“Indeed!” The girl laughed a trifle sharply.  “And who, then, is the judge?”

“I am.”  The calm assurance of the man fanned her rising anger, and, when she answered, her voice was low and steady, with the tonelessness of forced control.

“And your name, you Oligarch of the Far Outland?  May I presume to ask your name?”

“Why ask?  My name you already know.  And upon the word of yon scum, you have judged.  By the glint o’ hate, as you looked into my eyes, I know—­for one does not so welcome a stranger beyond the outposts.  But, since you have asked, I will tell you; my name is MacNair—­Robert MacNair, by my christening—­Bob MacNair, in the speech of the country——­”

“And, Brute MacNair, upon the Athabasca?”

“Yes.  Brute MacNair—­upon the Athabasca—­and the Slave, and Mackenzie—­and in the haunts of the whiskey-runners, and ‘Fool’ MacNair—­in Winnipeg.”

“And among the oppressed and the down-trodden?  Among those whose heritage of freedom you have torn from them?  What do they call you—­those whom you have forced into serfdom?” For a fleeting instant the girl caught the faintest flicker, a tiny twinkle of amusement, in the steely eyes.  But, when the man answered, his eyes were steady.

“They call me friend.”

“Is their ignorance so abysmal?”

“They have scant time to learn from books—­my Indians.  They work.”

“But, a year from now, when they have begun to learn, what will they call you then—­your Indians?”

“A year from now—­two years—–­ten years—­my Indians will call me—­friend.”

Chloe was about to speak, but MacNair interrupted her.  “I have scant time for parley.  I was starting for Mackay Lake, but when Old Elk reported two of yon scum’s satellites hanging about, I dropped down the river.  By your words it’s a school you will be building.  If it were a post I would have to take you more seriously——­”

“There will be a—­” Chloe felt the warning touch of Lapierre’s finger at her back and ceased abruptly.  MacNair continued, as if unmindful of the interruption.

“Build your school, by all means.  ’Tis a spot well chosen by yon devil’s spawn, and for his own ends.  By your eyes you are honest in purpose—­a fool’s purpose—­and a hare-brained carrying out of it.  You are being used as a tool by Lapierre.  You will not believe this—­not yet.  Later—­perhaps, when it is too late—­but, that is your affair—­not mine.  At the proper time I will crush Lapierre, and if you go down in the crash you will have yourself to thank.  I have warned you.  Yon snake has poisoned your mind against me.  In your eyes I am foredamned—­and well damned—­which causes me no concern, and you, no doubt, much satisfaction.

“Build your school, but heed well my words.  You’ll not tamper, one way or another, with my Indians.  One hundred and seventy miles north of here, upon Snare Lake, is my post.  My Indians pass up and down the Yellow Knife.  They are to pass unquestioned, unmolested, unproselyted.  Confine your foolishness to the southward and I shall not interfere—­carry it northward, and you shall hear from me.