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Updated: June 22, 2025
Slowly, MacNair raised his gun Lapierre's own gun that he had wrenched, bare-handed from his grasp. Raised it until the muzzle reached the level of Lapierre's eyes. Chloe had stared wide-eyed throughout the whole proceeding. Gazing in fascination at the slow deliberateness of the terrible ordeal. As the muzzle of the gun came to rest between Lapierre's eyes the girl sprang to MacNair's side.
"My scows carrying MacNair's freight!" cried the man, and motioning her to accompany him he walked rapidly to the bank where lay the four or five pieces, upon which Chloe had read the name. Lapierre dropped to his knees and regarded the pieces intently, suddenly he leaped to his feet with a laugh and called in the Indian tongue to one of his canoemen.
The four Indian canoemen evidently keenly alive to the desirability of placing distance between themselves and MacNair's retainers, bent to their paddles with a unanimity of purpose that fairly lifted the big canoe through the water and sent the white foam curling from its bow in tiny ripples of protest.
Do you realize that up on Snare Lake, right now, are a bunch of Indians who depend on MacNair for their existence? MacNair's absence will cause suffering among them and even death. If his storehouse has been burned, what are they going to eat? On your statements I've got to enter charges against MacNair. First and foremost the charge of murder.
Never before had the Indians heard it from the white man's lips, and they thrilled at the sound to the marrow. The blood surged through the veins of the wild men as it had not surged in long decades. It was the war-cry of the Yellow Knives! Bob MacNair's sled seemed scarcely to touch the hard surface of the snow. The great malemutes ran low and true over the well-defined trail.
The moon rose and illumined with soft radiance the indomitable land of the raw. MacNair's gaze roved from the forbidding blackness of the farther shore-line, across the dead, cold snow-level of the ice-locked lake, to the bold headlands that rose sheer upon his right and upon his left. The scene was one of unbending hardness of nature's frowning defiance of man.
He won to victory over the bodies of his enemies. That is MacNair's idea of greatness." Lapierre nodded, and when he looked into the face of the girl he noted that her eyes flashed with purpose. "Tell me," she continued almost sharply, "you are not afraid of MacNair?" For just an instant Lapierre hesitated. "No!" he answered. "I am not afraid."
"But," pursued the girl, "Lapierre was with us that night!" Lena shrugged. "Yah, Lapierre very smart. He send LeFroy 'long wit' das vhiskey. Den v'en he know MacNair's Injuns git awful drunk, he tak' ju 'long for see it." "LeFroy!" cried Chloe. "Why, LeFroy was off to the eastward trying to run down some whiskey-runners." Big Lena laughed derisively. "How ju fin' out?" she asked. Chloe hesitated.
"Vun faller shoot me on de head, but de bullet yump off sidevays. Ju bet MacNair, he gif dem haal!" At the mention of MacNair's name Chloe sprang to her feet and continued along the cordon. One end of the storehouse and half the roof was ablaze, while thick, heavy smoke curled from beneath the full length of the eaves and through the chinkings of the logs.
She had not yet come to the love which casts out fear, but she was done with the fear which casts out love. So that when on the church steps in the sunshine she felt Angus Macnair's hand tremble in hers, she was able to meet his eyes, straightly, understandingly, but unafraid. The manner in which Dr. Callandar spent that tragic Sunday is not clearly on record.
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