Old John's hand rested for a moment upon the girl's head. "I promise all that, girl. Surely ye know I can be just. If it is as ye say, I'll more than make it up to him. I promise ye, his name shall not suffer." "I love you, Dad. I know you are just--but you're a hard-hearted old Scot, just the same. You don't make many mistakes, but you have made two--about Oskar, and about hiring that Wentworth. I told you you'd be sorry." "Well, maybe ye're right," and John McNabb never blinked an eye. "See, didn't I just say you were hard-headed? You won't admit you made a mistake even after what Orcutt told you to-day. But tell me honestly, Dad, are you ruined?" "Well, we won't worry about that, lass. D'ye hear the hoot-owl? I like to hear them of nights. I found one's nest once an' I took the three eggs out an' slipped them under a hen that Mother McFarlane had settin'. It was at Long Lake post, Mother McFarlane was the factor's wife, an' I was his clerk. The eggs had been sat on a long time an' they hatched out before the hen eggs. Ye should have seen Mother McFarlane's face when she caught sight of them chickens! It was one of the best jokes I ever made." "And here you ought to be as solemn as an owl yourself, and you are talking of jokes. I don't understand you at all." "Maybe I should be an owl. D'ye notice in the stories, they make the Scots say, 'hoot'? But about Wentworth, now. If we should meet up with him, don't let on ye know anything about my deal with Orcutt. Treat him nice an' pleasant----" "After what he has done to you?" cried the girl, her eyes flashing. "Just so. Be nice an' friendly to him--d'ye know what a poker face is?" "Why, of course! Everybody plays poker in Terrace City." "Mind ye, ye're settin' in a big game right now----" "You mean," cried the girl, "that there's a chance? A chance to beat Orcutt yet? Oh, if you only could!" "Well, we're still settin' in the game--me an' you, daughter. An' let's don't neither one of us throw down our hand till after the draw." XXII Toward evening of the fourth day after leaving the railway, the two stepped into the broad clearing that surrounded the Gods Lake post. "Oh, real Indians!" cried Jean, as she caught sight of the dozen or more tepees that were pitched between the lake and the low log trading post. "Aye, real Injuns, lass--an' good it is to see them again. It will be the remnant of the spring tradin'. 'Tis about over now, but always there's some of the Injuns will hang around the post all summer." "They're cooking over open fires, and look, there comes one from the lake with some fish! Oh, don't you just love it?"