“No.  You’ll ride, my dear.  There’s nae sic a hurry.  The lads’ll do what’s to be done.  On wi’ ye.”

Jessie got into the cariole and was bundled up to the tip of the nose with buffalo robes, the capote of her own fur being drawn over the head and face.  For riding in the sub-Arctic winter is a freezing business.

“Marche,"[6] ordered McRae.

[Footnote:  Most of the dogs of the North were trained by trappers who talked French and gave commands in that language.  Hence even the Anglo-Saxon drivers used in driving a good many words of that language. (W.M.R.)]

Cuffy led the dogs up the hill, following the trail already broken.  The train made good time, but to Jessie it seemed to crawl.  She was tortured with anxiety for Onistah.  An express could not have carried her fast enough.  It was small comfort to tell herself that Onistah was a Blackfoot and knew every ruse of the woods.  His tracks would lead straight to him and the veriest child could follow them.  Nor could she persuade herself that Whaley would stand between him and West’s anger.  To the gambler Onistah was only a nitchie.

The train passed out of the woods to the shore of the lake.  Here the going was better.  The sun was down and the snow-crust held dogs and sled.  A hundred fifty yards from the cabin McRae pulled up the team.  He moved forward and examined the snow.

With a heave Jessie flung aside the robes that wrapped her and jumped from the cariole.  An invisible hand seemed to clutch tightly at her throat.  For what she and her father had seen were crimson splashes in the white.  Some one or something had been killed or wounded here.  Onistah, of course!  He must have changed his mind, tried to follow her, and been shot by West as he was crossing the lake.

She groaned, her heart heavy.

McRae offered comfort.  “He’ll likely be only wounded.  The lads wouldna hae moved him yet if he’d no’ been livin’.”

The train moved forward, Jessie running beside Angus.

Morse came to the door.  He closed it behind him.

“Onistah?” cried Jessie.

“He’s been—­hurt.  But we were in time.  He’ll get well.”

“West shot him?  We saw stains in the snow.”

“No.  He shot Whaley.”

“Whaley?” echoed McRae.

“Yes.  Wanted to get rid of him.  Thought your daughter was hidden in the woods here.  Afraid, too, that Whaley would give him up to the North-West Mounted.”

“Then Whaley’s dead?” the Scotchman asked.

“No.  West hadn’t time right then to finish the job.  Pretty badly hurt, though.  Shot in the side and in the thigh.”

“And West?”

“We came too soon.  He couldn’t finish his deviltry.  He lit out over the hill soon as he saw us.”

They went into the house.

Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the balsam boughs and knelt beside him.  Beresford was putting on one of his feet a cloth soaked in caribou oil.