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Updated: June 16, 2025
Would this man keep his parole or not? He would find out pretty soon. "Saddle up, Morse. I'll pack my kit. We'll hit the trail." "Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted. "What's that?" Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment the firelight flickered over the copper-colored face. Tom Morse made a discovery. This man was the Blackfoot he had rescued from the Crees.
With a heave Jessie flung aside the robes that wrapped her and jumped from the cariole. An invisible hand seemed to clutch tightly at her throat. For what she and her father had seen were crimson splashes in the white. Some one or something had been killed or wounded here. Onistah, of course! He must have changed his mind, tried to follow her, and been shot by West as he was crossing the lake.
"And 'I' for impudence," she retorted with a smile that robbed the words of offense. He was careful not to risk outstaying his welcome. After an hour he rose to go. His good-bye to Matapi-Koma and Onistah was made in the large living-room. Jessie followed him to the outside door. He gave her a word of comfort as he buttoned his coat, "Don't you worry about Win. I'll keep an eye on him."
For the copper-colored face of Onistah was framed in the pane. Jessie's eyes flew to West and to Whaley. As yet neither of them had seen the Blackfoot. She raised a hand and pretended to brush back a lock of hair. The Indian recognized it as a signal that she had seen him. His head disappeared. Thoughts in the girl's mind raced.
West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the caribou skins. He tied his captive hand and foot, then removed his moccasins and duffles. From the fire he raked out a live coal and put it on a flat chip. This he brought across the room. "Changed yore mind any? Where's the girl?" he demanded. Onistah looked at him, impassive as only an Indian can be. "Still sulky, eh? We'll see about that."
Onistah did as he was told. They reached the cabin. There was one thing West did not get hold of in his mind. Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree? He had had a score of chances. The reason was not one the white man would be likely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was a Christian. He had learned from Father Giguère that he must turn the other cheek.
Taken on both sides the garrison would fall easy victims. The constable and Onistah were busy answering the fire of the smugglers. Sleeping Dawn was crouched down behind two rocks, the barrel of her rifle gleaming through a slit of open space between them. She was compromising between the orders given her and the anxiety in her to fight back Bully West.
Angus clamped a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. His blue eyes searched steadily those of the trader. "I'll not let her twenty yards from me any time. That's a promise, McRae," the trader said quietly. Well wrapped from the wind, Onistah sat in the cariole. Jessie kissed the Scotchman fondly, laughing at him the while. "You're a goose, Father. I'm all right. You take good care of yourself.
"Up wi' ye, Koona! Guid dog. Cha, cha! You'll be doin' gran' work, Cuffy. Marché!" Morse stumbled over Onistah where he lay in the trail. The Blackfoot was still conscious, though he was drowsing into that sleep which is fatal to Arctic travelers caught in a blizzard. He had crawled on hands and feet through the snow after his knees failed him.
His imagination was active. What white man had any business in these woods? Why should he leave that business to overtake Jessie McRae? Onistah did not quite know why he was worried, but involuntarily he quickened his pace. Less than a quarter of a mile farther on, he read another chapter of the story written in the trampled snow. There had been a struggle. His mistress had been overpowered.
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