Bob MacNair knew of the fort, and the rifles, and the whiskey.  He knew, also, that Lapierre did not know that he knew, and therein, at the proper time, would lie his advantage.  The Hudson Bay Company had no vital interest in verifying the rumour, nor had the men of the Mounted, for as yet Lapierre had succeeded in avoiding suspicion except in the minds of a very few.  And these few, realizing that if Lapierre was an outlaw, he was by far the shrewdest and most dangerous outlaw with whom they had ever been called upon to deal, were very careful to keep their suspicions to themselves, until such time as they could catch him with the goods—­after that would come the business of tracking him to his lair.  And they knew to a certainty that the men would not be wanting who could do this—­no matter how shrewdly that lair was concealed.

Upon arriving at Lac du Mort, Lapierre ordered the canoe-men to load the fur, proceed at once to the mouth of Slave River, transfer it to the scows, and immediately start upon the track-line journey to Athabasca Landing.  His own canoe he loaded with rifles and ammunition, and returned to the Yellow Knife.  It was then he learned that Chloe had gone to Snare Lake, and while he little relished an incursion into MacNair’s domain, he secreted the rifles in the store-house and set out forthwith to overtake her.  Despite the fact that he knew the girl to be strongly prejudiced against MacNair, Lapierre had no wish for her to see his colony in its normal condition of peace and prosperity.  And so, pushing his canoemen to the limit of their endurance, he overtook her as she talked with MacNair by the side of his mother’s grave.

Creeping noiselessly through the scrub to the very edge of the tiny clearing, Lapierre satisfied himself that MacNair was unattended by his Indians.  The man’s back was turned toward him, and the quarter-breed noticed that, as he talked, he leaned upon his rifle.  It was a chance in a thousand.  Never before had he caught MacNair unprepared—­and the man’s blood would be upon his own head.  Drawing the revolver from its holster, he timed his movements to the fraction of a second; and deliberately snapped a twig, MacNair whirled like a flash, and Lapierre fired.  His bullet went an inch too high, and when Chloe insisted upon carrying the wounded man to the school, Lapierre could but feebly protest.

The journey down the Yellow Knife was a nightmare for the quarter-breed, who momentarily expected an attack from MacNair’s Indians.  Upon their safe arrival, however, his black eyes glittered wickedly—­at last MacNair was his.  Fate had played directly into his hands.  He knew the attack was inevitable, and during the excitement—­well, LeFroy could be trusted to attend to MacNair.  With the rifles in the storehouse, MacNair’s Indians would be beaten back, and in the event of an investigation by the Mounted, the responsibility would be laid at MacNair’s door.  But of that MacNair would never know, for MacNair would have passed beyond.