“And he destroyed it?  Can you swear it was whiskey?” asked the officer.

“Certainly, I can swear it was whiskey!  I saw it and smelled it.”

“Can you explain why Lapierre did not know of these pieces, until you called his attention to them?”

Chloe hesitated a moment and tapped nervously on the table with her fingers.  “Yes,” she answered, “I can.  Mr. Lapierre took charge of the outfit only that morning.”

“Who was the boss scowman?  Who took the scows down the Athabasca?”

“A man named Vermilion.  He was a half-breed, I think.  Anyway, he was a horrible creature.”

“Where is Vermilion now?”

Again Chloe hesitated.  “He is dead,” she answered.  “Mr. Lapierre shot him.  He shot him in self-defence, after Vermilion had shot another man.”

The officer nodded, and Chloe called upon Big Lena to corroborate the statement that Lapierre had destroyed certain whiskey upon the bank of Slave Lake.  “Is that all?” asked the officer.

“No, indeed!” answered Chloe.  “That isn’t all!  Only last week, I went to visit MacNair’s fort on Snare Lake in company with Mr. Lapierre and Lena, and four canoemen.  We got there shortly after dark.  Fires had been built on the beach—­many of them almost against the walls of the stockade.  As we drew near, we heard loud yells and howlings that sounded like the cries of animals, rather than of human beings.  We approached very close to the shore where the figures of the Indians were distinctly visible by the light of the leaping names.  It was then we realized that a wild orgy of indescribable debauchery was in progress.  The Indians were raving drunk.  Some lay upon the ground in a stupor—­others danced and howled and threw fire-brands about in reckless abandon.

“We dared not land, but held the canoe off shore and watched the horrible scene.  We had not long to wait before the inevitable happened.  The whirling fire-brands falling among the cabins and against the walls of the stockade started a conflagration, which soon spread to the storehouse.  And then MacNair appeared on the scene, rushing madly among the Indians, striking, kicking, and hurling them about.  A few sought to save themselves by escaping to the timber.  And, jerking a rifle from the hand of an Indian, MacNair fired twice at the fleeing men.  Two of them fell and the others escaped into the timber.”

“You did not see any whiskey in the possession of these Indians?” asked Corporal Ripley.  “You merely surmised they were drunk by their actions?”

Chloe nodded.  “Yes,” she admitted, “but certainly there can be no doubt that they were drunk.  Men who are not drunk do not——­”

MacNair interrupted her.  “They were drunk,” he said quietly, “very drunk.”

“You admit that?” asked the officer in surprise.  “I must warn you, MacNair, that anything you say may be used against you.”  MacNair nodded.