“You have your chance,” growled MacNair, “I impose no restrictions.  I shall command them to obey you; even to attend your school, if you wish!  You will hardly have time to do them much harm.  As I told you, the North is not ready for your education.  But I know that you are honest.  You are a fool, and the time is not far distant when you yourself will realize this; when you will learn that you have become the unwitting dupe of one of the shrewdest and most diabolical scoundrels that ever drew breath.  Again I tell you that some day you and I shall be friends!  At this moment you hate me.  But I know it is through ignorance you hate.  I have small patience with your ignorance; but, also, at this moment you are the only person in all the North with whom I would trust my Indians.  Lapierre, from now on, will be past charming them.  I shall see to it that he is kept so busy in the matter of saving his own hide that he will have scant time for deviltry.”

Still Chloe appeared to hesitate.  And through MacNair’s mind flashed the memory of the rapier-blade eyes that stared from out the dull gold frame of the portrait that hung upon the wall of the little cottage—–­eyes that were the eyes of the girl before him.

“Well,” he asked with evident impatience, “are you afraid of these Indians?”

The flashing eyes of the girl told him that the shot had struck home.  “No!” she cried.  “I am not afraid!  Send your Indians to me, if you will; and when you send them, bid good-by to them forever.”

MacNair nodded.  “I will send them,” he answered, and, turning abruptly upon his heel, disappeared into the scrub.

The journey down the Yellow Knife consumed six days, and it was a journey fraught with many hardships for Chloe Elliston, unaccustomed as she was to trail travel.  The little-used trail, following closely the bank of the stream, climbed low, rock-ribbed ridges, traversed black spruce swamps, and threaded endlessly in and out of the scrub timber.  Nevertheless, the girl held doggedly to the slow pace set by the canoemen.

When at last, foot-sore and weary, with nerves a-jangle, and with every muscle in her body protesting with its own devilishly ingenious ache against the overstrain of the long, rough miles and the chill misery of damp blankets, she arrived at the school, Lapierre was nowhere to be found.  For the wily quarter-breed, knowing that MacNair would instantly suspect the source of the whiskey, had, upon his arrival, removed the remaining casks from the storehouse, and conveyed them with all haste to his stronghold on Lac du Mort.

Upon her table in the cottage, Chloe found a brief note to the effect that Lapierre had been, forced to hasten to the eastward to aid LeFroy in dealing with the whiskey-runners.  The girl had scant time to think of Lapierre, however, for upon the morning after her arrival, MacNair appeared, accompanied by a hundred or more dejected and woe-begone Indians.  Despite the fact that Chloe had known them only as fierce roisterers she was forced to admit that they looked harmless and peaceful enough, under the chastening effect of a week of starvation.