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Updated: May 1, 2025
MacNair wrung the officer's hand in a mighty grip, and then just as he was on the point of starting his dogs, paused and gazed thoughtfully after the other who was making his way toward the little buildings of Fort Resolution. "Oh, Ripley," he called. The officer turned and retraced his steps. "You've heard of Lapierre's fort to the eastward. Have you ever been there?" Ripley shook his head.
Their obedience to Vermilion's orders had been a surly, protesting obedience; while their obedience to Lapierre's slightest motion was the quiet, alert obedience that proclaimed him master of men, as his own silent vigilance proclaimed him master of the roaring waters.
So sudden and unexpected had been Lapierre's dénouement at the hands of the Indian girl and Big Lena, that when he quitted Chloe Elliston's living-room the one thought in his mind was to return to his stronghold on Lac du Mort. For the first time the real seriousness of his situation forced itself upon him.
The following two days showed no diminution in the efforts of the canoemen. The wounded man's condition remained unchanged. Lapierre's canoe followed at a distance of a mile or two, and a hundred times a day Chloe found herself listening with strained expectancy for the sound of the shots that would proclaim that MacNair's Indians had overtaken them.
The heads disappeared, and of Lapierre's men many tumbled backward into the snow, while others crouched upon the firing ledge which Lapierre had constructed near the top of his log stockade and answered the volley, shooting at random into the timber. But only as a man's head appeared, or as his body showed between the spaces of the logs, were their shots returned.
He counted eighty-seven men under arms, thirty of whom were armed with Lapierre's Mausers. The position of the quarter-breed's fort admitted only one plan of attack to rush the barricade that stretched across the neck of the little peninsula. MacNair longed for action.
And the look of reproach with which he sank, to the ground when Lapierre's bullet laid him low. Her heart thrilled at the memory of the blazing wrath of him, the cold gleam of his eyes, the wicked snap of his iron jaw, as he said, "I have taken the man-trail!" She remembered the words he had once spoken: "When you have learned the North, we shall be friends."
As for Pierre Lapierre and his band, they must be crushed and driven out of the land of the lakes and the rivers, but the time was not yet. He, MacNair, would tell them when to strike, and only if Lapierre's Indians were found prowling about the vicinity of Snare Lake were they to be molested. The Indians dispersed and, slinging a rifle over his shoulder, MacNair swung off alone into the bush.
Dey got it comin'. Dey should not ought to drink Lapierre's vhiskey." "Lapierre's whiskey!" cried the girl. "Are you crazy?" "Naw, Ay tank Ay ain't so crazy. Lapierre he fool ju long tam'." "What do you mean," asked Chloe. "Ah, das a'right," answered the woman. "He fool ju gude, but he ain't fool Big Lena. Ay know all about him for a jear."
"As many as you wish," he said, and together they walked to the girl's cabin whose quaint, rustic veranda overlooked the river. The veranda was an addition of Lapierre's, and the cabin had five rooms, instead of three. The quarter-breed waited, whistling softly a light French air, while Chloe wrote her letters.
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