“Sam no say now.  See bimeby, mebbe.”

To Jean Sam was the very embodiment of good nature and gentle care.  And she had good reason for this high regard.  But as a great bear has been known to bestow a remarkable affection upon a lost child, notwithstanding its savage nature, so it was with Sam.  Could Jean have seen him that night as he led his score of followers against the slashers she would not have believed him to be the same Indian who had been so kind to her.  The wild nature within him was aroused.  He was on the warpath against a hated enemy.  As he glided through the forest, his eyes glowed like living coals of fire, and his great body quivered with excitement.  His companions, too, were intensely stirred.  The slashers were against King George, and that was all-sufficient.  Like weird spectres they moved through the night.  Not a word did they speak, and not a twig snapped as their moccasined feet pressed the ground.  Never did a girl have a more determined and thoroughly-trained body of men speeding forth on her behalf than did Jean Sterling that night in the heart of the great northern forest.

For a little over half an hour the Indians continued on their way, up hill and down, with no abatement to their speed.  At length, after climbing a higher hill than usual, they paused on the eastern slope and held a low-whispered consultation.  This took but a few minutes, and when they again advanced it was not in single file, but spread out to the right and left like two wings, with Sam in the centre.  Down in the valley were the slashers, and toward them they moved, silently and stealthily as the panther stalking its prey.  With bent, crouching bodies, and every sense keenly alert, they glided toward the unsuspecting slashers.  Nearer and nearer they approached, and at length when the light of a camp fire winged its way into the forest depths, they lessened their speed, dropped upon their hands and knees, crept cautiously forward, and then stopped but a bow-shot away.  Here they remained as silent and rigid as the great trees, keenly observing all that was taking place before them.

Near the fire about twenty-five men were gathered, talking in the most animated manner.  They were an evil-looking group of creatures, dirty, unshaven, their clothes ill-fitting and torn.  They formed the dregs of the wild, lower than the Indians and the dumb beasts of the trails.  They were parasites, a menace to law and order.  Honor was unknown among them, and the purity of such a girl as Jean Sterling only aroused the base passions within them.  The rangers they feared, as well as the Indians who were loyal to King George.  They were cunning woodsmen, subtle as the serpent, and sly as the fox.  They were hard to catch, being in one place to-day, and miles away the next.  When food was plentiful they were gluttons, but when it was scarce they starved for days.  They had a craze for rum, and when drunk they were ugly, maudlin brutes.  They were fond of a fight, and fought like demons on the slightest pretext.