He called to her.  “Where you at, Dawn?  I ain’t aimin’ to hurt you none.  Come out an’ quit devilin’ me.”

Then, when his wheedling brought no answer, he made the forest ring with threats of what he would do to her when he caught her unless she came to him at once.

Moving slowly forward, he came to the end of the tracks that had been made in the snow.  They ended abruptly, in a thicket of underbrush.  His first thought was that she must be hidden here, but when he had beat through it half a dozen times, he knew this was impossible.  Then where was she?

He had told Whaley that she could not fly away.  But if she hadn’t flown, what had become of her?  There were no trees near enough to climb without showing the impressions of her feet in the snow as she moved to the trunk.  He had an uneasy sense that she was watching him all the time from some hidden place near at hand.  He looked up into the branches of the trees.  They were heavy with snow which had not been shaken from them.

West smothered a laugh and an oath.  He saw the trick now.  She must have back-tracked carefully, at each step putting her feet in exactly the same place as when she had moved forward.  Of course!  The tracks showed where she had brushed the deep drifts occasionally when the moccasin went in the second time.

It was slow business, for while he studied the sign he must keep a keen eye cocked against the chance of a shot from his hidden prey.

Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew he had reached the place where the back-tracking ceased.  Close to the spot was a pine.  A pile of snow showed where a small avalanche had plunged down.  That must have been when she disturbed it on the branches in climbing.

His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt.  With his rifle he covered the figure crouching close to it on the far side.

“Come down,” he ordered.

He was due for one of the surprises of his life.  The tree-dweller slid down and stood before him.  It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, an Indian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil his triumph over the red-coat Beresford.

For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open.  “Whad you doin’ here?” he asked at last.

“No food my camp.  I hunt,” Onistah said.

“Tha’s a lie.  Where’s the McRae girl?”

The slim Indian said nothing.  His face was expressionless as a blank wall.

West repeated the question.  He might have been talking to a block of wood for all the answer he received.  His crafty, cruel mind churned over the situation.

“Won’t talk, eh?  We’ll see about that.  You got her hid somewheres an’ I’m gonna find where.  I’ll not stand for yore Injun tricks.  Drop that gun an’ marche-back to the cabin.  Un’erstand?”

Onistah did as he was told.

They reached the cabin.  There was one thing West did not get hold of in his mind.  Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree?  He had had a score of chances.  The reason was not one the white man would be likely to fathom.  Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was a Christian.  He had learned from Father Giguere that he must turn the other cheek.