“You will promise to grant one request—­for my sake?”

Without hesitation came the man’s answer; “Anything you ask.”

“On your soul, will you promise, and will you keep that promise regardless of consequences?”

“I promise,” answered the man, and his voice rang harsh.  For revenge upon Lapierre with his own hands had been the dearest hope of his life.  At the next words of the girl, an icy hand seemed clutching at his heart.

“Then fight!” she cried.  “Fight!  Fight!  Fight!  Shoot!  And cut!  And batter!  And kill!  Until you have ridded the North of this fiend!”

With a snarl, Lapierre leaped toward the girl with arm upraised.  There was a chorus of hoarse cries from behind the walls.  Before the uplifted arm could descend the figure of Lapierre disappeared with startling suddenness.  The next instant the gigantic form of Big Lena appeared, head and shoulders above the walls of the stockade at the point where Lapierre had been.  The huge shoulders stooped, the form of Chloe Elliston arose as on air, shot over the wall, and dropped into a crumpled heap upon the snow at its base.  The face of Big Lena framed by flying strands of flaxen hair appeared for a moment above the wall, and then the sound of a shot rang sharp and clear.  The face disappeared, and from beyond the wall came the muffled thud of a heavy body striking the snow.

A dark head appeared above the walls at the point near where the girl had fallen, and an arm was thrust over the logs.  MacNair caught the glint of a blue-black barrel.  Like a flash he drew his automatic and fired.  The revolver dropped from the top of the wall to the snow, and the hand that held it gripped frantically at the logs and disappeared.

MacNair threw back his head, and loud and clear on the frosty air blared the call of the wolf.  The whole line of the forest spit flame.  The crash and roar of a hundred guns was in the air as the men from behind the barricade replied.  Lithe forms carrying ladders dashed across the open space.  Many pitched forward before the wall and lay doubled grotesquely upon the white strip of snow, while eager hands carried the ladders on.

Suddenly, above the crash of the guns sounded the war-cry of the Yellow Knives.  The whole clearing sprang alive with men, yelling like fiends and firing as they ran.  Dark forms swarmed up the ladders and over the walls.  MacNair grabbed the rungs of a ladder and drew himself up.  Above him climbed the Indian who had carried the ladder.  He had no gun, but the grey blade of a long knife flashed wickedly between his teeth.

The Indian crashed backward, carrying MacNair with him into the snow.  MacNair struggled to his feet.  The Indian lay almost at the foot of the ladder, and, gurgling horribly, rose to his knees.  MacNair glanced into his face.  The man’s eyes were rolled backward until only the whites showed.  His lips moved, and he clung to the rungs of the ladder.  Blood splashed down his front and reddened the trampled snow, then he fell heavily backward, and MacNair saw that his whole throat had been shot away by the close fired charge of a shotgun.