mouth of Hah-wah-sepi by a westerly gale. They found the other York boat lying there. Its passengers, the bishop, the Indian agent, and the doctor, after ministering to the tribe in their several ways, had ridden north to visit the people around Tepiskow Lake.

The Fish-Eaters were still in a state of considerable excitement. The Government annuities—five dollars a head—changed hands half a dozen times daily in the hazards of jack-pot. All other business was suspended.

Musq'oosis called upon the chief surveyor, and the white man was delighted with his red brother's native courtesy and philosophy.

When finally the wind died down Musq'oosis had only to drop a hint that he was thinking of travelling to the settlement to receive a hearty invitation. Musq'oosis, instructing two boys, Jeresis and Hooliam, to come after him with a dugout in two days' time, accepted it.

Whatever may have been going on inside Bela during the days that followed, nothing showed in her wooden face. Never, at least when any eye was upon her, did she cock her head to listen for a canoe around the bend, nor go to the beach to look up the lake.

The Fish-Eaters were not especially curious concerning her. They had heard a native version of the happenings in Johnny Gagnon's shack from the boatmen, but had merely shrugged. Bela was crazy, anyway, they said.

Finally on the seventh day Musq'oosis and the two boys returned. Bela did not run to the creek. When the old man came to his teepee she was working around it with a highly indifferent air.

Once more they played their game of make-believe. Bela would not ask, and Musq'oosis would not tell without being asked. Bela was the one to give in.

"What you do up at settlement?" she asked carelessly.

"I fix everyt'ing good," replied Musq'oosis. "Buy team for Sam wit' your money. Mahooley's black team."

"It's too good for Sam," said Bela scornfully.

The old man glanced at her with sly amusement, and shrugged. He volunteered no further information.

When Bela could stand it no longer she asked sullenly:

"You hear no news at the settlement?"

Musq'oosis laughed and took pity on her. He told her his story, suppressing only certain facts that he considered it unwise for her to know.

"I glad the men mak' mock of Sam," she said bitterly. "Maybe he get some sense now."

"Well, he all right now," observed Musq'oosis.

"All right!" she cried. "I guess he more foolish than before, now he got a team. I guess he think he bigges' man in the country."

Musq'oosis stared at her. "W'at's the matter wit' you? You send me all the way to get him team. Now you let on you mad 'cause he got it."

"I didn't send you," contradicted Bela. "You say yourself you go."

"I go because you say you got go if I don't go. I don't want you to mak' anot'er fool lak before. I go for 'cause you promise me you stay here."

It was impossible for poor Bela to justify her contradictions, so she kept silent.

"You lak a woman, all right," declared Musq'oosis scornfully.

Bela had an idea that she could obtain a freer account of what was happening at the settlement from Jeresis or Hooliam, but pride would not allow her to apply directly to them.

Whenever she saw either of the boys making the centre of a group she managed to invent some business in the neighbourhood. But the talk always became constrained at her approach, and she learned nothing. The youngsters of the tribe were afraid of Bela. This had the effect of confirming her suspicion that there was something she needed to learn.

Word was passed around camp that there would be a "singing" on the lake shore that night. Bela, who had her own ideas about singing, despised the crude chanting of her relatives and the monotonous accompaniment of the "stick-kettle"; nevertheless, she decided to attend on this occasion.

Waiting until the party was well under way, she joined it unostentatiously and sat down in the outer circle of women. None but those immediately around her saw her come.

These parties last all night or near it. It needs darkness to give the wild part-song its full effect, and to inspire the drummers to produce a voice of awe from the muttering tom-toms. They work up slowly.

During a pause in the singing, while the drummer held his stick-kettle over the fire to contract the skin, some one asked Jeresis if he had seen Bela's white man. This was what she was waiting for. She listened breathlessly.

"Yes," answered Jeresis.

"Is he big, fine man?"

"No, middle-size man. Not much. Other men call him white slave, 'cause Bela take him away."

"Bela is crazy," said another.

The speakers were unaware that she was present. The women around her eyed her curiously. Bela smiled disdainfully for their benefit.

"Other woman got him now," Jeresis went on indifferently.

The smile froze on Bela's face. A red-hot needle seemed thrust into her breast.

"Who?" someone asked.

"The white woman that was here. Make her head go this way, that way." Jeresis imitated.

"The chicadee woman," said another.

"I see them by the company fence," Jeresis went on idly. "She stand on one side. He stand on other side. They look foolish at each other, like white people do. She make the big eyes and talk soft talk. They say he goes up every night."

The matter was not of great interest to the company generally, and Jeresis's story was cut short by a renewed burst of singing. Bela continued to sit where she was, still as a stone woman, until she thought they had forgotten her. Then she slipped away in the dark.

Musq'oosis was awakened by being violently shaken. He sat up in his blanket in no amiable frame of mind.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

Bela was past all make-believe of indifference now.

"I promise you I not go to settlement," she said breathlessly. "I come tell you I got go, anyhow. I got tak' my promise back. I got go now—now! I got go quick!"

"Are you as crazy as they say?" demanded Musq'oosis.

"Yes, I am crazy," she stammered. "No, I am not crazy. I will go crazy if I stay here. You are a bad friend to me. You not tell me that white woman is after my man. I got go to-night!"

"Oh, hell!" said Musq'oosis.

"Give me back my promise!" begged Bela. "I got go now."

"Go to bed," said Musq'oosis. "We talk quiet to-morrow. I want sleep now. You mak' me tired!"

"I got go now, now!" she repeated.

"Listen to me," said Musq'oosis. "I not tell you that for cause it is only foolishness. She is an old woman. She jus' a fool-hen. Are you 'fraid of her?"

"She is white," said Bela. "She know more than me. She know how to catch a man. Me, I am not all white. I live wit' Indians. He think little of me for that. Yes, I am afraid of her. Give me my promise back. I not be foolish. I do everything you say. But I got go see."

"Well, if you got go, you got go," said Musq'oosis crossly. "Don't come to me after and ask what to do."

"Good-bye!" said Bela, flying out of the teepee.

One day as Mrs. Beattie and Miss Mackall were sewing together, the trader's wife took occasion to remonstrate very gently with her sister concerning Sam. Somehow of late Miss Mackall found herself down in the road mornings when Sam was due to pass with his load, and somehow she was back there again at night when he came home empty.

Mrs. Beattie was a quiet, wise, mellow kind of woman. "He's so young," she suggested.

Her sister cheerfully agreed. "Of course, a mere baby! That's why I can be friends with him. He's so utterly friendless. He needs a kind word from somebody."

"But don't you rather go out of your way to give it to him?" asked Mrs. Beattie very softly.

"Sister! How can you say such a thing?" said Miss Mackall in shocked tones. "A mere child like that—one would think—— Oh, how can you?"

Mrs. Beattie let the matter drop with a little sigh. She had not been home in fifteen years, and she found her elder sister much changed and difficult to understand. Somehow their positions had been reversed.

Later, at the table, Miss Mackall suggested with an off-hand air that the friendless young teamster might be asked to supper. Gilbert Beattie looked up quickly.

"This is the company house," he said in his grim way, "and we are, so to speak, public people. We must not give any occasion for silly gossip."

"Gossip?" echoed Miss Mackall, raising her eyebrows. "I don't understand you."

"Pardon me," said Beattie. "I think you do. Remember," he added with a grim twinkle, "the trader's sister must be like CÆsar's wife, above suspicion."

Miss Mackall tossed her head and finished her meal in silence. Persons of a romantic temperament really enjoy a little tyranny. It made her seem young and interesting to herself.

That afternoon she walked up the road a way and met Sam safely out of view of the house. Sam greeted her with a beaming smile.

It seemed to him that this was his one friend—the only soul he had to talk to. He was little disposed to find flaws in her. As for her age, he had never thought about it. Pressed for an answer, he would probably have said: "Oh, about thirty!"

"Hello!" he cried. "Climb in and drive back with me."

"I can't," she replied with a mysterious air.

"Why not?"

"I mustn't be seen with you so much."

"Why?"

"It seems people are beginning to talk about us. Isn't it too silly?"

Sam laughed harshly. "I'm used to it," he said. "Of course, it's a different thing for you."

"I don't care for myself," she returned. "But my brother-in-law——"

"He's been warning you against me, eh?" asked Sam bitterly. "Naturally, you have to attend to what he says. It's all right." He made as if to drive on.

Miss Mackall seemed to be about to throw herself in front of the horses.

"How can you?" she cried reproachfully. "You know I don't care what anybody says. But while I'm living in his house I have to——"

"Sure!" replied Sam sorely. "I won't trouble you——"

"If we could write to each other," she suggested, "and leave the letters in a safe place."

Sam shook his head. "Never was any hand at writing letters," he said deprecatingly. "I run dry when I take a pen. Besides, I have no place to write, nor anything to write with."

"There is another way," she murmured, "but I suppose I shouldn't speak of it."

"What way?" asked Sam.

"There's a trail from the back of our house direct to Grier's Point. It is never used except when they bring supplies to the store in the summer. We keep very early hours. Everything is quiet by nine. I could slip out of the house and walk down the trail to meet you. We could talk a while, and I could be in again before dark."

Sam felt a little dubious, but how can a young man hold back in a matter of this kind? "All right, if you wish it," he agreed.

"I am only thinking of you," she said.

"I'll be there."

No better place for a tryst could have been found. No one ever had any occasion to use the back trail, and it was invisible for its whole length to travellers on the main road. After issuing from the woods of Grier's Point it crossed a wide flat among clumps of willows, and, climbing over the spur of a wooded hill, dropped in Beattie's back yard.

They met half-way across the flat in the tender dusk. The fairy light took away ten years of her age, and Sam experienced almost a bona fide thrill of romance at the sight of her slender figure swaying over the meadow toward him.

In his gratitude for her kindness he really desired to feel more warmly toward her, which is a perilous state of mind for a young man to be in. He spread his coat for her to sit on, and dropped beside her in the grass.

"Smoke your pipe," she said. "It's more cosy."

He obeyed.

"I wish I had a cigarette myself," she added with a giggle.

"Do you smoke?" asked Sam, surprised.

"No," she confessed; "but all the girls do, nowadays."

"I don't like it," said Sam bluntly.

"Of course I was only joking," she returned hastily.

Their conversation was not very romantic. Sam, with the best intentions in the world, somehow frustrated her attempts in this direction. He was propped up on one elbow beside her.

"How thick and bright your hair is!" she murmured.

"You've got some hair yourself," returned Sam politely.

She quickly put both hands up. "Ah! don't look at it. A hair-dresser spoiled it. As a child it hung below my waist."

Sam not knowing exactly what to say to this, blew a cloud of smoke.

"What a perfect night!" she breathed.

"Great!" said Sam. "That near-horse of mine, Sambo, picked up a stone on the beach this morning. I didn't discover what was making him lame until we were half-way round the bay. I wish I knew more about horses. I pick up all I can, but you never can tell when these fellows are giving it to you straight."

"It's a shame the way they plague you!" she exclaimed warmly.

"Oh, it's nothing, now," replied Sam. "I can stand anything now that I've got a man's job. I'll make good yet. I think I can see a difference already. I think about it day and night. It's my dream. I mean, making good with these fellows. It isn't that I care so much about them either. But after what's happened. I've got to make them respect me!"

And so on, in entire innocence. Sam was aware of no feelings toward her save gratitude and friendliness. Nevertheless, it would not have been the first time it happened, if these safe and simple feelings had suddenly landed him in an inextricable coil. Men are babies in such matters.

But nothing happened this night. Sam walked back with her to the foot of the hill, and they parted without touching hands.

"Shan't I see you through the wood?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Some one might see from the house. There's plenty of light yet. To-morrow night at the same time?"

"All right," said Sam.

She stood watching until he disappeared among the willows, then turned to mount the shallow hill. Down among the trunks of the big pines it was gloomier than she had expected. The patches of bright sky seemed immeasurably far overhead. The wood was full of whispers. She began to be sorry that she had let him go so soon, and hastened her steps.

Suddenly, as she neared the top of the hill, a human figure materialized in the trail before her. She was too much startled to scream. She stopped, petrified with terror, struggling to draw her breath. Its shadowy face was turned toward her. It was a very creature of night, still and voiceless. It blocked the way she had to pass. Her limbs shook under her, and a low moan of terror escaped her breast.

Finding a little strength at last, she made to dart among the trees so that she could encircle the apparition.

"Stop!" It commanded.

Miss Mackall fell half fainting against a tree.

The figure came closer to her, and she saw that it was a woman. A horrible prescience of what was coming still further demoralized her. Women do not require explanations in words. Miss Mackall recognized the adventuress of Musquasepi, and knew what she had come for. She sought to temporize.

"What do you want?" she faltered.

"I want kill you," said Bela softly. "My finger is hungry for the trigger."

She moved slightly, and a spot of light caught the barrel of the rifle over her arm. Miss Mackall moaned again.

"What did I ever do to you?" she wailed.

"You know," replied Bela grimly. "You tried tak' my man."

"How r-ridiculous!" stuttered Miss Mackall. "He isn't yours."

"Maybe," returned Bela. "Not yet. But no ot'er woman goin' get him from me."

"It isn't my fault if he wants me."

"Want you!" cried Bela scornfully. "An old woman! You try catch him lak he a fish!"

Miss Mackall broke into a low, hysterical weeping.

"Shut up!" said Bela. "Listen to w'at I say."

"Let me go! Let me go!" wept the other woman. "I'll scream!"

"No, you won't," said Bela coolly. "You not want Gilbert Beattie know you run out at night."

"I won't be murdered in cold blood! I won't! I won't!"

"Shut up!" said Bela. "I not goin' kill you jus' yet. Not if you do what I want."

Miss Mackall stopped weeping. "What do you want?" she asked eagerly.

"You got go 'way from here," said Bela coolly.

"What do you mean?"

"Bishop Lajeunesse goin' back down lake day after to-morrow. If you here after he gone I kill you."

A little assurance began to return to Miss Mackall. After all, it was not a supernatural, but a very human enemy with whom she had to deal.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded with quavering dignity.

"Yes," replied Bela calmly. "So they say."

"Oh!" sneered Miss Mackall. "Do you think I shall pay any attention to your threats? I have only to speak a word to my brother-in-law and you will be arrested."

"They got catch me first," said Bela. "No white man can follow me in the bush. I go where I want. Always I will follow you—wit' my gun."

The white woman's voice broke again. "If anything happened to me, you'd be tried and hung for murder!"

"What do a crazy woman care for that?" asked Bela.

Miss Mackall commenced to weep again.

Bela suddenly stepped aside. "Run home!" she said contemptuously. "Better pack your trunk."

Miss Mackall's legs suddenly recovered their function, and she sped up the trail like a released arrow. Never in her life had she run so fast. She fell into her room panting and trembling, and offered up a little prayer of thankfulness for the security of four walls and a locked door.

Next morning she was unable to get up in time to see Sam pass. She appeared at the dinner table pale and shaky, and pleaded a headache in explanation. During the meal she led the conversation by a round-about course to the subject of Indians.

"Do they ever go crazy?" she asked Gilbert Beattie, with an off-hand air.

"Yes, indeed," he answered. "It's one of the commonest troubles we have to deal with. They're fanatics by nature, anyway, and it doesn't take much to turn the scale. Weh-ti-go is their word for insanity. Among the people around the lake there is an extraordinary superstition, which the priests have not been able to eradicate in two hundred years. The Indians say of an insane man that his brain is frozen. And they believe in their hearts that the only way to melt it is by drinking human blood—a woman's or a child's by preference. That is the real explanation of many an obscure tragedy up here."

Miss Mackall shuddered and ate no more.

Late that afternoon she managed to drag herself down to the road. She waited for Sam at the entrance to a patch of woods a little way toward the French outfit.

"What's the matter?" he exclaimed at the sight of her.

"Ah, don't look at me!" she said unhappily. "I've had an awful night. Sick headache. I just wanted to tell you not to come to-night."

"All right," said Sam. "To-morrow night?"

She shook her head. "I—I don't think I'll come any more. I don't think it's right."

"Just as you say," said Sam. "If you feel all right to-morrow afternoon, you might get a horse and ride around the bay."

"I—I'm afraid to ride alone," she faltered.

"Well," said Sam, ever quick to take offence, "if you don't want to see me again, of course——"

"I do! I do!" she cried. "I've got to have a talk with you. I don't know what to do!"

"Very well," he said stoutly. "I'll come up to the house to-morrow night. I guess there's no reason why I shouldn't."

"Yes, that is best," she agreed. "Drive on now."

Sam clucked to his team, and they started briskly down the trail. "Lord, she looks about seventy!" he was thinking. Miss Mackall stood watching until they rounded the first bend. When she turned around, there stood Bela beside a big tree, a few feet to the side of the road. Evidently she had been hidden in the underbrush behind. Miss Mackall gasped in piteous terror and stood rooted to the spot.

Bela's face was as relentless as a high priestess's. "I listen if you goin' tell him 'bout me," she said. "If you tell him, I ready to shoot."

The other woman was speechless.

"You not goin' be here to-morrow night," Bela went on quietly. "Bishop Lajeunesse leave to-morrow morning."

Miss Mackall turned and flew up the trail.

The trader's house was built bungalow style, all the rooms on a floor. Miss Mackall's room was at the back of the house, her window facing the end of the back trail, where it issued from the woods. The nights were now mild and fragrant, and doors and windows stood wide. Locks are never used north of the landing. Or if they are, the key hangs hospitably within reach.

Miss Mackall, however, insisted on locking the doors and securing her window. There were no blinds, and she hung a petticoat inside the glass. Laughing at her old-maidish precautions, they let her have her way. As a further safeguard against nervousness during the night, she had one of her nieces to bed with her.

There was no sleep for her. In every little stir and breath she heard the footfall of her enemy. She was tormented by the suspicion that there was something lurking outside her window. She regretted leaving the petticoat up, for it prevented her seeing outside. She brooded on it until she felt as if she would go out of her mind, if she were not reassured.

Finally she mustered up sufficient courage to get out of bed and creep to the window. Holding her breath, she gathered the petticoat in her hand and smartly jerked it down. She found herself looking into the face of the native girl, who was peering through the glass. There was a little light in the sky behind her.

Bela sprang back, and Miss Mackall saw the gun-barrel. She uttered a piercing scream and fell fainting to the floor. The whole family rushed to her door. Hysterics succeeded. They could make nothing of her wild cries. When she recovered she was mum.

In the morning Gilbert Beattie and his wife discussed it soberly. "Nerves," said the man. "We'd best let her go out with the bishop, as she wants. This is no country for her. We might not get another chance this year to send her out with a proper escort."

"It's too bad!" sighed his wife. "I thought she would make such a good wife for one of the new men that are coming in now. They need wives so badly!"

"H-m!" said Gilbert.