That night the engineers returned, and when Smith saw the Cree in the camp he jumped on Jaquis furiously.

“Why do you keep this woman here?” he demanded.

“I—­keep?  Me?” quoth Jaquis, blinking as bewildered as the black bear had blinked at the Belle.

“Who but you?—­you heathen!” hissed the engineer.

Now Jaquis, calling up the ghosts of his dead sires, asserted that it was the engineer himself who was “keeping” the Cree.  “You bought her—­she’s yours,” said Jaquis, in the presence of the company.

“You ill-bred ——­” Smith choked, and reached for a tent prop.  The next moment his hand was at the Indian’s throat.  With a quick twist of his collar band he shut off the Siwash’s wind, choking him to the earth.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, and Jaquis, coughing, put up his hands.  “I meant no lie,” said he.  “Did you not give to her mother the camp kettle?  She has it, marked G.T.P.”

“And what of that?”

“Voila,” said Jaquis, “because of that she gave to you the Belle of Athabasca.”

Smith dropped his stick, releasing the Indian.

“I did not mean she is sold to you.  She is trade—­trade for the empty pot, the Belle—­the beautiful.  From yesterday to this day she followed you, far, very far, to the foot of the Grande Cote, and nothing harmed her.  The mountain lion looked on her in terror, the timber wolf took to the hills, the black bear backed from the trail and let her pass in peace,” said Jaquis, with glowing enthusiasm.  It was the first time he had talked of her, save to the stars and to We-sec-e-gea, and he glowed and grew eloquent in praise of her.

“You take her,” said Smith, with one finger levelled at the head of the cook, “to the camp of the Crees.  Say to her mother that your master is much obliged for the beautiful gift, but he’s too busy to get married and too poor to support a wife.”

* * * * *

From the uttermost rim of the ring of light that came from the flickering fire la Belle the beautiful heard and saw all that had passed between the two men.  She did not throw herself at the feet of the white man.  Being a wild woman she did not weep nor cry out with the pain of his words, that cut like cold steel into her heart.  She leaned against an aspen tree, stroking her throat with her left hand, swallowing with difficulty.  Slowly from her girdle she drew a tiny hunting-knife, her one weapon, and toyed with it.  She put the hilt to the tree, the point to her bare breast, and breathed a prayer to We-sec-e-gea, god of the Crees.  She had only to throw the weight of her beautiful body on the blade, sink without a moan to the moss, and pass, leaving the camp undisturbed.

Smith marked the faintest hint of sarcasm in the half smile of the Indian as he turned away.

“Come here,” he cried.  Jaquis approached cautiously.  “Now, you skulking son of a Siwash, this is to be skin for skin.  If any harm comes to that young Cree you go to your little hammock in the hemlocks—­you understand?”