Presently LeFroy’s head thrust in at the entrance.  He spoke no word; Lapierre sang on, and the head was withdrawn.  When the song was finished the sounds from the outside had ceased.  Lapierre carefully replaced his guitar in its case, drew a heavy revolver from its holster, threw it open, and twirled the cylinder with his thumb, examining carefully its chambers.  His brows drew together and his lips twisted into a diabolical smile.

Lapierre was a man who took no chances.  What was one Indian, more or less, beside the absolute integrity of his organization?  He stepped outside, and instantly the guy-ropes of the tent were loosened; the canvas slouched to the ground and was folded into a neat pack.  The blankets were made into a compact roll, with the precious guitar in the centre and deposited in the head canoe.  Lapierre glanced swiftly about him; nothing but the dying fires and the abandoned lodge-poles indicated the existence of the camp.  On the shore the canoemen, leaning on their paddles, awaited the word of command.

He stepped to the water’s edge, where, Apaw the Indian, stood with the others.  For just a moment the baleful eyes of Lapierre fixed the silent figure; then his words cut sharply upon the silence.

“Apaw—­Chahco yahkwa!” The Indian advanced, evidently proud of having been singled out by the chief, and stood before him, paddle in hand.  Lapierre spoke no word; seconds passed, the silence grew intense.  The hand that gripped the paddle shook suddenly; and then, looking straight into the man’s eyes, Lapierre drew his revolver and fired.  There was a quick spurt of red flame—­the sound of the shot rang sharp, and rang again as the opposite bank of the river hurled back the sound.  The Indian pitched heavily forward and fell across his paddle, snapping it in two.

Lapierre glanced over the impassive faces of the canoemen.

“This man was a traitor,” he said in their own language.  “I have dismissed him from my service.  Weight him and shove off!”

The quarter-breed stepped into his canoe.  The canoemen bound heavy stones to the legs of the dead Indian, laid the body upon the camp equipage amidship, and silently took their places.

During the evening meal, Chloe was unusually silent, answering Miss Penny’s observations and queries in short, detached monosyllables.  Later she stole out alone to a high, rocky headland that commanded a sweeping view of the river, and sat with her back against the broad trunk of a twisted banskian.

The long Northern twilight hung about her like a pall—­seemed enveloping, smothering her.  No faintest breath of air stirred the piny needles above her, nor ruffled the surface of the river, whose black waters, far below, flowed broad and deep and silent—­smoothly—­like a river of oil.  Ominously hushed, secretive, it slipped out of the motionless dark.  Silently portentous, it faded again into the dark, the mysterious