“Turn into the shore,” she told him, half-whispering.  There was no pleading in her tone:  the hard eyes before her told her only too plainly how futile her pleas would be.  “You still have time to steer into shore.  I’ll jump overboard if you don’t.”

He shook his head.  “Don’t jump overboard, Beatrice,” he answered, some of the harshness gone from his tones.  “It isn’t my purpose to kill you—­and to jump over into this stream only means to die—­’for any one except the most powerful swimmer.  You’d be carried down in an instant.”

The girl knew he spoke the truth.  Only death dwelt in those cold and rushing waters.  “What do you mean to do?” she asked.

Her tone was more quiet now, and he waited an instant before he answered.  The canoe glided faster—­ever faster down the stream.  Somewhat afraid, but still trusting in the imperial mind of his master, the wolf raised his head to watch the racing shore line.

“It’s just a little debt I owe your father—­and his gang,” Ben explained.  “I’ll tell you some time, in the days to come.  It was a debt of blood—­”

The girl’s dark eyes charged with red fire.  “And you, a coward, take your payment on a woman.  Turn the canoe into the bank.”

“The payment won’t be taken from you,” he explained soberly.  “You’ll be safe enough—­even the fate that Neilson fears for you won’t happen.  I hate him too much to take that payment from you.  I’d die before I’d touch the flesh of his flesh to mine!  Do you understand that?”

His fury had blazed up, for the instant, and she saw the deadly zeal of a fanatic in his gray eyes.  A hatred beyond all naming, a bitterness and a rage such as she had never dreamed could blast a human heart was written in his brown, rugged face.  Her woman’s intuition gave her added vision, and she glimpsed something of the fire that smoldered and seared behind his eyes.  They were of one blood, this man in the stern and the wolf on the duffle.

“Then why—­”

“You’re safe with me—­the daughter of Jeff Neilson can’t ever be anything but safe with me—­as far as the thing you fear is concerned.  Don’t be afraid for that.  I’m simply paying an honest debt, and you’re the unfortunate agent.  Don’t you know the things he’s fearing now are more torment to him than anything I could do to his flesh?  If we should be killed in these rapids that are coming, it will be fair enough too; he’ll know what it is to lose the dearest thing on earth he has.  For you and me it will only be a minute that won’t greatly matter.  For him it will be weeks—­months!  But that’s only a part of it.  I hope to bring you through.  The main thing is—­that sooner or later they’ll come for you—­into a country where I’ll have every advantage.  Where there won’t be any escape or chance for them.  Where I can watch the trails, and shatter them—­every one—­as slow or as fast as I like.  Where they’ll have to hunt for me, week on week and month on month, their fears eating into them.  That’s my game, Beatrice.  There will be discomfort for you—­and some danger—­but I’ll make it as light as I can.  And in another moment—­”