For answer, Vermilion pointed toward the river-bank, where the men were working with long poles in the overturning of the scow.  “We shove heem out in de rivaire.  Wen dey fin’, dey t’ink she mak’ for teep ovaire in de Chute. Voila!  Dey say:  ’Een de dark she run on de rock’—­pouf!” he signified eloquently the instantaneous snuffing out of lives.  Even as he spoke the scow overturned with a splash, and the scowmen pushed it out into the river, where it floated bottom upward, turning lazily in the grip of an eddy.  The girl’s heart sank as her eyes rested upon the overturned scow.  Vermilion had plotted cunningly.  He drew closer now—­leering horribly.

“You mak’ write on de papaire—­non?”

A swift anger surged in the girl’s heart.  “No!” she cried.  “I will not write!  I have no such amount in any bank this side of San Francisco!  But if I had a million dollars, you would not get a cent!  You can’t bluff me!”

Vermilion sprang toward her with a snarl; but before he could lay hands upon her Big Lena, with a roar of rage, leaped past the girl and drove a heavy stick of firewood straight at the half-breed’s head.  The man ducked swiftly, and the billet thudded against his shoulder, staggering him.  Instantly two of the scowmen threw themselves upon the woman and bore her to the ground, where she fought, tooth and nail, while they pinioned her arms.  Vermilion, his face livid, seized Chloe roughly.  The girl shrank in terror from the grip of the thick, grimy fingers and the glare of the envenomed eyes that blazed from the distorted, brutish features.

“Stand back!”

The command came sharp and quick in a low, hard voice—­the voice of authority.  Vermilion whirled with a snarl.  Uttering a loud cry of fear, one of the scowmen dashed into the bush, closely followed by two of his companions.  Two men advanced swiftly and noiselessly from the cover of the scrub.  Like a flash, the half-breed jerked a revolver from his belt and fired.  Chenoine fell dead.  Before Vermilion could fire again the other man, with the slightest perceptible movement of his right hand, fired from the hip.  The revolver dropped from the half-breed’s hand.  He swayed unsteadily for a few seconds, his eyes widening into a foolish, surprised stare.  He half-turned and opened his lips to speak.  Pink foam reddened the corners of his mouth and spattered in tiny drops upon his chin.  He gasped for breath with a spasmodic heave of the shoulders.  A wheezing, gurgling sound issued from his throat, and a torrent of blood burst from his lips and splashed upon the ground.  With eyes wildly rolling, he clutched frantically at the breast of his cotton shirt and pitched heavily into the smouldering ashes of the fire at the feet of the stranger.

But few seconds had elapsed since Chloe felt the hand of Vermilion close about her wrist—­tense, frenzied seconds, to the mind of the girl, who gazed in bewilderment upon the bodies of the two dead men which lay almost touching each other.