"Never again," assured Brent, smiling down into the dark eyes raised so pleadingly to his. "And, now, do you feel able to strike out for the camp?"
"I feel able to go to the end of the earth, with you," she answered quickly, and he noticed that her voice had assumed its natural buoyancy, and that her movements were lithe and sure as she stooped to lace her snowshoes, and he marveled at the perfect resiliency of nerves that could so quickly regain their poise after the terrible ordeal to which they had been subjected.
"Where is Claw?" he asked, abruptly, as he
stooped and recovered his gold sack from the floor where the Captain had dropped it.
"Come we must hurry!" cried the girl, who in the excitement had forgotten his very existence, "He started for the camp, to trade hooch to the Indians—and—oh, hurry!" she cried, as she plunged out into the night. "He hates Wananebish, and he threatened to get even with her! If he should kill her now—before—before she could tell us—" She was already descending the bank to the river when Brent recovering his rifle, hastened after her, and although he exerted himself to the utmost, the flying figure gradually drew away from him. When it had all but disappeared in the darkness, he called, and the girl waited, whereupon Brent despite her protest, took the lead, and with his rifle ready for instant use, hastened on up the river.
A half mile from the encampment, Brent struck into the scattered timber, "He may watch the back-trail," he flung back over his shoulder, "and we don't want to walk into a trap."
Rapidly they made their way through the scrub, and upon the edge of the clearing, they paused. In the wide space before one of the cabins, brush fires were blazing. And by the light of the leaping flames the Indians could be seen crowding and fighting to get to the door of the cabin. Brent drew Snowdrift into the shelter of a bush, from which point of vantage they watched Claw, who stood in the doorway, glass in one hand, six-gun in the other,
dispensing hooch. Standing by his side, Yondo received the skins from the crowding Indians, and tossed them into the cabin. The process was beautifully simple—a drink for a skin. As Yondo took a skin Claw passed out a drink to its erstwhile owner.
"Damn him!" muttered Brent, raising his rifle. But Snowdrift pushed it aside.
"It is too dark," she whispered, "You can't see the sights, and you might hit one of the Indians." Breaking off sharply, she pointed toward her own cabin. The door had been thrown open and, rifle in hand old Wananebish stepped out on the snow. She raised the rifle, and with loud cries the Indians surged back from about the hooch runner. Before the rifle could speak Claw fired, and dropping her gun, old Wananebish staggered a few steps forward and pitched headlong into the snow.