“Good-evening,” said Donald, courteously, in the Ojibway tongue. With all his impatience, he knew better than to be precipitate. Tom and Maria responded in kind to his salutation, and the usual amenities of those who find themselves at a camping-place together were exchanged. Of course, the newcomers would not think of occupying the cabin, since the others had reached it first, even though Donald's rank in the Hudson Bay Company entitled him to the best to be had.

They were fortunate, he said, in the locating of such an admirable shelter; in fact, it was one of the best he had seen, warm, well made, with room for the dogs. Whose was it? They told him an Indian name, and he continued his complimentary talk, approaching the door all the time.

Truly, this good Indian would have to be recommended to the factor for keeping his place in such fine order. See! Even the door fitted in its frame, and did not sag on its hinges when he opened it. There would be—He entered.

The monologue suddenly ceased, and, after a silent moment, a groan from the heart of the agonized man came to the ears of those outside. Presently, he emerged, white and wretched-looking, his face drawn with weariness and disappointment.

Yet, in his eyes there was something that made the two rascally Ojibways shift uneasily. Donald was not sure whether or not he had heard a smothered snicker, during the moment that he found himself alone in the cabin, but he intended to find out.

“Tom,” he said, “where are the hunting-grounds to which you are going?

“By Beaver Lake.”

“You are much too far south to be on the way to Beaver Lake. Something else has brought you here.”

“My mother is getting old; she prefers to travel the forest, and not the muskeg trails. For that we came south.”

“Every other winter, she has traveled them safely, Tom. Something else has brought you here.”

“I swear it is not so, Captain,” said the Indian, in a tone of defiance rather than of humility—a tone that proved him untruthful then and there.

“You lie, Tom Seguis!” cried McTavish fiercely. All the disappointments of the day leaped into rage at this provoking answer.

“If I do, I learned it from white men,” came the insulting answer.

Inasmuch as the only white men of his acquaintance were Hudson Bay officials, this constituted a slurring piece of impudence that demanded instant retribution.

Without a word, Donald slipped the gloves from his hands, and leaped upon Tom, smashing him to right and left with one well-directed blow after the other. The Indian was unarmed, and no match for the captain. But not so his mother. Almost imperceptibly, the leering hag crept closer to the combat, one hand glued to her side.

So intent was she in watching for an opening that she did not hear Peter Rainy approaching. Suddenly, Tom, thrusting out his fists in desperation from the merciless beating, caught his assailant under the chin, and halted him a second. In that second, the old hag sprang, the cold steel glinting in her hand.

But Peter, with a shout, was upon her, wrenching away the weapon and hurling her, squawking, toward the cabin, where, cursing like a medicine-man, she searched blindly for a rifle until Rainy took that also away from her, and shut her in the cabin. Meanwhile, the thrashing of Tom went methodically on, until he was unable to rise from the snow, and could scarcely bawl an apology between his swollen, bleeding lips.

Such is the discipline of a region where law is a remote thing, and the mention of a name must carry terror for thousands of miles.

McTavish, as he punished Indian Tom with merciless severity, was no longer McTavish. He was the Company; he was discipline; he was the “inevitable white man.” And, by the same token, Tom was the conquered race that had dared to doubt the power of its conqueror. This battle in the snow enacted the drama of America's Siberia as it has been enacted for two hundred years.

Tom not only delivered himself of an apology at Donald's demand, but expressed a willingness, even a desire, to atone for his wrong-doing by telling the truth of the matter that had given rise to the trouble. Having the situation well in hand, the Hudson Bay man set Peter to making the camp outside, while he entered the cabin with Tom.

“Where is the factor's daughter?” he fiercely demanded.

“She left us two days ago,” mumbled the Indian.

“And you will never see her again,” snarled Maria, crouching before the fire.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Ha, ha! She is in good company. She has a man now—a good man—a man such as a woman ought to love,” croaked the venomous crone, glaring.

“In heaven's name, speak out, old woman! Who's she with?”

“Charley Seguis. He is a good man. The women all love him.” And she rocked herself to and fro, like some horrible old witch. Donald stared at her, wild-eyed.

“When did he get her?” he groaned. “How? Where?”

“Two days ago, at the other cabin,” broke in Tom, hastily. “We waited for him there, and he came and got her.”

“Was there anyone with him, or did he come alone?”

“Two others, an Indian and a French trapper,” was the answer.

“Where did they go?” The little, close cabin seemed to reel about the distraught lover.

“To Sturgeon Lake.”

“The truth!” cried Donald, frantically. “Tell me the truth, or, by heaven, I'll break every bone in your body!” With hands opening and closing convulsively, he advanced upon Tom.

But the latter had had enough, and he cowered away from his interrogator, protesting his good faith. So genuine were his terrified protestations that the questioner was convinced.

“But he shall have her, Charley Seguis shall have her,” chanted old Maria, still rocking to and fro.

McTavish, sick at heart and at a loss what to do next, went out of the cabin and over to the camp that Rainy had made in the snow near the foot of a big tree. There, he told the old Indian what he had learned, and appealed to him for counsel. For an hour, the latter kept silent, and in that time they fed the dogs, and cooked their own supper of fish, flat flour cakes, and tea. At last, when all was done and the young man's spirits had risen with the strength the hot food brought him, Peter Rainy spoke.

“These people have done wrong,” he said, indicating the shanty. “They must be punished. They must go back to Fort Severn to hear the factor's judgment. One of us must take them. It should not be you; your heart yearns onward for the thing that is dearest to it, and you must follow that call.

“Give me authority, and I will take them back, so they can make no more trouble. Tom is a good Indian, except with his mother. Him I trust, but that old squaw”—he shook his head gravely—“if she lived on the plains, she would cut down a burial-tree to build a fire. That's the kind she is. I'll not feel safe until she's in jail.”

“If you are going back with them,” broke in Donald, “you can use their dog-train, and I'll keep this one.”

“It is Buller's, and should be at Fort Dickey,” Rainy replied. “Cardepie's is the only one left there now. But there's no other way, I guess.”

“None. And, Peter, we must set watch to-night, so they can't escape us. Four hours on and off; I'll stand the first one.”

“Master, you are very weary, and need sleep, for we have traveled far. Let me watch first.”

But Donald respected the years of his companion, and gently maintained his purpose. When they were ready for the night, he went to the cabin, and placed Maria and Tom under arrest. Before taking his watch, he tore a page from his note-book, and wrote a signed statement, authorizing Peter Rainy as deputy to conduct the Indians to Fort Severn.

Building a fire before the cabin door, he began walking up and down, fighting desperately the almost overpowering sleep that weighed upon his eyelids. Doubly exhausted by the day's efforts and disclosures, every moment was a renewed struggle, and every hour an eternity.

A rising wind, roared with hollow sound among the trees, and drove the snow-powder into his face. The stars, glinting diamonds in the blue-black vault over-head, twinkled and coruscated with brittle fires. Now and then, a report like a rifle stabbed the stillness when a tree cracked with its freezing sap... Donald sat down on a log.

His mind was filled with bitter thoughts, and he remembered for the first time that he was in reality nothing but an escaped prisoner. But all that trouble could be attended to later. It had sunk into insignificance beside the hideous verities that the day had revealed.

Into his mind flashed a picture of Jean as he had seen her last. The sweet, virginal face, the red-bronze aureole of her soft hair, the gray wool dress with touches of red warming it at throat and waist and wrist—all these were in the picture.

Would he ever see her again as she had been that bitter day? Would there be something gone from that innocent face, some of its sweet purity? Or would there be something added, a flicker of eternal fear in the wide, blue eyes, or the stamp of hell across the fair brow? The face merged slowly into a general indistinctness until with a shock it all cleared away, and he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck.

Then he realized that sleep had stolen upon him and that his head had rolled forward uncontrolled. With a curse, he sat up and looked at his watch. Two hours yet before he could call Peter Rainy. He put some more wood on the fire, but dared not look at the fascination of the dancing flames. He felt a sort of resentment that these two dirty Indians must be watched, and so break into his much needed rest. He riveted his attention upon the stars, and began to name over the constellations he could see. There was the Great Bear, the trapper's timepiece in the wilderness; and there, almost directly above him and very bright, the North Star, the hunter's compass. Then, there was the Big Dipper, very high, and the Little Bear. Southerly, through the trees, and looking like an arc-lamp suspended there, Sirius gleamed, while very low and to the left was the belt of Orion.

Suddenly, the entire solar system described violent circles of fire before his eyes, and a dull shock seemed to shake him. He knew something was wrong, and strove to gain his feet, or cry out, before it was too late. But, in an instant, he realized that he was powerless to move, and, in the next, the whirling constellations gave place to utter, velvet blackness.

When he struggled back to consciousness, the first thing Donald sensed was that something pleasantly warm lay upon his face. After a while, he discovered that this gentle glow must be from the sun.

“How's this?” he said to himself. “The whole camp must have slept late,” and he struggled to a sitting posture, only to give vent to a groan of agony.

His head throbbed and pained him horribly, and he pressed his hand to the aching place only to find that a huge bruise and swelling had appeared overnight. Then, disjointed thoughts began to link themselves together, and his addled brain cleared itself with a violent effort. He looked about staringly, and took in the scene: the cabin, the hole where Peter had camped, his own fire.

“Nobody's here,” he said, blankly; “that's funny.”

Flashes of half-truth commenced to lighten the darkness of his mind, and he pressed his hands against his temples hard, telling himself not to go mad—that everything would come out all right. No one was in sight, the fires were almost dead, the cabin door was open, so that he could see that the place was unoccupied. Then, he looked for stars, and laughed, because the sun was up.

But the thought of the stars set him on the right track, and, closing his jaws tightly on the fear that now took possession of him, he staggered about from one spot to another, working out the situation piece by piece. At last, the whole truth and every event of the day and night before came back to him with a rush. He sat down abruptly, and dry sobs shook him... He was weary and hungry and weak, but his mind was clear again, and he thanked God for that. So near had he come to concussion of the brain from old Maria's vicious club!

When he had recovered a little, he made another circuit of the camp. Like a child in the midst of a group of grinning wolves, he was helpless in the center of absolute desolation. Neither dog, sledge, food, nor covering had they left him. He was stripped of everything except a hunting-knife, which he luckily wore beneath his caribou shirt. Like Andre stepping from his balloon in the snowy arctic wastes, McTavish might have been dropped solitary where he was by some huge, passing bird.