“Your ignorance would be amusing, if it were not tragic!” retorted MacNair.  And picking up the gun which the wounded Indian had dropped, held it before the eyes of the girl.  “The hunters of the North, Miss Elliston, do not equip themselves with Mausers.”

“With Mausers!” cried the girl.  “You mean——­”

“I mean just this,” broke in MacNair, “that your Indians were armed to kill men, not animals.  With, or without, your knowledge or sanction, your Indians have been supplied with the best rifles obtainable.  Your school is Lapierre’s fort!” Thrusting the rifle into the hands of the girl, he brushed past her and with difficulty made his way through the intervening room to the outer door, which he threw open.

Chloe followed.  Outside the firing continued with undiminished intensity, but the girl was conscious of no sense of fear.  Her eyes swept the room, flooded now by the glare of the flaring flames.  Beside the stove stood Big Lena, an ax gripped tightly in her strong hands.  The remaining Indian lay upon the floor, firing slowly through a loophole punched in the chinking.  At the doorway MacNair turned, and in the strong light Chloe noticed that his face was haggard and drawn with pain.

“I thank you.” he said, touching his bandaged chest, “for your nursing.  It has probably saved my life.”

“Come back!  They will kill you!” MacNair ignored her warning.  “You have one redeeming feature,” cried the girl.  “At least, you are as brutal toward yourself as toward others.”

MacNair laughed harshly.  “I thank you,” he said and staggered out into the fire-lit clearing.  Dully, Chloe noticed that the Indian who had been firing from the floor slipped stealthily through the doorway and, dropping to his knee, raised his rifle.  The next instant the girl’s eyes widened in horror.  The gun was pointed squarely at MacNair’s back.  She tried to cry out, but no sound came.  It seemed minutes that the Indian sighted as he knelt there in the clearing.  And then—­he pulled the trigger.  There was a sharp, metallic click, followed by a muttered imprecation.  The man jerked down the rifle and reaching into his pocket, produced long yellow cartridges, which he jammed into the magazine.

The horror of it!  The diabolical deliberation of the man spurred the girl to a fury she had never known.  In that moment her one thought was to kill—­to kill with her hands—­to rend—­to tear—­and to maim!  For the first time she realized that the thing in her hand was a gun.

Again the Indian was raising his rifle.  The girl twisted and jerked at the bolt of her own gun.  It was locked.  The next instant, with a loud, animal-like cry, she leaped for the doorway, trampling, as she passed, with a wild, fierce joy upon the upturned staring face of the dead Indian.