Both men shrugged their shoulder and turned away, the half-breed going back to his own camp.  The missionary called his two men to him, and they fell into prayer.  Stockard and Bill attacked the few standing pines with their axes, felling them into convenient breastworks.  The child had fallen asleep, so the woman placed it on a heap of furs and lent a hand in fortifying the camp.  Three sides were thus defended, the steep declivity at the rear precluding attack from that direction.  When these arrangements had been completed, the two men stalked into the open, clearing away, here and there, the scattered underbrush.  From the opposing camp came the booming of war-drums and the voices of the priests stirring the people to anger.

“Worst of it is they’ll come in rushes,” Bill complained as they walked back with shouldered axes.

“And wait till midnight, when the light gets dim for shooting.”

“Can’t start the ball a-rolling too early, then.”  Bill exchanged the axe for a rifle, and took a careful rest.  One of the medicine-men, towering above his tribesmen, stood out distinctly.  Bill drew a bead on him.

“All ready?” he asked.

Stockard opened the ammunition box, placed the woman where she could reload in safety, and gave the word.  The medicine-man dropped.  For a moment there was silence, then a wild howl went up and a flight of bone arrows fell short.

“I’d like to take a look at the beggar,” Bill remarked, throwing a fresh shell into place.  “I’ll swear I drilled him clean between the eyes.”

“Didn’t work.”  Stockard shook his head gloomily.  Baptiste had evidently quelled the more warlike of his followers, and instead of precipitating an attack in the bright light of day, the shot had caused a hasty exodus, the Indians drawing out of the village beyond the zone of fire.

In the full tide of his proselyting fervor, borne along by the hand of God, Sturges Owen would have ventured alone into the camp of the unbeliever, equally prepared for miracle or martyrdom; but in the waiting which ensued, the fever of conviction died away gradually, as the natural man asserted itself.  Physical fear replaced spiritual hope; the love of life, the love of God.  It was no new experience.  He could feel his weakness coming on, and knew it of old time.  He had struggled against it and been overcome by it before.  He remembered when the other men had driven their paddles like mad in the van of a roaring ice-flood, how, at the critical moment, in a panic of worldly terror, he had dropped his paddle and besought wildly with his God for pity.  And there were other times.  The recollection was not pleasant.  It brought shame to him that his spirit should be so weak and his flesh so strong.  But the love of life! the love of life!  He could not strip it from him.  Because of it had his dim ancestors perpetuated their line; because of it was he destined to perpetuate his.  His courage, if courage it might be called, was bred of fanaticism.  The courage of Stockard and Bill was the adherence to deep-rooted ideals.  Not that the love of life was less, but the love of race tradition more; not that they were unafraid to die, but that they were brave enough not to live at the price of shame.