Once through the swift water at the tail of Slave Rapids, the four scows drifted lazily down the river.  The scowmen distributed themselves among the pieces in more or less comfortable attitudes and slept.  In the head scow only the boss and the three women remained awake.

“Who is Pierre Lapierre?” Chloe asked suddenly.

The man darted her a searching glance and shrugged.  “Pierre Lapierre, she free-trader,” he answered.  “Dees scow, she Pierre Lapierre scow.”

If Chloe was surprised at this bit of information, she succeeded admirably in disguising her feelings.  Not so Harriet Penny, who sank back among the freight pieces to stare fearfully into the face of the younger woman.

“Then you are Pierre Lapierre’s man?  You work for him?”

The man nodded.  “On de reevaire I’m run de scow—­me—­Vermilion!  I’m tak’ de reesk.  Lapierre, she tak’ de money.”  The man’s eyes glinted wickedly.

“Risk?  What risk?” asked the girl.

Again the man eyed her shrewdly and laughed.  “Das plent’ reesk—­on de reevaire.  De scow—­me’be so, she heet de rock in de rapids—­bre’k all to hell—­Voila!” Somehow the words did not ring true.

“You hate Lapierre!” The words flashed swift, taking the man by surprise.

“Non! Non!” he cried, and Chloe noticed that his glance flashed swiftly over the sprawling forms of the five sleeping scowmen.

“And you are afraid of him,” the girl added before he could frame a reply.

A sudden gleam of anger leaped into the eyes of the half-breed.  He seemed on the point of speaking, but with an unintelligible muttered imprecation he relapsed into sullen silence.  Chloe had purposely baited the man, hoping in his anger he would blurt out some bit of information concerning the mysterious Pierre Lapierre.  Instead, the man crouched silent, scowling, with his gaze fixed upon the forms of the scowmen.

Had the girl been more familiar with the French half-breeds of the outlands she would have been suspicious of the man’s sudden taciturnity under stress of anger—­suspicious, also, of the gradual shifting that had been going on for days among the crews of the scows.  A shifting that indicated Vermilion was selecting the crew of his own scow with an eye to a purpose—­a purpose that had not altogether to do with the scow’s safe conduct through white-water.  But Chloe had taken no note of the personnel of the scowmen, nor of the fact that the freight of the head scow consisted only of pieces that obviously contained provisions, together with her own tent and sleeping outfit, and several burlapped pieces marked with the name “MacNair.”  Idly she wondered who MacNair was, but refrained from asking.

The long-gathering twilight deepened as the scows floated northward.  Vermilion’s face lost its scowl, and he smoked in silence—­a sinister figure, thought the girl, as he crouched in the bow, his dark features set off to advantage by his flaming head-band.