The chief halted at sight of Phillips, the man who had hired him and his people, but at a word from Royal he resumed his march.  He averted his eyes, however, and he held his head low, showing that this encounter was not at all to his liking.  Royal, on the contrary, carried off the meeting easily.  He grinned at Lucky Broad and was about to pass on when the Countess Courteau rose to her feet and stepped into the trail.

“Just a minute!” she said.  Of Royal’s companion she sternly demanded, “What do you mean by this trick?”

The old redskin shot her a swift glance; then his face became expressionless and he gazed stolidly at the river.

“What do you mean?” the woman repeated, in a voice quivering with fury.

“Him people—­” the chief began, but Royal spoke for him.  Removing his hat, he made a stiff little bow, then said, courteously enough: 

“I’m sorry to hold you up, ma’am, but—­”

“You’re not holding me up; I’m holding you up,” the woman broke in.  “What do you take me for, anyhow?” She stared at the white man so coldly, there was such authority and such fixity of purpose in her tone and her expression, that his manner changed.

“I’m on orders,” said he.  “There’s no use to argue.  I’d talk plainer to you if you was a man.”

But she had turned her eyes to the chief again.  “You lying scoundrel!” she cried, accusingly.  “I made a straight deal with you and your people and I agreed to your price.  I’m not going to let you throw me down!”

The wooden-faced object of her attack became inexplicably stupid; he strove for words.  “Me no speak good,” he muttered.  “Me no savvy—­”

“Perhaps you’ll savvy this.”  As the Countess spoke she took from her pocket a short-barreled revolver, which she cocked and presented in a capable and determined manner so close to the old native’s face that he staggered backward, fending off the attack.  The woman followed him.

“Look here!” Danny Royal exploded.  He made a movement with his right hand, but Pierce Phillips and Lucky Broad stepped close to him.  The former said, shortly: 

“If you make a move I’ll brain you!”

“That’s me,” seconded Mr. Broad.  “Lift a finger, Danny, and we go to the mat.”

Royal regarded the two men searchingly.  “D’you think I’ll let you people stick me up?” he queried.

“You’re stuck up!” the Countess declared, shortly.  “Make sure of this—­I’m not bluffing.  I’ll shoot.  Here—­you!” she called to one of the packers at the rear of the line who had turned and was making off.  “Get back where you were and stay there.”  She emphasized this command with a wave of her weapon and the Indian obeyed with alacrity.  “Now then, Mr. Royal, not one pound of Sam Kirby’s freight will these people carry until mine is over the pass.  I don’t recognize you in this deal in any way.  I made a bargain with the chief and I’ll settle it with him.  You keep out.  If you don’t, my men will attend to you.”