When Stonor’s sense returned the first thing of which he was conscious was Clare’s soft hand on his head. He opened his eyes and saw her face bending over him, the nurse’s face, serious, compassionate and self-forgetful. No one knows what reserves may be contained in a woman until another’s wound draws on them. He found himself lying where he had fallen; but there was a bag under his neck to hold his head up. Putting up his hand he found that his head was tightly bandaged. There seemed to be a mechanical hammer inside his skull.

“What happened?” he whispered.

She scarcely breathed her reply. “The woman shot you. She was hidden in the bush.”

Looking beyond her, Stonor saw Imbrie and the breed woman eating by the fire in high good humour. He observed that the woman was wearing the revolver he had given Clare.

“She disarmed me before I could fire,” Clare went on. “Your wound is not serious. The bullet only ploughed the scalp above your ear.”

“Who bandaged me?”

“I did. They didn’t want to let me, but I made them. I sewed the wound first. I don’t know how I did it, but I did.”

Imbrie looked over and saw them talking. “Let him alone,” he said harshly. “Come over here and get your breakfast.”

“Go,” said Stonor with his eyes and lips. “If he attempted to ill-treat you in my sight I ”

She understood, and went without demur. Imbrie motioned her to a place beside him and put a plate before her. She went through the motions of eating, but her eyes never left Stonor’s face. Stonor closed his eyes and considered their situation. Frightful enough it was in good sooth, yet it might have been worse. For as he lay quiet he felt his powers returning. Beyond a slight nausea he was himself again. He thanked God for a hard skull.

Meanwhile the breed woman was bragging of her exploit. She spoke in English for the pleasure it gave her to triumph over the whites.

“He gave Mary his canoe and made for the bench.”

“I know that,” said Imbrie. “Go on.”

“Well, as soon as Mary had bound up her leg she wanted to start. But her leg got worse on the way. When it came time to spell, she had to untie me and let me cook, while she kept watch over me with the gun my gun that Stonor gave her. It was at this place that we spelled. When we went on, her leg kept getting worse, and soon she said we’d have to stop for the night. So I made camp. Then she ordered me to come up to her and get my hands tied, and patted the gun as a sort of hint. I went up to her all right, and when she put down the gun and took up the rope, I snatched up the gun, and then I had her!”

The woman and Imbrie roared with laughter.

“Then I just took her knife and her food, and went,” the woman said, callously.

“Damned inhuman !” Stonor cried involuntarily.

“What’s the matter with you!” she returned. “Do you think I was going to let her take me in and turn me over for shooting at a policeman? Not if I know it! I was charitable to her if it comes to that. I could have taken her canoe, too, and then she would properly have starved. But I left her the canoe and a piece of bread, too. Mary Moosa is fat enough. I guess she can live off her fat long enough to get to Myengeen’s village.”

“What then?” asked Imbrie.

“I just walked off up the river. She couldn’t follow me with her leg. She couldn’t track the canoe up the rapids. All she can do is to go on down.”

“How did you know where I was?” asked Imbrie.

“I didn’t know. I took a chance. I had the gun and a belt of cartridges. I can snare fool-hens and catch fish. It was a sight better than going to jail. I knew if the policeman got you he’d bring you down river, and I figured I’d have another chance to get him. And if you got him I figured there wouldn’t be any hurry, and you’d wait for awhile for me.”

“You did well,” said Imbrie with condescending approval.

“Nearly all night I walked along the shore looking for your camp. At last I saw the little tent and I knew I was all right. Then I waited for daylight to shoot. The damned policeman turned his head as I fired, or I would have finished him.”

Imbrie dropped into the Indian tongue that they ordinarily used. From his knowledge of the Beaver language Stonor understood it pretty well, though a word escaped him here and there.

“What will we do with him?” he said.

“Be careful,” she said. “They may understand.”

“No fear of that. We know that Clare doesn’t speak our tongue.”

“Maybe the policeman speaks Beaver.”

“He doesn’t, though. He spoke English to them. I asked Shose Cardinal if he spoke Beaver, and he said no. And when I pushed off I insulted him in our tongue, and he paid no attention. Listen to this ”

Imbrie turned, and in the Indian tongue addressed an unrepeatable insult to the wounded trooper. Stonor, though almost suffocated with rage, contrived to maintain an unchanged face.

“You see?” said Imbrie to the woman, laughing. “No white man would take that. We can say what we like to each other. Speak English now just to torment him, the swine! Ask me in English what I’m going to do with him.”

She did so.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered carelessly. “Just tie him up, I guess, and leave him sitting here.”

“Tie him up?” she said with an evil smile.

“Sure! Give him leisure to prepare for his end.”

They laughed together.

Stonor dreaded the effect of this on Clare. She, however, seemed to be upborne by some inner thought.

“I know something better than that,” the woman said presently.

“What?”

“Don’t tie him up. Leave him just as he is, without gun, axe or knife. Let him walk around until he goes off his nut or starves to death. Then there’ll be no evidence. But if you leave him tied they’ll find his body with the rope round it.”

“That’s a good idea. But he might possibly make his way to Myengeen’s village.”

“Just let him try it. It’s a hundred and fifty miles round by land. Muskeg and down timber.”

“But if he sticks to the river, Mary Moosa might bring him back help.”

“She’ll get no help from Myengeen. She’s got to go to Enterprise for help. Two weeks. Even a redbreast couldn’t last two weeks in the bush. And by that time we’ll be ”

“Easy!” said Imbrie warningly.

“We’ll be out of reach,” she said, laughing.

“All right, it’s a go,” said Imbrie. “We’ll leave him just as he is. Pack up now.”

Stonor glanced anxiously at Clare. Her face was deathly pale, but she kept her head up.

“Do you think I’m going to go and leave him here?” she said firmly to Imbrie.

“Don’t see how you’re going to help yourself,” said he, without meeting her eyes.

“If you put me in the dug-out I’ll overturn it,” she said promptly.

Imbrie was taken aback. “I’ll tie you up,” he muttered, scowling.

“You cannot tie me so tight that I can’t overturn that cranky boat.”

“You’ll be the first to drown.”

She smiled. “Do you think I value the life you offer me?” She held out her hands to him. “Tie me and see.”

There could be no mistaking the firmness of her resolve. Imbrie hesitated and weakened. He turned to the breed woman questioningly.

She said in the Indian tongue: “What do you look at me for? I’ve told you before that you’re risking both our necks by taking her. The world is full of skinny little pale-faced women, but you’ve only got one neck. Better leave her with the man.”

Imbrie shook his head slowly.

The woman shrugged. “Well, if you got to have her, fix it to suit yourself.” She ostentatiously went on with the packing.

Imbrie looked sidewise at Clare with a kind of hungry pain in his sullen eyes. “I won’t leave her,” he muttered. “I’ll take them both.”

The woman flung up her hands in a passionate gesture. “Foolishness!” she cried.

A new idea seemed to occur to Imbrie; he said in English: “I’ll take the redbreast for my servant. Upstream work is no cinch. I’ll make him track us. It’ll be a novelty to have a redbreast for a servant.”

Clare glanced anxiously at Stonor as if expecting an outbreak.

Imbrie asked with intolerable insolence: “Will you be my servant, Redbreast?”

Clare’s hands clenched, and she scowled at Imbrie like a little fire-eater.

Stonor answered calmly: “If I have to be.”

Clare’s eyes darted to him full of relief and gratitude; she had not expected so great a sacrifice. The brave lip trembled.

Imbrie laughed. “Good!” he cried. “Redbreasts don’t relish starving in the bush any better than ordinary men!”

The breed woman, on the verge of an angry outburst, checked herself, and merely shrugged again. She said quietly in her own tongue: “He thinks he’s going to escape.”

“Sure he does!” answered Imbrie, “and I’m the man who will prevent him. I’ll keep the weapons in my own hands.”

True to his word he collected all the weapons in the outfit; three guns, the revolver and three knives. He gave the breed woman her own gun and her ammunition-belt, which she strapped round her; he kept his gun, and the other two fire-arms he disabled by removing parts of the mechanism, which he put in his pocket. He stuck two knives in his belt, and gave the woman the third, which she slipped into its customary resting-place in the top of her moccasin. Imbrie ordered Stonor to get up and strike Clare’s tent.

“He must be fed,” said Clare quickly.

“Sure, I don’t mind feeding him as long as he’s going to earn it,” said Imbrie.

Clare hastened to carry Stonor her untasted plate, but Imbrie intercepted her. “No more whispering,” he said, scowling. “Eat your own breakfast. The woman will feed him.”

In half an hour they were on their way back up the river. They allowed Stonor to rest and recuperate in the dug-out until they came to the first rapid. Later, the policeman bent to the tracking-line with a good will. This was better luck than he had hoped for. His principal fear was that he might not be able to dissemble sufficiently to keep their suspicions lulled. He knew, of course, that if they should guess of what he was thinking his life would not be worth a copper penny. His intuition told him that even though he was a prisoner, Clare was safe from Imbrie while he was present, and he had determined to submit cheerfully to anything in order to keep alive. He only needed three or four more days!

So, with a loop of the tracking-line over his shoulder, he plodded through the ooze of the shore, and over the stones; waded out round reefs, and plunged headlong through overhanging willows. Imbrie walked behind him with his gun over his arm. Clare lay on the baggage in the dug-out wistfully watching Stonor’s back, and the breed woman steered. In the more sluggish reaches of the river, the men went aboard and paddled.

When they spelled in mid-morning Imbrie and the woman became involved in a discussion of which Stonor understood almost every word. They had finished eating, and all four were sitting in a row on a beach with great stones sticking up through the sand. Clare was at one end, Stonor at the other. They were giving Stonor a rest as they might have rested a horse before putting him in harness again.

The woman said impatiently: “How long are you going to keep up this foolishness?”

“What foolishness?” Imbrie said sullenly.

“Letting this man live. He’s your enemy and mine. He’s not going to forget that I shot at him twice. He’s got some scheme in his head right now. He’s much too willing to work.”

“That’s just women’s talk. I know what I’m doing. I’ve got him just right because he’s scared of losing the girl.”

“All right. Many times you ask me what to do. Sometimes you don’t do what I say, and then you’re sorry afterwards. I tell you this is foolishness. You want the white-face girl and you let the man live to please her! What sense is there in that? She won’t take you as long as he lives.”

“If I kill him she’ll kill herself.”

“Wah! That’s just a threat. She’ll hold it over you as long as he lives. When he’s dead she’ll have to make the best of it. You’ll have to kill him in the end. Why not do it now?”

“I know what I’m doing,” repeated Imbrie stubbornly. “I’m the master now. Women turn naturally to the master. In a few days I’ll put this white man so low she’ll despise him.”

The woman laughed. “You don’t know much about women. The worse you treat him the crazier she’ll be about him. And if she gets a knife, look out!”

“She won’t get a knife. And if my way doesn’t work I can always kill him. He’s useful. We’re getting up-stream faster than we would without him.”

“He’s too willing to go up the river, I think.”

“There’s no help for him up there, is there?”

“I don’t know. You’d better do what I say.”

“Oh, shut up. Go and pack the grub. We’ll start soon.”

The woman went to obey with her customary shrug.

Stonor had much food for thought in this conversation. He marked with high satisfaction that the way the woman spoke did not for a moment suggest that Imbrie had any rights over Clare, nor that he had ever possessed her in the past. Listen as he might, he could gain no clue to the relationship between the two speakers. He hoped they might betray themselves further later on. Meanwhile the situation was hazardous in the extreme. There was no doubt the woman would soon wear Imbrie down. If he, Stonor, could only communicate with Clare it would help.

Imbrie turned to Clare with what he meant for an ingratiating smile. “Is your memory coming back at all?” he asked.

In itself there was nothing offensive in the question, and Clare had the wit to see that nothing was to be gained by unnecessarily snubbing the man. “No,” she said simply.

“But you’re all right in every other way. There’s nothing the matter with you?”

She let it go at that.

“You don’t remember the days when I was courting you?”

“No,” she said with an idle air, “where was that?”

He saw the trap. “I’ll tell you some other time. Redbreast has long ears.”

While Imbrie’s attention was occupied by Clare a possible way of sending her a message occurred to Stonor. The woman was busy at some paces’ distance. Stonor was sitting on a flat stone with his feet in the sand. Carelessly picking up a stick, he commenced to make letters in the sand. Clare, whose eyes never left him for long, instantly became aware of what he was doing; but so well did she cover her glances that Imbrie took no alarm.

Stonor, printing a word at a time, and instantly rubbing it out with his foot, wrote: “Make out to scorn me.”

Meanwhile Imbrie was making agreeable conversation and Clare was leading him on sufficiently to keep him interested. Small as his success was, he was charmed with it. Finally he rose regretfully.

“Time to go,” he said. “Go get in your harness, Stonor.”

The trooper arose and slouched to the tracking-line with a hang-dog air. Clare’s eyes followed him in well-assumed indignation at his supineness.

“He’ll make a good pack-horse yet,” said Imbrie with a laugh.

“So it seems,” she said bitterly.

They started. Imbrie, much encouraged by this little passage, continued to bait Stonor at intervals during the afternoon. The policeman, fearful of appearing to submit too suddenly, sometimes rebelled, but always sullenly gave in when Imbrie raised his gun. Stonor saw that, so far as the man was concerned, he need have little fear of overdoing his part. Imbrie in his vanity was quite ready to believe that Clare was turning from Stonor to him. On the other hand, the breed woman was not at all deceived. Her lip curled scornfully at all this by-play.

Clare’s glance at Stonor, keeping up what she had begun, progressed from surprise through indignation to open scorn. Meanwhile in the same ratio she held herself less and less aloof from Imbrie. She, too, was careful not to overdo it. She made it clear to Imbrie that it would be a good long time yet before he could expect any positive favours from her. She did it so well that Stonor, though he had himself told her to act in that manner, was tormented by the sight. After all, he was human.

Once and once only during the day did Stonor’s and Clare’s glances meet unobserved by the others. It happened as the trooper was embarking in the dug-out preparatory to paddling up a smooth reach. Imbrie and the woman were both behind Clare, and she gave Stonor a deep look imploring his forgiveness for the wrong she seemed to do him. It heartened him amazingly. Bending low as he laid the coiled rope in the bow, his lips merely shaped the words:

“Keep it up!”

So long and so hard did they work that day that they were able to camp for the night only a few miles short of the highest point they had yet reached on the river. The camping-place was a pleasant opening up on top of the bank, carpeted with pine-needles. The murmur of the pines reminded Clare and Stonor of nights on the lower river nights both happy and terrible, which now seemed years past.

While supper was preparing Clare appeared out of her tent with some long strips of cotton. She went unhesitatingly to where Stonor sat.

Imbrie sprang up. “Keep away from him!” he snarled.

Clare calmly sat down by Stonor. “I’m going to dress his wound,” she said. “I’d do the same for a dog. I don’t want to speak to him. You can sit beside me while I work.”

Imbrie sullenly submitted.

After supper it appeared from Imbrie’s evil grin that he was promising himself a bit of fun with the policeman. But this time he was taking no chances.

“I’m tired of toting this gun around; tie his hands,” he ordered the woman.

The night was chilly and they had a good fire on the edge of the bank. It lighted them weirdly as they sat in a semi-circle about it, the four strangely-assorted figures backed by the brown trunks of the pines, and roofed by the high branches. Stonor safely tied up, Imbrie put down his gun and lighted his pipe. He studied the policeman maliciously. He was not quite satisfied; even in Stonor’s submission he felt a spirit that he had not yet broken.

“You policemen think pretty well of yourselves, don’t you?” he said.

Stonor, clearly perceiving the man’s intention, was nevertheless undisturbed. This vermin was beneath him. His difficulty was to curb the sly desire to answer back. Imbrie gave him such priceless openings. But the part he had imposed on himself required that he seemed to be cowed by the man’s crude attempts at wit. A seeming sullen silence was his only safe line. It required no little self-control.

Imbrie went on: “The government sets you fellows up as a kind of bogey. For years they’ve been teaching the natives that a red-coat is a kind of sacred monkey that all must bow down to. And you forget you’re only a man like the rest of us. When you meet a man who isn’t scared off by all this hocus-pocus it comes pretty hard on you. You have to sing small, don’t you, Redbreast?”

Silence from Stonor.

“I say you have to sing small, Redbreast.”

“Just as you like.”

“I’ve heard ugly tales about the police,” Imbrie went on. “It seems they’re not above turning a bit of profit out of their jobs when it’s safe. Is that so, Stonor?”

“I hear you say it.”

“You yourself only took me up in the first place because you thought there was a bit of a bribe in it, or a jug of whisky maybe. You thought I was a whisky-runner, but you couldn’t prove it. I guess you’re sorry now that you ever fooled with me, aren’t you, Redbreast?”

Stonor said nothing.

“Answer me when I speak to you. Aren’t you sorry now that you interfered with me?”

This was a hard one. A vein stood out on Stonor’s forehead. He thought: “I wouldn’t say it for myself, but for her !” Aloud he muttered: “Yes!”

Imbrie roared with laughter. “I’m putting the police in their place!” he cried. “I’m teaching them manners! I’ll have him eating out of my hand before I’m through with him!”

Clare, seeing the swollen vein, bled for Stonor, yet she gave him a glance of scorn, and the look she gave Imbrie caused him to rise as if moved by a spring, and cross to her.

As he passed the breed woman he said in the Indian tongue: “Well, who was right, old woman?”

He sat down beside Clare.

The woman answered: “You fool! She’s playing with you to save her lover. Any woman would do the same.”

“You lie!” said Imbrie, with a fatuous side-glance at Clare. “She’s beginning to like me now.”

“Beginning to like you!” cried the woman scornfully. “Fool! Watch me! I’ll show you how much she likes you!”

Springing to her feet, and stooping over, she drew the knife from her moccasin. She turned on Stonor. “Redbreast!” she cried in English. “I’m sick of looking at your ugly face. Here’s where I spoil it!”

She raised the knife. Her eyes blazed. Stonor really thought his hour had come. He scrambled to his feet. Clare, with a scream, ran between them, and flung her arms around Stonor’s neck.

“You beast!” she cried over her shoulder to the woman. “A bound man! You’ll have to strike him through me!”

The woman threw back her head and uttered a great, coarse laugh. She coolly returned the knife to her moccasin. “You see how much she likes you,” she said to Imbrie.

Clare, seeing how she had been tricked, unwound her arms from Stonor’s neck, and covered her face. It seemed too cruel that all their pains the livelong day should go for nothing in a moment. Imbrie was scowling at them hatefully.

“Don’t distress yourself,” whispered Stonor. “It couldn’t be helped. We gained a whole day by it anyway. I’ll think of something else for to-morrow.”

“Keep clear of him!” cried Imbrie. “Go to your tent!”

“I won’t!” Clare said.

“Better go!” whispered Stonor. “I am safe for the present.”

She went slowly to her tent and disappeared.

Stonor sat down again. Across the fire Imbrie scowled and pulled at his lip. The breed woman, returning to her place, had the good sense to hold her tongue.

After a long while Imbrie said sullenly in the Indian tongue: “Well, you’ve got your way. You can kill him to-morrow.”

Stonor was a brave man, but a chill struck to his breast.

“I kill him?” said the woman. “Why have I got to do all the dirty work?”

“What do you care? You’ve already tried twice.”

“Why don’t you kill him yourself?”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Maybe not. With his hands tied.”

Imbrie’s fist clenched. “Do you want me to beat you?”

The woman shrugged.

“You know very well why I don’t want to do it,” Imbrie went on. “It’s nothing to you if the girl hates you.”

“Oh, that’s why, eh? You’re scared she’d turn from bloody hands! She’s made a fool of you, all right!”

“Never mind that. You do it to-morrow.”

“Why not to-night?”

“I won’t have it done in her sight. To-morrow morning when we spell you make some excuse to take him into the bush. There you shoot him or stick a knife in his back. I don’t care so long as you make a job of it. You come back alone and make a story of how he tried to run away, see? Then I’ll beat you ”

“Beat me!” she cried indignantly.

“Fool! I won’t hurt you. I’ll just act rough to you for a while, till she gets better.”

“That girl has made me plenty trouble these last two years. I wish I’d never set eyes on her!”

“Forget it! Tie his feet together so he can’t wander and go to bed now!”

Mary Moosa’s little mosquito-tent was still in Imbrie’s outfit, but the woman preferred to roll up in her blanket by the fire like a man. Soon the two of them were sleeping as calmly as two children, and Stonor was left to his own thoughts.

It was a silent quartette that took to the river next day. Imbrie was sulky; it appeared that he no longer found any relish in gibing at Stonor. Clare was pale and downcast. After an hour or so they came to the rapids where Stonor had intercepted Imbrie and Clare, and thereafter the river was new to them. Stonor gathered from their talk that the river was new, too, to Imbrie and the woman, but that they had received information as to its course from Kakisa sources.

For many miles after that the current ran smooth and slow, and they paddled the dug-out; Stonor in the bow, Imbrie guarding him with the gun, Clare behind Imbrie, and the breed woman with the stern-paddle. All with their backs to each other and all silent. About ten o’clock they came to the mouth of a little creek coming in at the left, and here Imbrie indicated they would spell.

“So this is the spot designed for my murder,” thought Stonor, looking over the ground with a natural interest.

The little brook was deep and sluggish; its surface was powdered with tiny lilies and, at its edges, long grass trailed in the water. A clean, grassy bank sloped up gradually. Further back were white-stemmed aspen-trees gradually thickening into the forest proper.

“Ideal place for a picnic,” thought Stonor grimly. As they went ashore he perceived that the breed woman was somewhat agitated. She continually wiped her forehead on her sleeve. This was somehow more reassuring than her usual inhuman stolidity. Imbrie clearly was anxious, too, but not about Stonor or what was going to happen to him. His eyes continually sought Clare’s face.

The breed woman glanced inquiringly at Imbrie. He said in the Indian tongue: “We’ll eat first.”

“So I have an hour’s respite,” thought Stonor.

None of them displayed much appetite. Stonor forced himself to eat. Imbrie glanced at him oddly from time to time. “He’s sorry to see good food wasted,” thought the trooper. “Well, it won’t be, if I can help it!”

When they had finished the woman said in English with a very careless air: “I’m going to see if I can get some fresh meat.”

“She means me,” thought Stonor.

She got her gun and departed. Stonor was aware likewise of the knife sticking out of the top of her moccasin. Both Imbrie and the woman had a self-conscious air. A child could have seen that something was afoot. The woman walked off through the grass and was presently lost among the trees.

Imbrie commanded Stonor to wash the dishes.

Stonor reflected that since they meant to kill him anyhow if they could, there was nothing to be gained by putting up with further indignities.

“Wash them yourself,” he said coolly.

Imbrie shrugged, but said no more.

Pretty soon they heard a shot at no great distance.

Stonor thought: “Now she’ll come back and say she’s got a bear or a moose, and they’ll order me to go back with her and bring in the meat. Shall I go, or shall I refuse to go? If I refuse they’re almost sure to suspect that I understand their lingo; but if I go I may be able to disarm her. I’ll go.”

Presently they saw her returning. “I’ve got a moose,” she said stolidly.

Stonor smiled a grim inward smile. It was too simple to ask him to believe that she had walked into the bush and brought down a moose within five minutes with one shot. He knew very well that if there was a feast in prospect her face would be wreathed in smiles. He was careful to betray nothing in his own face.

Imbrie was a better actor. “Good work!” he cried. “Now we’ll have something fit to eat.”

She said: “I want help to bring in the meat.”

“Stonor, go help her,” said Imbrie carelessly.

The trooper got up with an indifferent air.

“Martin, don’t go!” Clare said involuntarily.

“I’m not afraid of her,” Stonor said.

The woman forced him to walk in advance of her across the grass. The thought of her behind him with the gun ready made Stonor’s skin prickle uncomfortably, but he reflected that she would certainly not shoot until they were hidden in the bush.

When they reached the edge of the bush he stopped and looked at her. “Which way?” he asked, with an innocent air.

“You can follow the tracks, can’t you?” said she.

He saw that she was pale and perspiring freely. She moistened her lips before she spoke.

Half a dozen paces further on he stopped again.

“Go on!” she said harshly.

“Got to tie my moccasin,” he said, dropping on one knee and turning half round, so that he could keep an eye on her. She gave a swift glance over her shoulder. They were not yet fully out of sight of the others.

“Your moccasin is not untied,” she said suddenly.

At the same moment Stonor, still crouching, sprang at her, taking care to keep under the gun. Grasping her knees, he flung her to the ground. He got the gun, but before he could raise it, she sprang at him from all fours like a cat, and clung to him with a passionate fury no man could have been capable of. Stonor was unable to shake her off without dropping the gun. Meanwhile she screamed for aid.

Both Imbrie and Clare came running. Imbrie, circling round the struggling pair, clubbed his gun and brought it down on Stonor’s head. The trooper went to earth. He did not altogether lose consciousness. The woman, maddened, recovered her gun, and was for dispatching him on the spot, but Imbrie, thinking of Clare, prevented her.

Stonor was soon able to rise, and to make his way back, albeit somewhat groggily, to the creek. Clare wished to support him, but he stopped her with a look.

When they got back to their camp Imbrie demanded with seeming indignation: “What was the matter with you? What did you expect to gain by jumping on her?”

“What did she take me into the bush for?” countered Stonor. “To put a bullet through me?”

Imbrie made a great parade of surprise. “What makes you think that?”

“She’s tried twice already, hasn’t she? I saw it in her eye. She saw it, too ” pointing to Clare. “You heard her warn me. She never shot a moose. That was too simple a trick.”

“I did shoot a moose,” said the woman sullenly.

“Then why don’t you bring some of it in and let’s see it. You have your knife to cut off as much as we can carry.”

She turned away with a discomposed face.

“Oh, well, if you won’t take the trouble to bring in the meat we’ll go without it,” said Imbrie quickly. Stonor laughed.

As they were making ready to start Stonor heard Imbrie say bitterly to the woman, in their own tongue: “You made a pretty mess of that!”

“Well, do it yourself, then,” she snarled back.

“Very well, I will. When I see a good chance.”

“This is only the 25th,” thought Stonor. “By hook or by crook I must contrive to keep alive a couple of days longer.”

Above this camping-place the character of the river changed again. The banks became steep and stony, and the rapids succeeded each other with only a few hundred yards of smooth water between. Stonor became a fixture in the tracking-line. He worked with a right good will, hoping to make himself so useful that they would not feel inclined to get rid of him. It was a slim chance, but the best that offered at the moment. Moreover, every mile that he put behind him brought him so much nearer succour.

That night in camp he had the satisfaction of hearing Imbrie say in answer to a question from the woman:

“No, not to-night. All day he’s been working like a slave to try and get on the good side of me. Well, let him work. I’ve no mind to break my back while I have him to work for me. According to the Kakisas we’ll have rapids now for a long way up. Let him pull us.”

So Stonor could allow himself to sleep with an easy mind for that night, anyway.

The next two days were without special incident. Stonor lived from moment to moment, his fate hanging on Imbrie’s savage and irresponsible impulses. Fortunately for him, he was still able to inform himself from the talk of the two. Each day they broke camp, tracked up-stream, tracked and poled up the rapids, spelled and tracked again. In the rapids it was the breed woman who had to help Stonor. Imbrie would stand by smoking, with his gun over his arm. Stonor wondered at the woman’s patience.

At the end of the second day they found another soft sandy beach to camp on. Stonor was so weary he could scarcely remain awake long enough to eat. They all turned in immediately afterwards. Latterly Imbrie had been forcing Stonor to lie close to him at night, and the end of the line that bound Stonor’s wrists was tied around Imbrie’s arm. The breed woman lay on the other side of the fire, and Clare’s tent was pitched beyond her.

Stonor was awakened by a soft touch on his cheek. Having his nerves under good control, he gave no start. Opening his eyes, he saw Clare’s face smiling adorably, not a foot from his own. At first he thought he was dreaming, and lay scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of dissipating the charming phantom.

But the phantom spoke: “Martin, you looked so tired to-night it made me cry. I could not sleep. I had to come and speak to you. Did I do wrong?”

He feasted his tired eyes on her. How could he blame her? “Dangerous,” he whispered. “These breeds sleep like cats.”

“What’s the difference? It’s as bad as it can be already.”

He shook his head. “They have not ill-treated you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if they did. It is terrible to see you work so hard, while I do nothing. Why do you work so hard for them?”

“I have hope of meeting help up the river.”

She smiled incredulously. Stonor, seeing her resigned to the worst, said no more about his hopes. After all they might fail, and it would be better not to raise her hopes only to dash them.

“Better go,” he urged. “Every little while through the night one or the other of these breeds wakes, sits up, looks around, and goes back to sleep again.”

“Are you glad I came, Martin?”

“Very glad. Go back to your tent, and we’ll talk in fancy until we fall asleep again.”

Stonor was awakened the next time by a loud, jeering laugh. It was full daylight. The breed woman was standing at his feet, pointing mockingly to the tell-tale print of Clare’s little body in the sand beside him. A blinding rage filled Stonor at the implication of that coarse laugh but he was helpless. Imbrie started up, and Stonor attempted to roll over on the depression but Imbrie saw it, saw also the little tracks leading around behind the sleepers to Clare’s tent.

No sound escaped from Imbrie, but his smooth face turned hideous with rage; the lips everted over the clenched teeth, the ruddy skin livid and blotchy. He quickly untied the bond between him and Stonor. The woman, with a wicked smile, drew the knife out of her moccasin, and offered it to him. He eagerly snatched it up. Stonor’s eyes were fixed unflinchingly on his face. He thought: “It has come!”

But at that moment Clare came out of her tent. Imbrie hid the knife and turned away. As he passed the breed woman Stonor heard him mutter:

“I’ll fix him to-night!”

That day as he trod the shore, bent under the tracking-line, Stonor had plenty to occupy his mind. Over and over he made his calculations of time and distance:

“This is the twenty-seventh. It was the fifteenth when I sent Tole Grampierre back to Enterprise. If he rode hard he’d get there about noon on the seventeenth. The steamboat isn’t due to start up-stream until the twentieth, but Gaviller would surely let her go at once when he got my message. She’d only need to get wood aboard and steam up. She could steam night and day too, at this stage of water; she’s done it before that is, if they had anybody to relieve Mathews at the engine. There are plenty of pilots. Surely Gaviller would order her to steam night and day when he read my letter! Even suppose they didn’t get away until the morning of the eighteenth: that would bring them to the Crossing by the twenty-second.

“Lambert, I know, would not lose an hour in setting out over the prairie just long enough to get horses together and swim them across. I can depend on him. Nobody knows how far it is overland from the Crossing to the Swan River. Nobody’s been that way. But the chances are it’s prairie land, and easy going. Say the rivers are about the same distance apart up there, Lambert ought to reach the Swan on the twenty-fifth, or at the latest the twenty-sixth. That’s only yesterday. But we must have made two hundred or two hundred and fifty miles up-stream. The Swan certainly makes a straighter course than the Spirit. It must be less than a hundred miles from here to the spot where Lambert would hit this stream. He could make seventy-five miles or more a day down-stream. He would work. If everything has gone well I might meet him to-day.

“But things never go just the way you want them to. I must not count on it. Gaviller may have delayed. He’s so careful of his precious steamboat. Or she may have run on a bar. Or Lambert may have met unexpected difficulties. I must know what I’m going to do. Once my hands are tied to-night my goose is cooked. Shall I resist the woman when she tries to tie my hands? But Imbrie always stands beside her with the gun; that would simply mean being shot down before Clare’s eyes. Shall I let them bind me and take what comes? No! I must put up a fight somehow! Suppose I make a break for it as soon as we land? If there happens to be cover I may get away with it. Better be shot on the wing than sitting down with my hands tied. And if I got clean away, Clare would know there was still a chance. I’ll make a break for it!”

He looked at the sky, the shining river and the shapely trees. “This may be my last day on the old ball! Good old world too! You don’t think what it means until the time comes to say ta-ta to it all; sunny mornings, and starry nights, with the double trail of the Milky Way moseying across the sky. I’ve scarcely tasted life yet mustn’t think of that! Twenty-seven years old, and nothing done! If I could feel that I had left something solid behind me it would be easier to go.”

Pictures of his boyhood in the old Canadian city presented themselves unasked; the maple-foliage, incredibly dense and verdant, the shabby, comfortable houses behind the trees, and the homely, happy-go-lucky people who lived in the houses and sprayed their lawns on summer evenings; friendly people, like people everywhere prone to laughter and averse to thought. “People are so foolish and likeable, it’s amazing!” thought Stonor, visualizing his kind for the first.

The sights and sounds and smells of the old town came thronging back; the school-bell with its flat clangour, exactly like no other bell on earth it rang until five minutes before the hour, stopping with a muttering complaint, and you ran the rest of the way. There was the Dominion Hotel, with a tar pavement in front that became semi-liquid on hot days; no resident of that town ever forgot the pungent smell compounded of tar, stale beer, sawdust, and cabbage that greeted you in passing. And the candy-store was next door; the butterscotch they sold there!

How he used to get up early on summer mornings and, with his faithful mongrel Jack, with the ridiculous curly tail, walk and run a mile to the railway-station to see the Transcontinental stop and pass on. How the sun shone down the empty streets before any one was up! Strange how his whole life seemed to be coloured by the newly-risen sun! And the long train with the mysterious, luxurious sleeping-cars, an occasional tousled head at the window; lucky head, bound on a long journey!

“Well, I’ve journeyed some myself since then,” thought Stonor, “and I have a longer journey before me!”

They spelled at ten o’clock, and again at three. “The last lap!” thought Stonor, as they took to the river after the second stop. All depended on the spot Imbrie should choose for their next camp. Stonor studied the nature of the ground anxiously. The banks continued to rise steep and high almost from the water’s edge. These slopes for the most part were wooded, but a wood on a steep stony slope does not offer good cover.

“Small chance of scrambling over the top in such a place without stopping a bullet,” thought Stonor. “If we come to a more favourable spot should I suggest camping? No! for Imbrie would be sure to keep on out of pure obstinacy. I might have a chance if I zig-zagged up the hill. The worst part will be running away from Clare. Suppose she cries out or tries to follow. If I could warn her!”

But Imbrie was taking very good care that no communications passed between the two to-day.

They came to a place where a limestone ridge made a rapid wilder than any they had passed on the upper river, almost a cataract. Much time was consumed in dragging the dug-out over the shelves of rock alongside. The ridge made a sort of dam in the river; and above there was a long reach, smooth and sluggish. Imbrie ordered Stonor aboard to paddle, and the trooper was not sorry for the change of exercise.

The sun was dropping low now, and Stonor little by little gave up hope of meeting help that day. In the course of the smooth reach they came upon an island, quaintly shaped like a woman’s hat, with a stony beach all round for a brim, a high green crown, and a clump of pines for an aigrette. In its greatest diameter it was less than a hundred feet.

Coming abreast of the island, Imbrie, without saying anything in advance of his intention, steered the dug-out so that she grounded on the beach. The others looked round at him in surprise.

“We’ll camp here,” he said curtly.

Stonor’s heart sank. An island! “It’s early yet,” he said, with a careless air.

“The dug-out’s leaking,” said Imbrie. “I want to fix her before dark.”

“There’s no gum on the island.”

“I have it with me.”

Imbrie said this with a meaning grin, and Stonor could not be sure but that the man suspected his design of escaping. There was nothing for it but to submit for the moment. If they attempted to bind him he would put up the best fight he could. If they left him free until dark he might still escape by swimming.

They landed. The breed woman, as a matter of course, prepared to do all the work, while Imbrie sat down with his pipe and his gun. He ordered Stonor to sit near. The policeman obeyed, keeping himself on the qui vive for the first hostile move. Clare, merely to be doing something, put up her own little tent. The breed woman started preparing supper, and then, taking everything out of the dug-out, pulled it up on the stones, and turning it over applied the gum to the little crack that had opened in the bottom.

They supped as usual, Stonor being guarded by the woman while Imbrie ate. Stonor and Clare were kept at a little distance from each other. There was nothing that they cared to say to each other within hearing of their jailors. Soon afterwards Clare went to her tent. Stonor watched her disappear with a gripping pain at his heart, wondering if he would ever see her again. “She might have looked her good-night,” he thought resentfully, even while better sense told him she had refrained from looking at him only because such indications of an understanding always infuriated Imbrie.

The dusk was beginning to gather. Imbrie waited a little while, then said carelessly:

“Tie him up now.”

The woman went to get the piece of line she used for the purpose. Stonor got warily to his feet.

“What do you want to tie me up for?” he said, seeking to gain time. “I’m helpless without weapons. You might let me have one night’s comfortable sleep. I work hard enough for it.”

Imbrie’s suspicions were instantly aroused by this changed attitude of Stonor’s, who had always before indifferently submitted. He raised the gun threateningly. “Shut up!” he said. “Hold your hands behind you.”

The woman was approaching with the line. Stonor moved so as to bring himself in a line between Imbrie and the woman. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Clare at the door of her tent, anxiously watching. He counted on the fact that Imbrie would not shoot while she was looking on without strong provocation. They were all down on the stony beach. Stonor kept edging closer to the water.

Stonor still sought to parley. “What are you afraid of? You’re both armed. What could I do? And you sleep like cats. I couldn’t move hand or foot without waking you. I can’t work all day, and sleep without being able to stretch myself.”

While he talked he manoeuvred to keep himself between Imbrie and the woman. Imbrie, to avoid the danger of hitting her, was obliged to keep circling round Stonor. Finally Stonor got him between him and the water. This was the moment he was waiting for. His muscles were braced like steel springs. Plunging at Imbrie, he got under the gun-barrel and bore the man back into the river. The gun was discharged harmlessly into the air. The beach sloped away sharply, and the force of his rush carried them both into three feet of water. They went under. Imbrie dropped his gun, and clung to Stonor with the desperate, instinctive grip of the non-swimmer. Like a ray of light the thought flashed through Stonor’s brain: “I have him on equal terms now!”

As they went under he was aware of the woman rushing into the water after him with the knife raised. He twisted his body so that Imbrie came uppermost and she was unable to strike. Stonor saw Clare running to the water’s edge.

“Get her gun!” he cried.

Clare swerved to where it stood leaning against the overturned dug-out. The woman turned back, but Clare secured the gun before she was out of the water, and dashed into the thick bushes with it. Meanwhile Stonor dragged the struggling Imbrie into deeper water. They lost their footing and went under again. The woman, after a pause of agonized indecision, ran to the dug-out, and, righting it, pushed it into the water.

Stonor, striking out as he could, carried his burden out beyond a man’s depth. The current carried them slowly down. They were as much under the water as on top, but Stonor cannily held his breath, while Imbrie struggled insanely. Stonor, with his knee against the other’s chest, broke his strangle-hold, and got him turned over on his back. Imbrie’s struggles began to weaken.

Meanwhile the dug-out was bearing down on them. Stonor waited until it came abreast and the woman swung her paddle to strike. Then letting go of Imbrie, he sank, and swimming under water, rose to the surface some yards distant. He saw that the woman had Imbrie by the hair. In this position it was impossible for her to wield her paddle, and the current was carrying her down. Stonor turned about and swam blithely back to the island.

Clare, still carrying the gun, came out of the bushes to meet him. They clasped hands.

“I knew there was only one bullet,” she said. “I was afraid to fire at the woman for fear of missing her.”

“You did right,” he said.

Stonor found the gun that Imbrie had dropped in the water. From the beach they watched to see what the breed woman would do.

“When she gets near the rapids she’ll either have to let go Imbrie or be carried over,” Stonor said grimly.

But the woman proved to be not without her resources. Still with one hand clutched in Imbrie’s hair, she contrived to wriggle out of the upper part of her dress. Out of this she made a sling, passing it under the unconscious man’s arms, and tying it to the thwart of the dug-out. She then paddled ashore and dragged the man out on the beach. There they saw her stand looking at him helplessly. Save for the dug-out she was absolutely empty-handed, without so much as a match to start a fire with.

Presently she loaded the inert body in the dug-out, and, getting in herself, came paddling back towards the island. Stonor grimly awaited her, with the gun over his arm. The dusk was thickening, and Clare built up the fire.

When she came near, Stonor said, raising the gun: “Come no closer till I give you leave.”

She raised her hands. “I give up,” she said apathetically. “I’ve got to have fire for him, blankets. Maybe he is dead.”

“He’s only half-drowned,” said Stonor. “I can bring him to if you do what I tell you.”

“What do you want?”

“Throw your ammunition-belt ashore, then your knife, and the two knives that Imbrie carries in his belt.”

She obeyed. Stonor gratefully buckled on the belt. She landed, and permitted her hands to be bound. Stonor then pulled the dug-out out on the stones, and turning it over rolled Imbrie on the bottom of it until he got most of the water out of him. Then, laying him on his back, after half an hour’s unremitting work, he succeeded in inducing respiration. A little colour returned to Imbrie’s face, and in the end he opened his eyes and looked stupidly around him. At these signs of returning animation the enigma of a woman suddenly lowered her head and broke into a dry hard sobbing.

So intent were they upon the matter in hand they never thought of looking out on the river. It was as dark now as it would be, and anyway the glow of the fire blinded them to what lay outside its radius. Suddenly out of the murk came with stunning effect a deep-throated hail:

“Stonor, is that you?”

The policeman straightened like a man who received an electric shock. A great light broke in his face.

“Lambert! Thank God!” he cried.

Two clumsy little pot-bellied collapsible boats grounded on the stones below their fire and, as it seemed to their confused senses, they were immediately surrounded by a whole crowd of friendly faces. Stonor was aware, not of one red coat, but of three, and two natives besides. The rubicund face of his commanding officer, Major Egerton, “Patch-pants” Egerton, the best-loved man in the North, swam before his eyes. Somehow or other he contrived to salute.

“I have the honour to turn over two prisoners, sir. This man who claims to be Doctor Ernest Imbrie, and this woman, name unknown to me.”

“Good work, Sergeant!” Having returned his salute, the little Major unbent, and offered Stonor his hand.

“This is a surprise, sir, to see you,” said the latter.

“I had just got to the Crossing on my rounds when your note came to Lambert. So I came right on with him.” Major Egerton’s glance took in Stonor’s bandaged skull and dripping clothes, the woman’s bound hands, and Imbrie just returning to consciousness. “I judge you’ve been having a strenuous time,” he remarked drily.

“Somewhat, sir.”

“You shall tell me all about it, when we’ve settled down a bit. We had already camped for the night, when we saw the reflection of your fire, and came down to investigate. Introduce me to the lady.”

The little Major bowed to Clare in his best style. His face betrayed no consciousness of the strangeness of the situation, in that while Dr. Imbrie was a prisoner, Mrs. Imbrie was obviously under Stonor’s protection. He engaged her in conversation about the weather as if they had just met at a lawn fête. It was exactly what the shaken Clare needed.

Meanwhile Stonor slipped aside to his friends. “Lambert!” he cried, gripping his brother-sergeant’s hand, “God knows your ugly phiz is a beautiful sight to my eyes! I knew I could depend on you! I knew it!”

Lambert silently clapped him on the back. He saw from Stonor’s face what he must have been through.

Beyond Lambert Stonor caught sight of a gleaming smile on a dark face. “Tole!” he cried. “They brought you! How good it is to find one’s friends!”