“And, as to the killing of the men,” continued Chloe, “I charge MacNair with their murder.”

“Murder is a very serious charge, Miss Elliston.  Let’s go over the facts again.  You say you were in a canoe near the shore—­you saw a man you say was MacNair grab a rifle from an Indian and kill two men.  Stop and think, now—­it was night and you saw all this by firelight—­are you sure the man who fired the shots was MacNair?”

“Absolutely!” cried the girl, with a trace of irritation.

“It was I who shot,” interrupted MacNair.

The officer regarded him curiously and again addressed the girl.  “Once more, Miss Elliston, do you know that the men you saw fall are dead?  Mere shooting won’t sustain a charge of murder.”

Chloe hesitated.  “No,” she admitted reluctantly.  “I did not examine their dead bodies, if that is what you mean.  But MacNair afterward told me that he killed them, and I can swear to having seen them fall.”

“The men are dead,” said MacNair.

The officer stared in astonishment.  Chloe also was puzzled by the frank admission of the man, and she gazed into his face as though striving to pierce its mask and discover an ulterior motive.  MacNair returned her gaze unflinchingly and again the girl felt an indescribable sense of smallness—­of helplessness before this man of the North, whose very presence breathed strength and indomitable man-power.

“Was it possible,” she wondered, “that he would dare to flaunt this strength in the very face of the law?” She turned to Corporal Ripley, who was making notes with a pencil in a little note-book.  “Well,” she asked, “is my evidence specific enough to warrant this man’s arrest?”

The officer nodded slowly.  “Yes,” he answered gravely.  “The evidence warrants an arrest.  Very probably several arrests.”

“You mean,” asked the girl, “that you think he may have—­an accomplice?”

“No, Miss Elliston, I don’t mean that.  In spite of your evidence and his own words, I don’t think MacNair is guilty.  There is something queer here.  I guess there is no doubt that whiskey has been run into the territory, and that it has been supplied to the Indians.  You charge MacNair with these crimes, and I’ve got to arrest him.”

Chloe was about to retort, when the officer interrupted her with a gesture.

“Just a moment, please,” he said quietly; “I’m not sure I can make myself plain to you, but you see in the North we know something of MacNair’s work.  Of what he has done in spite of the odds.  We know the North needs men like MacNair.  You claim to be a friend of the Indians.  Do you realize that up on Snare Lake, right now, are a bunch of Indians who depend on MacNair for their existence?  MacNair’s absence will cause suffering among them and even death.  If his storehouse has been burned, what are they going to eat?  On your statements I’ve got to enter charges against MacNair.  First and foremost the charge of murder.  He will also be charged with importing liquor, having liquor in prohibited territory, smuggling whiskey, and supplying liquor to the Indians.