He remembered hearing McIvor tell how the Stonies never went on a hunting expedition without their hymn books and never closed a day without their evening worship. The voices were high-pitched and thin, but from that distance they floated up soft and sweet. He could clearly distinguish the music of the old Methodist hymn, the words of which were quite familiar to him:

"There is a fountain filled with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood.

Lose all their guilty stains."

Over and over again, with strange wild cadences of their own invention, the worshippers wailed forth the refrain,

"Lose all their guilty stains."

Then, all kneeling, they went to prayer. Over all, the misty moon struggling through the broken clouds cast a pale and ghostly light. It was, to Cameron with his old-world religious conventions and traditions, a weirdly fascinating but intensely impressive scene. Afar beyond the valley, appeared in dim outline the great mountains, with their heads thrust up into the sky. Nearer at their bases gathered the pines, at first in solid gloomy ma.s.ses, then, as they approached, in straggling groups, and at last singly, like tall sentinels on guard. On the gra.s.sy glade, surrounded by the sentinel pines, the circle of dusky worshippers, kneeling about their camp fire, lifted their faces heavenward and their hearts G.o.d-ward in prayer, and as upon those dusky faces the firelight fell in fitful gleams, so upon their hearts, dark with the superst.i.tions of a hundred generations, there fell the gleams of the torch held high by the hands of their dauntless amba.s.sador of the blessed Gospel of the Grace of G.o.d.

With mingled feelings of reverence and of pity Cameron stood gazing down upon this scene, resolved more than ever to attach himself to this camp whose days closed with evening prayer.

"Impressive scene!" said a mocking voice in his ear.

Cameron started. A sudden feeling of repulsion seized him.

"Yes," he said gravely, "an impressive scene, in my eyes at least, and I should not wonder if in the eyes of G.o.d as well."

"Who knows?" said Raven gruffly, as they both turned back to the fire.

CHAPTER IV

THE DULL RED STAIN

The minutes pa.s.sed slowly. The scene in the camp of the Stonies that he had just witnessed drove all sleep from Cameron. He was firmly resolved that at the first opportunity he would make his break for liberty; for he was now fully aware that though not confessedly he was none the less really a prisoner.

As he lay intently thinking, forming and discarding plans of escape, two Indians, followed by Little Thunder, walked quietly within the circle of the firelight and with a nod and a grunt towards Raven sat down by the fire. Raven pa.s.sed his tobacco bag, which, without a word, they accepted; and, filling their pipes, they gravely began to smoke.

"White Cloud," grunted Little Thunder, waving his hand to the first Indian. "Big Chief. Him," pointing to the second Indian, "White Cloud brother."

"My brothers had good hunting this year," said Raven.

The Indians grunted for reply.

"Your packs are heavy?"

Another grunt made answer.

"We have much goods," continued Raven. "But the time is short. Come and see."

Raven led them out into the dark towards the pack horse, Little Thunder remaining by the fire. From the darkness Cameron could hear Raven's voice in low tones and the Indians' guttural replies mingled with unusual laughter.

When they returned the change in their appearance was plainly visible.

Their eyes were gleaming with an unnatural excitement, their grave and dignified demeanour had given place to an eager, almost childish excitement. Cameron did not need the whiff that came to him from their breath to explain the cause of this sudden change. The signs were to him only too familiar.

"My brothers will need to hurry," said Raven. "We move when the moon is high."

"Good!" replied White Cloud. "Go, quick." He waved his hand toward the dark. "Come." He brought it back again. "Heap quick." Without further word they vanished, silent as the shadows that swallowed them up.

"Now, then, Cameron, we have big business on foot. Up and give us a hand. Little Thunder, take the bunch down the trail a couple of miles and come back."

Selecting one of the pack ponies, he tied it to a pine tree and the others he hurried off with Little Thunder down the trail.

"Going to do some trading, are you?" enquired Cameron.

"Yes, if the price is right, though I'm not too keen," replied Raven, throwing himself down beside the fire.

"What are you after? Furs?"

"Yes, furs mostly. Anything they have to offer."

"What do you give in exchange?"

Raven threw him a sharp glance, but Cameron's face was turned toward the fire.

"Oh, various articles. Wearing apparel, tobacco, finery. Mola.s.ses too.

They are very fond of mola.s.ses."

"Mola.s.ses?" echoed Cameron, with a touch of scorn. "It was not mola.s.ses they had to-night. Why did you give them whiskey?" he asked boldly.

Raven started. His eyes narrowed to two piercing points.

"Why? That's my business, my friend. I keep a flask to treat my guests occasionally. Have you any objection?"

"It is against the law, I understand, and mighty bad for the Indians."

"Against the law?" echoed Raven in childlike surprise. "You don't tell me!"

"So the Mounted Police declare," said Cameron, turning his eyes upon Raven's face.

"The Mounted Police!" exclaimed Raven, pouring forth a flood of oaths.

"That! for the Mounted Police!" he said, snapping his fingers.

"But," replied Cameron, "I understood you very especially to object to the operations of the whiskey runners?"

"Whiskey runners? Who's speaking of whiskey runners? I'm talking of the approved method of treating our friends in this country, and if the police should interfere between me and my friends they would be carrying things a little too far. But all the same," he continued, hastily checking himself, "the police are all right. They put down a lot of lawlessness in this country. But I may as well say to you here, Mr.

Cameron," he continued, "that there are certain things it is best not to see, or, having seen, to speedily forget." As he spoke these words his eyes narrowed again to two grey points that seemed to bore right through to Cameron's brain.

"This man is a very devil," thought Cameron to himself. "I was a fool not to see it before." But to the trader he said, "There are some things I would rather not see and some things I cannot forget."

Before another hour had pa.s.sed the Stonies reappeared, this time on ponies. The trader made no move to meet them. He sat quietly smoking by the fire. Silently the Indians approached the fire and threw down a pack of furs.

"Huh!" said White Cloud. "Good! Ver good!" He opened his pack and spread out upon the rock with impressive deliberation its contents. And good they were, even to Cameron's uncultured eye. Wolf skins and bear, cinnamon and black, beaver, fox, and mink, as well as some magnificent specimens of mountain goat and sheep. "Good! Good! Big--fine--heap good!" White Cloud continued to exclaim as he displayed his collection.

Raven turned them over carelessly, feeling the furs, examining and weighing the pelts. Then going to the pack horse he returned and spread out upon the rock beside the furs the goods which he proposed to offer in exchange. And a pitiful display it was, gaudy calicoes and flimsy flannels, the brilliance of whose colour was only equalled by the shoddiness of the material, cheap domestic blankets, half wool half cotton, prepared especially for the Indian trade. These, with beads and b.u.t.tons, trinkets, whole strings of bra.s.s rings, rolls of tobacco, bags of shot and powder, pot metal knives, and other articles, all bearing the stamp of glittering fraud, const.i.tuted his stock for barter.