“I am not going to kill him,” he said, “but, by God!  He will wish I had!  I hope he will live to be an old, old man.  To the day of his death he will carry my mark.  Bone-deep he will carry the scar of the gun-brand!  The cross of the curse of Cain!”

MacNair turned from the girl and again the gun crept slowly upward.  The quarter-breed had heard the words.  With a mighty effort he filled his lungs and from between the blue-grey lips sang a wild, shrill scream of abysmal soul-terror.  Chloe Elliston’s heart went sick at the cry, which rang in her ears as the very epitome of mortal agony.  She felt her knees grow weak and she glanced at the Louchoux girl, who knelt close, still staring into the upturned face, the while her red lips smiled.

Closer, and closer crowded the Indians.  MacNair deliberately reversed the gun, his huge fist still gripping the butt.  The top of the barrel was turned downward, and the sight bit deep into the skin at the roots of the hair on Lapierre’s temple.  Deeper and deeper sank the sight.  MacNair’s fingers tightened their grip until the knuckles whitened and a huge shoulder hunched to throw its weight upon the arm.

Slowly, very slowly, the sight moved across the upturned brow, tearing the flesh, rolling up the skin before its dull, broad edge.  The quarter-breed’s muscles strained and his legs twined spasmodically about the legs of MacNair, while his fingers tore through the snow and clawed at the bark of the wood-pile.  Deliberately, the gun-sight ripped and tore across the forehead—­grooving the bone.  The wide scar showed raw and red, and in spots the skull flashed white.  The broad line lost itself in the hair upon the opposite temple.

Again MacNair buried the sight, this time among the hair roots of the median line.  Once more the gun began its slow journey, travelling downward, crossing the lateral scar with a ragged tear.  Once more the flesh and skin ripped and rolled before the unfaltering sight and gathered upon the edges of the wound in ragged, tight-rolled knots and shreds that would later heal into snaggy, rough excrescences, grey, like the unclean dregs of a slag-pot.

A thin trickle of blood followed slowly along the groove.  The gun-sight was almost between the man’s eyes, when, with a scream, Chloe sprang forward and clutched MacNair’s arm in both her hands.

“You brute!” she cried.  “You inhuman brute! I hate you!”

MacNair answered never a word.  With a sweep of his arm he flung her from him.  She spun dizzily and fell in a heap on the snow.  Once more the gun-sight rested deep against the bone at the point of its interruption.  Once more it began its inexorable advance, creeping down between the eyes and along the bridge of the nose.  Cartilage split wide, the upper lip was cleft, and the steel clicked sharply against blood-dripping teeth.