“Rossland told you that?”

“Yes.  And there are others with him, so many that he was amused when I told him you would not let them take me away.”

“Then you were not afraid that I—­I might let them have you?”

“I have always been sure of what you would do since I opened that second letter at Ellen McCormick’s, Alan!”

He caught the flash of her eyes, the gladness in them, and she was gone before he could find another word to say.  Keok and Nawadlook were approaching hesitatingly, but now they hurried to meet her, Keok still grimly clutching the long knife; and beyond them, at the little window under the roof, he saw the ghostly face of old Sokwenna, like a death’s-head on guard.  His blood ran a little faster.  The emptiness of the tundras, the illimitable spaces without sign of human life, the vast stage waiting for its impending drama, with its sunshine, its song of birds, its whisper and breath of growing flowers, struck a new note in him, and he looked again at the little window where Sokwenna sat like a spirit from another world, warning him in his silent and lifeless stare of something menacing and deadly creeping upon them out of that space which seemed so free of all evil.  He beckoned to him and then entered his cabin, waiting while Sokwenna crawled down from his post and came hobbling over the open, a crooked figure, bent like a baboon, witch-like in his great age, yet with sunken eyes that gleamed like little points of flame, and a quickness of movement that made Alan shiver as he watched him through the window.

In a moment the old man entered.  He was mumbling.  He was saying, in that jumble of sound which it was difficult for even Alan to understand—­and which Sokwenna had never given up for the missionaries’ teachings—­that he could hear feet and smell blood; and that the feet were many, and the blood was near, and that both smell and footfall were coming from the old kloof where yellow skulls still lay, dripping with the water that had once run red.  Alan was one of the few who, by reason of much effort, had learned the story of the kloof from old Sokwenna; how, so long ago that Sokwenna was a young man, a hostile tribe had descended upon his people, killing the men and stealing the women; and how at last Sokwenna and a handful of his tribesmen fled south with what women were left and made a final stand in the kloof, and there, on a day that was golden and filled with the beauty of bird-song and flowers, had ambushed their enemies and killed them to a man.  All were dead now, all but Sokwenna.

For a space Alan was sorry he had called Sokwenna to his cabin.  He was no longer the cheerful and gentle “old man” of his people; the old man who chortled with joy at the prettiness and play of Keok and Nawadlook, who loved birds and flowers and little children, and who had retained an impish boyhood along with his great age.  He was changed.  He stood before Alan an embodiment of fatalism, mumbling incoherent things in his breath, a spirit of evil omen lurking in his sunken eyes, and his thin hands gripping like bird-claws to his rifle.  Alan threw off the uncomfortable feeling that had gripped him for a moment, and set him to an appointed task—­the watching of the southward plain from the crest of a tall ridge two miles back on the Tanana trail.  He was to return when the sun reached its horizon.