The dogs were whirled upon the back-trail, and once more the outfit headed for the school upon the bank of the Yellow Knife.  It was well toward midnight when Lapierre called a halt.  They were close to the edge of the clearing.  Leaving one man with the dogs and motioning the others to follow, he stole noiselessly from tree to tree until the dull square of light that glowed from the window of Chloe Elliston’s room showed distinctly through the interlacing branches.  The quarters of the Indians were shrouded in darkness.  For a long time Lapierre stood staring at the little square of light, while his men, motionless as statues, blended into the shadows of the trees.  The light was extinguished.  The quarter-breed moved to the edge of the clearing and, seating himself upon the root of a gnarled banskian, rapidly outlined his plan.

Suddenly his form stiffened and he drew close against the trunk of his tree, motioning the others to do likewise.  The door of the cottage had opened.  A parka-clad figure stepped from the little veranda, paused uncertainly in the moonlight, and then, with light, swinging strides, moved directly toward the banskian.  Lapierre’s pulse quickened, and his lips twisted into an evil smile.  That the figure was none other than Chloe Elliston was easily discernible in the bright moonlight, and with fiendish satisfaction the quarter-breed realized that the girl was playing directly into his hands.  For, as he sat upon the sled beside the little camp-fire, his active brain had evolved a new scheme.  If Chloe Elliston could not be made to accompany him willingly, why not unwillingly?

Lapierre believed that once safely entrenched behind the barriers of the Bastile du Mort, he could hold out for a matter of six months against any forces which were likely to attack him.  He realized that his most serious danger was from MacNair and his Indians.  For Lapierre knew MacNair.  He knew that once upon his trail, MacNair would relentlessly stick to that trail—­the trail that must end at a grave—­many graves, in fact.  For as the forces stood, Lapierre knew that many men must die, and bitterly he cursed LeFroy for disclosing to MacNair the whereabouts of the Mausers concealed in the storehouse.

The inevitable attack of the Mounted he knew would come later.  For the man knew their methods.  He knew that a small detachment, one officer, or perhaps two, would appear before the barricade and demand his surrender, and when surrender was refused, a report would go in to headquarters, and after that—­Lapierre shrugged—­well, that was a problem of tomorrow.  In the meantime, if he held Chloe Elliston prisoner under threat of death, it was highly probable that he could deal to advantage with MacNair, and, at the proper time, with the Mounted.  If not—­Voila!  It was a fight to the death, anyway.  And again Lapierre shrugged.