The alarm had been given at a moment of extreme emotional excitement, and restraint was thrown to the winds.  It was like a rout after battle.

The men shouted; the women wailed and forgot their children.  The throng was full of lost children; they fell by the road and lay shrieking.

Ambrose never forgot the picture as he ran, of an old crone, crazed by excitement, whirling like a dervish, rocking her skinny arms and twisting her neck into attitudes as grotesque as gargoyles.

The trail they covered was a rough wagon-road winding among patches of poplar scrub and willow.  Issuing out upon the wide clearing which contained their village they saw afar the little storehouse burning like a torch, and redoubled their cries.

They swept past the teepees without stopping, the biggest ones in the van, the little ones tailing off and falling down and getting up again with piteous cries.

Reaching the spot, all could see there was nothing to be done.  The shack was completely enveloped in names.  There were not half a dozen practicable water-pails in the tribe, and anyhow the fire was a good furlong from the river.

Ambrose, seeing what a start it had got, guessed that it was no accident.  It had been set, and set in such a way as to insure the shack’s total destruction.  He considered the sight grimly.

The mystery he had first scented that morning was assuming truly formidable proportions.  He believed that Watusk was a party to it; but he could not conceive of any reason why Watusk should burn up his people’s bread.

There was nothing to be done, and the people ceased their cries.  They stood gazing at the ruby and vermilion flames with wide, charmed eyes.

Among the pictures that this terrible night etched with acid on Ambrose’s subconsciousness, the sight of them standing motionless, all the dark faces lighted by the glare, was not the least impressive.

With a sickening anxiety he perceived the signs of a rising savage rage.  The men scowled and muttered.  More than once he heard the words:  “John Gaviller!” Men slipped away to the teepees and returned with their guns.

Ambrose looked anxiously for Watusk.  He could not reach the people except through the man he distrusted.

He found him by himself in a kind of retreat among some poplars a little way off, where he could see without being seen.  Ambrose dragged him back willy-nilly, adjuring him by the way.

“The people are working themselves into a rage.  They speak of Gaviller.  You and I have got to prevent trouble.  You must tell them Gaviller is a hard man, but he keeps the law.  He did not do this thing.  This is the act of another enemy.”

“What good tell them?” said Watusk sullenly.  “They not believe.”

“You are their leader!” cried Ambrose.  “It’s up to you to keep them out of trouble.  If you do not speak, whatever happens will be on your head!  And I will testify against you.  Tell the people to wait until to-morrow and I pledge myself to find out who did this.”