The woman leaned, ponderous and silent, against the jamb of the door giving into the kitchen.  Her huge arms were folded tightly across her breast, and, for some inexplicable reason, Chloe found the stare disconcerting.  The enthusiasm of her victory damped perceptibly.  For if the fish-eyed stare held nothing of reproach, it certainly held nothing of approbation.  Almost the girl read a condescending pity in the stare of the china-blue eyes.  The thought stung, and she faced the other wrathfully.

“Well, for Heaven’s sake say something!  Don’t stand there and stare like a—­a billikin!  Can’t you talk?”

“Yah, Ay tank Ay kin; but Ay von’t—­not yat.”

“What do you mean?” cried the exasperated girl, as she flung herself into a chair.  But without deigning to answer, Big Lena turned heavily into the kitchen, and closed the door with a bang that impoverished invective—­for volumes may be spoken—­in the banging of a door.  The moment was inauspicious for the entrance of Harriet Penny.  At best, Chloe merely endured the little spinster, with her whining, hysterical outbursts, and abject, unreasoning fear of God, man, the devil, and everything else.  “Oh, my dear, I am so glad!” piped the little woman, rushing to the girl’s side:  “we need never fear him again, need we?”

“Nobody ever did fear him but you,” retorted Chloe.

“But, Mr. Lapierre said——­”

The girl arose with a gesture of impatience, and Miss Penny returned to MacNair.  “He is so big, and coarse, and horrible!  I am sure even his looks are enough to frighten a person to death.”

Chloe sniffed.  “I think he is handsome, and he is big and strong.  I like big people.”

“But, my dear!” cried the horrified Miss Penny.  “He—­he kills Indians!”

“So do I!” snapped the girl, and stamped angrily into her own room, where she threw herself upon the bed and gave way to bitter reflections.  She hated everyone.  She hated MacNair, and Big Lena, and Harriet Penny, and the officer of the Mounted.  She hated Lapierre and the Indians, too.  And then, realizing the folly of her blind hatred, she hated herself for hating.  With an effort she regained her poise.

“MacNair is out of the way; and that’s the main thing,” she murmured.  She remembered his last words:  “Beware of Pierre Lapierre,” and her eyes sought the man’s hastily scribbled note that lay upon the table where he had left it.  She reread the note, and crumpling it in her hand threw it to the floor.  “He always manages to be some place else when anything happens!” she exclaimed.  “Oh, why couldn’t it have been the other way around?  Why couldn’t MacNair have been the one to have the interest of the Indians at heart?  And why couldn’t Lapierre have been the one to browbeat and bully them?”