“No. The rascal changed his tune in a hurry, if you noticed--and why? Because he must have few men with him. He does not dare oppose us. Now, think! If that Spirit Lake is only a short march away, we’ll be there to-morrow. You heard what he said about reaching the Star Woman. With luck, we’ll not need the Assiniboine guides after all.” “I don’t like it,” muttered Frontin. “I don’t like the very name of these Stone Men!” Crawford laughed shortly, and they met Sir Phelim Burke and walked with him to the fire, telling of what had passed. Sir Phelim wrinkled up his nose and eyed the trees. “My word is to get out of this valley,” he declared. “We’d best make no night camp with red dogs hanging around. Here, ask the guides if they know about this Spirit Lake!” Crawford nodded. “Break camp!” he commanded sharply, and beckoned one of the Crees. He was just putting the question to the red man, when from the fringe of trees there roared up the voice of Maclish. “So I can’t stop ye, eh? Then take it, ye lousy rogues----” A musket crashed, and the Cree beside Hal Crawford plunged and thrashed in the snow like a stricken partridge. From the trees all around shrilled up a wild chorus of yells. Another musket and another spoke out from that encircling ring of unseen foes; then came a buzz and a hum of loosened bowstrings, and shafts began to pour in from the trees. It was not battle, it was murder. With guns all fur-cased against the frost, unable to sight an enemy, Crawford and his men could strike scarcely a blow. The wild yells of the Stone Men, fierce cousins of the fiercer Dacotah, pealed up in triumph and hideous mockery. The five Cree guides died where they stood. An Englishman coughed with an arrow through his gullet, and lay reddening the snow. Sir Phelim Burke reeled up to Crawford, a shaft protruding from his side. “Got us, Hal!” he cried. “At them, lad----” Crawford caught him as he fell, saw his helpless men dropping, heard the black curses of Frontin, knew that he was utterly lost and all his men. Then, sudden as it had burst, the treacherous storm was stilled. The voice of Maclish lifted again from among the trees. “There’s stoppage for ye, Crawford! Now sit ye down, and I’ll talk a bit more with ye presently, when I get these red devils quiet.” Then fell silence, and ghastly horror on the valley where the snow lay reddened. So suddenly had it all passed, that save for the dead men the thing seemed like a dream. It was Frontin who took charge, his frost-blackened lips cracking out oaths and commands, making the men pile arms and gather around the fire. There was naught else to do, for they were caught in the open and ringed around with foes. Hal Crawford, for once, was incapable of action, as he gently let Phelim Burke sink into the snow, pillowed his head, and sat gazing into that scarred and branded face which was now greying in death.