In the filthy office of the camp on the Lower Blood River, Buck Moncrossen sat at his desk and glowered over his report sheets. The ill-trimmed lamp smoked luridly, and the light that filtered through its blackened chimney illumined dimly the interior of the little room.

The man pawed over his papers with bearlike clumsiness, pausing now and then to wet a begrimed thumb and to curse his luck, his crew, his employer, and any and everything that had to do with logs and logging.

It had been a bad season for Buck Moncrossen. The spring break-up was at hand, and the best he could figure was a scant nine million feet, where Appleton had expected the heavy end of a twenty-five-million-foot cut.

Many of his best men had gone to the new camp to work, as they supposed, under Fallon. The previous winter’s bird’s-eye cut was lost; Creed was gone; Stromberg was gone, and he trusted none of his men sufficiently to continue the game. The boss rose with a growl, and spat copiously in the direction of the stove.

“Damn Appleton! And damn the crew! Nine million feet! At that, though, I bet I’ve laid down half agin as much as the new camp. Fallon never run a crew, an’ he had his camp to build to boot.”

He resumed his seat, and reaching to the top of the desk drew down a quart bottle, from which he drank in long, deep gurgles. He stared a long time at the bottle, drank again, and stooping, began to unlace his boots.

“I’ll start the clean-up in the mornin’, an’ then I’ll find time to pay a little visit I be’n aimin’ to pay all winter. Creed said she was somewheres below the foot of the rapids. It’s anyways ten days to the break-up; an’ I ain’t worryin’ a damn if I do happen to foul Fallon’s drive.”

Jacques Lacombie had so arranged his trap-lines that on his longest circle he should be absent only one night from the lodge where old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta kept an ever-vigilant eye upon the comings and goings of Jeanne.

Since his return after the great blizzard the half-breed had made numerous trips to the camp of Moncrossen, carrying fresh venison, and he did not like the shifting glances the boss bent toward him, nor the leering smile with which he inquired after Jeanne.

As the freezing nights hardened the crust upon the surface of the sodden snow, Jacques discarded his rackets and, spending his days in the lodge, attended his traps at night by the light of a lantern.

Daylight found him one morning headed homeward on a course paralleling the river and nearly opposite Moncrossen’s camp. Steadily he plodded onward, and a smile came to his lips as he formulated his plans for the summer, which included the removal of Jeanne from her dangerous proximity to Moncrossen.

He would change his hunting-ground, move his lodge up the river, and next season he would supply the camp of M’s’u’ Bill, whose heart was good, and who would see that no harm came to the girl.

He swung onto the marshy arm of a small lake, whose surface was profusely dotted with conical muskrat houses which reared their brown domes above the broken rice-straw and cattail stalks.

He had nearly reached the center when suddenly he halted, whirled half around, and clutched frantically at the breast of his shirt. It was as though some unseen hand had dealt him a sharp blow, and a dull, scorching pain shot through his chest.

He drew away his hand, red and dripping, glanced wildly about, staggered a few steps, and crashed headlong, with a rustling sound, into the thick growth of dry cattail stalks.

On the bank of the marsh a thin puff of vapory smoke drifted across the face of a blackened stump and dissolved in the crisp air, and the sharp crack of a high-power rifle of small caliber raised scarcely an echo against the wall of the opposite shore.

A man stepped from behind the stump, glanced sharply about him, and grinned as he leisurely pumped another cartridge into the chamber.

He bit the corner from a thick plug of tobacco, and gazed out over the marsh, which showed only the light yellow of the dry stalks and the brown domes of the rat-houses.

“That ain’t so bad fer two hundred yards-plugged him square in the middle, too. God! I’d hate to die!” he muttered, and, turning, followed the shore of the lake and struck into the timber in the direction in which the other had been going.

An hour later he slipped silently behind the trunk of a tree at the edge of a tiny clearing in the center of which stood a single, smoke-blackened tepee.

The blue smoke from a small fire in front of the opening floated lazily upward in the still air, and beside the blaze a leathern-faced crone squatted and stirred the contents of a black pot which simmered from a cross-piece supported at the ends by crotched sticks driven into the ground.

The old squaw fitted the lid to the pot, hung the long-handled spoon upon a projection of a forked upright, and, picking up a tin pail, disappeared down the well-worn path to the river. With an evil leer the man stepped boldly into the clearing and crossed to the opening of the tepee.

Stooping, he suddenly looked within, where Jeanne Lacombie knelt upon one knee as she fastened the thongs of her moccasin. The man grinned as he recognized the silvery hairs of the great white wolf skin which the girl had thrown across her shoulders.

“So you swiped the greener’s wolf-hide, did you? I seen it was gone offen the end of the bunk-house.”

At the sound the girl looked up, and the blood froze in her veins at the sight of the glittering eyes and sneering lips of Moncrossen. He spoke again:

“You thought I was done with you, did you? Thought I’d forgot you, an’ the fight the old she-tiger put up that night on Broken Knee? But that was in the dark, or there’d been a different story to tell.”

The words came in a horrible nasal snarl, and the little eyes glowed lustfully as they drank in the rich curves of the girl who had sprung to her feet, her muscles tense with terror.

“Come along, now-an’ come peaceable. You’re my woman now. I’m willin’ to let bygones be bygones, an’ I’ll treat you right long as you don’t try none of your tricks. You’ll learn who’s boss, an’ as long as you stay by me you’ll get plenty to eat an’ white folks clothes to wear-that’s a heap better’n livin’ like a damned Injun-you’ll soon fergit all this.”

His promises terrified the girl even more than the angry snarl, and with a loud cry she tried to spring past him, but his arms closed about her and he laughed a hard, brutal laugh of contempt for her puny struggles.

A shadow fell upon them, and the man whirled, dodging quickly as the sharp bit of an axe grazed his shoulder and tore through the wall of the tepee. He released the girl and lunged toward the old squaw, who was reaching for the pot with its scalding contents.

Seizing her by the arm, he threw her heavily to the ground, where she lay while the girl fled to the edge of the clearing and paused, for she knew that in the forest she could easily elude the heavy-footed lumber boss. Moncrossen, too, realized that pursuit would be useless, and in his rage leveled his rifle at the figure upon the ground.

“Come back here!” he cried. “Come back, or by God I’ll plug her like I plugged -” He stopped abruptly and glanced along the sights.

The girl hesitated, and the voice of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta fell sharply upon her ear:

“No! No! Do not come! He will not shoot! Even now his finger flutters upon the trigger! He is afraid to shoot!” And she glared defiantly into the glittering eyes that squinted above the gun-barrel. Slowly the muzzle lowered and the man laughed-a hard, dry laugh.

“You’re right!” he sneered. “I won’t shoot. But if she don’t come back you’ll wish to God I had shot!”

He turned to the girl: “I ain’t goin’ to chase you. I’m goin’ to stand pat. When you git ready you c’n come to me-up to the camp. Meanwhile I’ll put the old hag where the dogs won’t bite her, an’ while you stay away she don’t eat-see? She ain’t nothin’ but a rack o’ bones nohow, an’ a few days’ll fix her clock.”

“Go find Jacques!” cried the old woman, fumbling at her blanket.

The man laughed. “Sure, go find him!” he taunted.

A skinny hand was withdrawn from the blanket and the clawlike fingers clutched a fragment of broken knife-blade. She held it before the man and the shrunken lips mumbled unintelligible words; then, with a swift movement, she flung it from her and it rang upon the ice at the feet of the girl, who stooped swiftly and seized it.

“Go!” cried the old woman. “Far up the river to the camp of the One-Good-White-Man!”

Again Moncrossen laughed harshly.

“You can’t work none of your damned charms on me!” he sneered. “G’wan up the river. There ain’t no one up there but Fallon’s camp, an’ you might better stick with me. Only don’t stay too long. This here old leather image can’t live without eatin’, an’ when you come we’ll have heap big potlatch.”

The wigwam of old Wabishke, the Indian trapper, was pitched in a dense thicket on the shore of the little muskrat lake. In the early gray of the morning the old Indian was startled by the sound of a shot.

He peered cautiously through the branches and saw a man pitch forward among the rice-stalks. Five minutes later another man carrying a rifle passed within a hundred feet of him and disappeared in the timber in the direction of Blood River Rapids. When he was gone Wabishke ran swiftly to the fallen man and conveyed him to the wigwam, where he plugged the bullet-hole with fat and bound up the wound.

Two hours later the bushes parted and Jeanne Lacombie burst panting into the wigwam. The girl uttered a wild cry at the sight of her brother lying motionless upon the robe and dropped to her knees at his side.

“Moncrossen,” grunted the Indian, and watched in silent wonder as the girl leaped to her feet and, seizing an empty pack-sack, began stuffing it with food. Snatching a light blanket from the floor, she swung the pack to her shoulders and without a word dashed again into the forest.