As Lapierre made his way to the camp of the Indians he pondered deeply.  For Lapierre was troubled.  The fact that MacNair had twice come upon him unexpectedly within the space of a month caused him grave concern.  He did not know that it was entirely by chance that MacNair had found him, an unwelcome sojourner at Fort Rae.  Accusations and recriminations had passed between them, with the result that MacNair, rough, bluff, and ready to fight at any time, had pounded the quarter-breed to within an inch of his life, and then, to the undisguised delight of the men of the H.B.C., had dragged him out and pitched him ignominiously into the lake.

Either could have killed the other then and there.  But each knew that to have done so, as the result of a personal quarrel, would have been the worst move he could possibly have made.  And the forebearance with which MacNair fought and Lapierre suffered was each man’s measure of greatness.  MacNair went about his business, and to Lapierre came Chenoine with his story of the girl and the plot of Vermilion, and Lapierre, forgetting MacNair for the moment, made a dash for the Slave River.

For years Lapierre and MacNair had been at loggerheads.  Each recognized in the other a foe of no mean ability.  Each had sworn to drive the other out of the North.  And each stood at the head of a powerful organization which could be depended upon to fight to the last gasp when the time came to “lock horns” in the final issue.  Both leaders realized that the show-down could not be long delayed—­a year, perhaps—­two years—­it would make no difference.  The clash was inevitable.  Neither sought to dodge the crisis, nor did either seek to hasten it.  But each knew that events were shaping themselves, the stage was set, and the drama of the wilds was wearing to its final scene.

From the moment of his meeting with Chloe Elliston, Lapierre had realized the value of an alliance with her against MacNair.  And being a man whose creed it was to turn every possible circumstance to his own account, he set about to win her co-operation.  When, during the course of their first conversation, she casually mentioned that she could command millions if she wanted them, his immediate interest in MacNair cooled appreciably—­not that MacNair was to be forgotten—­merely that his undoing was to be deferred for a season, while he, the Pierre Lapierre once more of student days, played an old game—­a game long forgot in the press of sterner life, but one at which he once excelled.

“A game of hearts,” the man had smiled to himself—­“a game in which the risk is nothing and the stakes——­ With millions one may accomplish much in the wilderness, or retire into smug respectability—­who knows?  Or, losing, if worse comes to worst, a lady who can command millions, held prisoner, should be worth dickering for.  Ah, yes, dear lady!  By all means, you shall be helped to Christianize the North!  To educate the Indians—­how did she say it?  ’So that they may come and receive that which is theirs of right’—­fah!  These women!”