The H.B.C., taking wise cognizance of the seventh year, extends it credit—­“debt” it is called in the outlands—­but it puts no more wool in its blankets, and for lack of food the body-fires burn low.  But the cold remains inexorable.  And with the thermometer at seventy degrees below zero, even in the years of plenty, when the philosophers eat almost daily, there is little of comfort.  With the thermometer at seventy in the lean years, the suffering is diminished by the passing of many philosophers.

The arrest of Bob MacNair was a matter of sovereign import to the dwellers of the frozen places, and word of it swept like wildfire through the land of the lakes and rivers.  Yet in all the North those upon whom it made the least impression were those most vitally concerned—­MacNair’s own Indians.  So quietly had the incident passed that not one of them realized its importance.

With them MacNair was God.  He was the law.  He had taught them to work, so that even in the lean years they and their wives and their babies ate twice each day.  He had said that they should continue to eat twice each day, and therefore his departure was a matter of no moment.  They knew only that he had gone southward with the man of the soldier-police.  This was doubtless as he had commanded.  They could conceive of MacNair only as commanding.  Therefore the soldier-policeman had obeyed and accompanied him to the southward.

With no such complacency, however, was the arrest of MacNair regarded by the henchmen of Lapierre.  To them MacNair was not God, nor was he the law.  For these men knew well the long arm of the Mounted and what lay at the end of the trail.  Lean forms sped through the woods, and the word passed from lip to lip in far places.  It was whispered upon the Slave, the Mackenzie, and the Athabasca, and it was told in the provinces before MacNair and Ripley reached Fort Chippewayan.  Along the river, men talked excitedly, and impatiently awaited word from Lapierre, while their eyes snapped with greed and their thoughts flew to the gold in the sands of the barren grounds.

In the Bastile du Mort, a hundred miles to the eastward, Lapierre heard the news from the lips of a breathless runner, but a scant ten hours after Corporal Ripley and MacNair stepped from the door of the cottage.  And within the hour the quarter-breed was upon the trail, travelling light, in company with LeFroy, who, fearing swift vengeance, had also sought safety in the stronghold of the outlaws.

Chloe Elliston stood in the doorway and watched the broad form of Bob MacNair swing across the clearing in company with Corporal Ripley.  As the men disappeared in the timber, a fierce joy of victory surged through her veins.  She had bared the mailed fist!  Had wrested a people from the hand of their oppressor!  The Snare Lake Indians were henceforth to be her Indians!  She had ridded the North of MacNair!  Every fibre of her sang with the exultation of it as she turned into the room and encountered the fishlike stare of Big Lena.