"Look in the storeroom!" he cried. "A little while back—it was at night—I seen 'em drag somethin' in—him an' Larson of the van." At the words, Moncrossen sprang toward the speaker with an inarticulate growl of rage.
"You lie!" he screamed; but before he reached the man, who shrank back into the crowd, Bill stepped in front of him. He raised his arm and pointed toward the clearing.
"To the storehouse," he said in the same low voice. For a fleeting second Moncrossen glared into his eyes, and without a word, turned and led the way, closely followed by Bill and Jeanne, while the crowd of wondering lumber-jacks brought up the rear.
At the storehouse Moncrossen paused. "I'll fetch the key from the office," he leered; but Bill turned to a man who stood leaning upon his axe.
"Smash that door!" he commanded; and a half-dozen men sprang to the task. The next instant the door flew inward, and the men crowded into the building to return a few moments later bearing the old squaw, gagged, bound, and wrapped tightly in a blanket, but with the undimmed black eyes glaring upon them like a hawk's.
The cords were cut and the gag removed by willing hands. Someone held a bottle to her lips, and she drank greedily. Jeanne dropped to her knees by the old woman's side.
"He has come," she whispered. "M's'u' Bill, The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die, has come to you." Wa-ha-ta-na-ta nodded her understanding, and her beady black eyes flashed.
"She must have water!" cried the girl; "and food!"
At the words a half-dozen men rushed toward the cook-shack, returning a few minutes later laden as to victual a regiment.