The words came in a horrible nasal snarl, and the little eyes glowed lustfully as they drank in the rich curves of the girl who had sprung to her feet, her muscles tense with terror. "Come along, now--an' come peaceable. You're _my_ woman now. I'm willin' to let bygones be bygones, an' I'll treat you right long as you don't try none of your tricks. You'll learn who's boss, an' as long as you stay by me you'll get plenty to eat an' white folks clothes to wear--that's a heap better'n livin' like a damned Injun--you'll soon fergit all this." His promises terrified the girl even more than the angry snarl, and with a loud cry she tried to spring past him, but his arms closed about her and he laughed a hard, brutal laugh of contempt for her puny struggles. A shadow fell upon them, and the man whirled, dodging quickly as the sharp bit of an axe grazed his shoulder and tore through the wall of the tepee. He released the girl and lunged toward the old squaw, who was reaching for the pot with its scalding contents. Seizing her by the arm, he threw her heavily to the ground, where she lay while the girl fled to the edge of the clearing and paused, for she knew that in the forest she could easily elude the heavy-footed lumber boss. Moncrossen, too, realized that pursuit would be useless, and in his rage leveled his rifle at the figure upon the ground. "Come back here!" he cried. "Come back, or by God I'll plug her like I plugged----" He stopped abruptly and glanced along the sights. The girl hesitated, and the voice of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta fell sharply upon her ear: "No! No! Do not come! He will not shoot! Even now his finger flutters upon the trigger! He is afraid to shoot!" And she glared defiantly into the glittering eyes that squinted above the gun-barrel. Slowly the muzzle lowered and the man laughed--a hard, dry laugh. "You're right!" he sneered. "I won't shoot. But if she don't come back you'll wish to God I had shot!" He turned to the girl: "I ain't goin' to chase you. I'm goin' to stand pat. When you git ready you c'n come to me--up to the camp. Meanwhile I'll put the old hag where the dogs won't bite her, an' while you stay away she don't eat--see? She ain't nothin' but a rack o' bones nohow, an' a few days'll fix her clock." "Go find Jacques!" cried the old woman, fumbling at her blanket. The man laughed. "Sure, go find him!" he taunted. A skinny hand was withdrawn from the blanket and the clawlike fingers clutched a fragment of broken knife-blade. She held it before the man and the shrunken lips mumbled unintelligible words; then, with a swift movement, she flung it from her and it rang upon the ice at the feet of the girl, who stooped swiftly and seized it. "Go!" cried the old woman. "Far up the river to the camp of the One-Good-White-Man!" Again Moncrossen laughed harshly.