Having swallowed a stiff glass of the whisky, he went carefully through the medicine chest, now and again putting aside, with definite purpose, certain bottles and vials.  Then he set to work on the food, attempting a crude analysis.  He had not been unused to the laboratory in his college days and was possessed of sufficient imagination to achieve results with his limited materials.  The condition of tetanus, which had marked his paroxysms, simplified matters, and he made but one test.  The coffee yielded nothing; nor did the beans.  To the biscuits he devoted the utmost care.  Amos, who knew nothing of chemistry, looked on with steady curiosity.  But Jees Uck, who had boundless faith in the white man’s wisdom, and especially in Neil Bonner’s wisdom, and who not only knew nothing but knew that she knew nothing watched his face rather than his hands.

Step by step he eliminated possibilities, until he came to the final test.  He was using a thin medicine vial for a tube, and this he held between him and the light, watching the slow precipitation of a salt through the solution contained in the tube.  He said nothing, but he saw what he had expected to see.  And Jees Uck, her eyes riveted on his face, saw something too,—­something that made her spring like a tigress upon Amos, and with splendid suppleness and strength bend his body back across her knee.  Her knife was out of its sheaf and uplifted, glinting in the lamplight.  Amos was snarling; but Bonner intervened ere the blade could fall.

“That’s a good girl, Jees Uck.  But never mind.  Let him go!”

She dropped the man obediently, though with protest writ large on her face; and his body thudded to the floor.  Bonner nudged him with his moccasined foot.

“Get up, Amos!” he commanded.  “You’ve got to pack an outfit yet to-night and hit the trail.”

“You don’t mean to say—­” Amos blurted savagely.

“I mean to say that you tried to kill me,” Neil went on in cold, even tones.  “I mean to say that you killed Birdsall, for all the Company believes he killed himself.  You used strychnine in my case.  God knows with what you fixed him.  Now I can’t hang you.  You’re too near dead as it is.  But Twenty Mile is too small for the pair of us, and you’ve got to mush.  It’s two hundred miles to Holy Cross.  You can make it if you’re careful not to over-exert.  I’ll give you grub, a sled, and three dogs.  You’ll be as safe as if you were in jail, for you can’t get out of the country.  And I’ll give you one chance.  You’re almost dead.  Very well.  I shall send no word to the Company until the spring.  In the meantime, the thing for you to do is to die.  Now mush!”

“You go to bed!” Jees Uck insisted, when Amos had churned away into the night towards Holy Cross.  “You sick man yet, Neil.”

“And you’re a good girl, Jees Uck,” he answered.  “And here’s my hand on it.  But you must go home.”