Part 8 (1/2)

”Maybe it will b.u.t.t and b.u.t.t against the tree until it dislodges a limb from high among the branches, and the limb will fall to the ground and crush, shall we say--the waiting wolf? And, maybe the calf will b.u.t.t, learn that the tree is immovable, swallow its hurt, and pa.s.s on, giving the tree a wide berth--pa.s.s on into the quagmire, with the wolf licking his chops, as grinning, he points out the way.”

Chloe, in spite of herself, was intensely interested.

”But,” she asked, ”you are quite sure the tree is immovable?”

”Quite sure.”

”Suppose, however, that this particular tree is rotten--rotten to the heart? That the very roots that hold it in place are rotten? And that the moose-calf b.u.t.ts 'til he b.u.t.ts it down--what then?”

There was a gleam of admiration in MacNair's eyes as he answered:

”If the tree is rotten it will fall. But it will fall to the mighty push o' the winds o' G.o.d--and not to the puny b.u.t.t of a moose-calf!”

Chloe Elliston was silent. The man was speaking again. ”Good day to you, madam, or miss, or whatever one respectfully calls a woman. As I told you, I have known no women. I have lived always in the North.

Death robbed me of my mother before I was old enough to remember her.

The North, you see, is hard and relentless, even with those who know her--and love her.”

The girl felt a sudden surge of sympathy for this strange, outspoken man of the Northland. She knew that the man had spoken, with no thought of arousing sympathy, of the dead mother he had never known.

And in his voice was a note, not merely of deep regret, but of sadness.

”I am sorry,” she managed to murmur.

”What?”

”About your mother, I mean.”

The man nodded. ”Yes. She was a good woman. My father told me of her often. He loved her.”

The simplicity of the man puzzled Chloe. She was at a loss to reply.

”I think--I believe--a moment ago, you asked my name.”

”No.”

”Oh!” The lines about the girl's mouth tightened. ”Then I'll tell you. I am Chloe Elliston--_Miss_ Chloe Elliston. The name means nothing to you--now. A year hence it will mean much.”

”Aye, maybe. I'll not say it won't. More like, though, it will be forgot in half the time. The North has scant use for the pa.s.sing whims o' women!”

CHAPTER VII

THE MASTER MIND

After the visit of MacNair, Chloe noticed a marked diminution in the anxiety of Lapierre to resume his interrupted journey. True, he drove the Indians mercilessly from daylight till dark in the erection of the buildings, but his air of tense expectancy was gone, and he ceased to dart short, quick glances into the North, and to scan the upper reach of the river.

The Indians, too, had changed. They toiled more stolidly now with apathetic ears for Lapierre's urging, where before they had worked in feverish haste, with their eyes upon the edges of the clearing. It was obviously patent that the canoemen shared Lapierre's fear and hatred of MacNair.

In the late afternoon of the twelfth day after the rolling of the first log into place, Chloe accompanied Lapierre upon a tour of inspection of the completed buildings. The man had done his work well. The school-house and the barracks with the dining-room and kitchen were comfortably and solidly built; entirely sufficient for present needs and requirements. But the girl wondered at the trading-post and its appendant store-house they were fully twice the size she would have considered necessary, and constructed as to withstand a siege.

Lapierre had built a fort.

”Excellent buildings; and solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, Miss Elliston,” smiled the quarter-breed, as with a wave of his hand he indicated the interior of the trading-room.