Weston sat for a while in his room after the others had gone.  The grim expression had now left his face, and his eyes twinkled, while a smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.  Anyone watching would have pronounced him the most hardened villain in existence.  How could a man smile who had just sentenced a fellow creature to death?  This man’s heart must be hard and cold as an iceberg.  But Weston’s thoughts were evidently not unpleasant, and when he at length picked up his hat and left the house he was in an excellent frame of mind.  Could Glen have seen him then she would have wondered more than ever.

The light of day had not yet faded from the land, although the high ridge of the Golden Crest placed the village in deep shadows.  The sky was heavy with big clouds, presaging a storm.  The wind was steadily increasing, and Weston knew that the rain would shortly be upon them.

He continued on his way down through the village, past the store and the last house in the place until he came to the edge of a thicket of firs and jack-pines.  Here he paused and listened intently, but no sound could he hear.  Advancing fifty yards more, he left the main thoroughfare and entered upon a narrow trail leading down toward the lake.  The trees were thicker here, and the ground suddenly sloped to a valley a short distance ahead.  Weston needed no light to guide him, and he walked with the assurance of one well acquainted with his surroundings.

In a few minutes a light gleamed through the trees, and a smile of satisfaction overspread Weston’s face.  He knew that the natives were obeying orders and doing their part.  Beyond was a small clearing, and coming to the edge of this, he again paused and watched unseen all that was taking place.

It was a most gruesome spot, this Valley of the Ordeal, and Curly was by no means the first who had been conducted hither.  But no one had ever come in a more cringing manner than did this latest victim.  Some had shown the craven spirit, and had begged for mercy, while others had fought and cursed their captors.  But Curly was different.  Whatever spark of manhood he possessed deserted him the moment he left the big house on the hill.  He sank upon the ground, and his guards had to drag him along by main force.

He wept and moaned all the way through the village until the valley was reached.  Then what he beheld struck him dumb with terror, and for a while he sat crouched upon the ground, staring wild-eyed upon the Indians as they began their preparations for the Ordeal.

There were about two dozen natives present, and they knew their work thoroughly, due, no doubt, to considerable experience in the past.  Near the edge of the thicket, on the opposite side of the clearing from where Weston was standing, was the blackened stump of a big fir tree.  To this Curly was dragged, and several of the men were forced to hold him up while he was being securely bound with his back to the trunk.  About his feet dry wood was then placed, and half way up his body.  When this had been accomplished, the Indians formed themselves in a circle about the unhappy man, and began to chant a slow weird dirge in the native tongue.