Twice he quartered over the ground before he knew he had reached the place where the back-tracking ceased. Close to the spot was a pine. A pile of snow showed where a small avalanche had plunged down. That must have been when she disturbed it on the branches in climbing. His glance swept up the trunk and came to a halt. With his rifle he covered the figure crouching close to it on the far side. "Come down," he ordered. He was due for one of the surprises of his life. The tree-dweller slid down and stood before him. It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, an Indian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil his triumph over the red-coat Beresford. For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. "Whad you doin' here?" he asked at last. "No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said. "Tha's a lie. Where's the McRae girl?" The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expressionless as a blank wall. West repeated the question. He might have been talking to a block of wood for all the answer he received. His crafty, cruel mind churned over the situation. "Won't talk, eh? We'll see about that. You got her hid somewheres an' I'm gonna find where. I'll not stand for yore Injun tricks. Drop that gun an' marchê-back to the cabin. Un'erstand?" Onistah did as he was told. They reached the cabin. There was one thing West did not get hold of in his mind. Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree? He had had a score of chances. The reason was not one the white man would be likely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was a Christian. He had learned from Father Giguère that he must turn the other cheek. West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the caribou skins. He tied his captive hand and foot, then removed his moccasins and duffles. From the fire he raked out a live coal and put it on a flat chip. This he brought across the room. "Changed yore mind any? Where's the girl?" he demanded. Onistah looked at him, impassive as only an Indian can be. "Still sulky, eh? We'll see about that." The convict knelt on the man's ankles and pushed the coal against the naked sole of the brown foot. An involuntary deep shudder went through the Blackfoot's body. The foot twitched. An acrid odor of burning flesh filled the room. No sound came from the locked lips. The tormentor removed the coal. "I ain't begun to play with you yet. I'm gonna give you some real Apache stuff 'fore I'm through. Where's the girl? I'm gonna find out if I have to boil you in grease." Still Onistah said nothing. West brought another coal. "We'll try the other foot," he said. Again the pungent acrid odor rose to the nostrils. "How about it now?" the convict questioned. No answer came. This time Onistah had fainted. CHAPTER XXVIII "IS A' WELL WI' YOU, LASS?"