The old crone shook her head: "No use," she whispered the words with difficulty, "Take her away--while--there--is--time.

They--are--crazy--for--hooch--and--they--will--sell--her--to--him." She sank back gasping, and Brent held a cup of water to her lips as he motioned her to be quiet.

"I am going to take her," he answered, "But, tell me--who is Snowdrift?"

The beady eyes fixed his with a long, searching stare. She was about to speak when the door opened and Snowdrift herself burst into the room and sank down beside the bunk.

With a laboring effort the old woman laid a clawlike hand upon the girl's arm: "Forgive me," she whispered, and summoning all her fast ebbing strength she gasped: "It is all a lie. You are not my child. You are white. I loved you, and I was afraid you would go to your people." A paroxysm of coughing seized her, and a gush of red blood welled from her lips. "Look--in--the--moss--bag," she croaked, the words gurgling through her blood-flooded throat. She fell heavily back upon the blanket and the red torrent gushed afresh from between the stilled lips.

With a dry sob, Snowdrift turned to Brent: "We must go!" she faltered, hurriedly, "I can do nothing with the Indians. I tried to reach the hooch to destroy it, but they crowded me away. He has lied to them--won them completely over by the promise of more hooch. He told them he has plenty of hooch _cached_ in the scrub. Already they have sent runners to bring him back, and when he comes," the girl paused and shuddered "They will do anything he tells them to--for hooch, and you know what that will be--come, we must go while we have time!"

"Can't we stay and fight him?" cried Brent, "Surely some of the Indians will be with us."

"No--only a few of the squaws--and they would be no good. No, we must go before they bring him back! My sled is beside the door. Hurry and load it with supplies while I harness the dogs." As she talked, the girl's hands searched beneath the blankets upon which lay the body of the squaw and with a low cry she drew forth the moss-bag which she handed to Brent. "Take it," she said, "and do not trust it to the sled. We have no time to look into it now--but that little bag contains the secret of my life----"

"And I will guard it with my own!" cried Brent, as he took the bag from her hand. "Hurry, now and harness the dogs. I'll throw in some grub and blankets and we will finish the outfit at my cabin where we'll pick up Joe Pete."

While Brent worked at the lashings of the sled pack, Snowdrift slipped silently into the cabin and, crossing to the bunk, bent low over the still form of the squaw: "Good-by, Wananebish," she sobbed, as she pressed her lips to the wrinkled forehead, "I don't know what you have done--nor why you did it--but, I forgive you." She turned to see Brent examining the two heavy crotches that were fixed, one on either side of the doorway on the inside. "That is our lock," explained the girl. "See, there is the bar that goes across the door, like the bar at the post at Fort Norman. Wananebish made it. And every night when we were inside she placed the bar in the crotches and no one could have got in without smashing the door to pieces. Ever since I returned from the mission, Wananebish has feared someone, and now I know it was Claw."

"If we could only drop the bar from the outside," mused Brent, "Maybe we could gain a lot of time. I know Claw, and when he finds that he has all the Indians with him, and that we are only two, he is not going to give you up without a struggle. By George!" he exclaimed, suddenly, "I believe I can do it!" He motioned the girl outside, and slipped the bar into the crotch at the hinge side of the door, then driving a knife upon the inside, he rested the bar upon it, and stepping outside, banged the door shut. The knife held, and opening the door, he loosened the blade a little and tried again. This time the banging of the door jarred the knife loose. It fell to the floor, and the heavy bar dropped into place and the man smiled with satisfaction as he threw his weight against the door. "That will keep them busy for a while," he said, "They'll think we're in there and they know we're armed, so they won't be any too anxious to mix things up at close quarters."

Swiftly the dogs flew up the well packed trail toward Brent's cabin. The night was dark, and the Indians were fighting over the rum cask that Claw had abandoned. As they hurried down the river, the two cast more than one glance over their shoulders toward the cabin where the Indians milled about in the firelight.

At the first bend of the river, they paused and looked back. Shots were being fired in scattering volleys, and suddenly Snowdrift grasped Brent's arm: "Look!" she cried, "At our cabin!"

At first Brent could see nothing but the distant glow of the brush fires, then from the direction of the cabin they had just left a tongue of flame shot upward through the darkness. There were more shots, and the flames widened and leaped higher.

"They're piling brush against the cabin," cried Brent. "They think they'll burn us out. Come on, we haven't a minute to lose, for when Claw learns that we are not in the cabin, he'll be on our trail."

At his own shack Brent tore the lashings from the sled, and began to rearrange the pack, adding supplies from his stores. Joe Pete stared in astonishment. "Come on here!" cried Brent, "Get to work! We're off for Dawson! And we've got to take grub enough to last till we hit Fort Norman."

"All day long you have been on the trail," cried the girl, "You are tired! Can't we stand them off here until you are rested?"

Brent shook his head: "You saw what happened at the other cabin," he answered. "And here it would be even worse. With the window and the door on the same side, they could burn us out in no time."

"But they will trail us--and we must travel heavy," she pointed to the loaded sled.

"We will take our chances in the open," said Brent grimly. "And if luck favors us we will get a long lead. The Indians may get too drunk to follow, or they may stop to loot my cabin, and even if they should overtake us, we can give a good account of ourselves. We have three rifles, and the Indians can't shoot, and Claw will not risk his own hide. Strike out straight for Fort Norman, Joe Pete. We will take turns breaking trail."

At daylight they camped upon the apex of a high ridge that commanded a six or seven mile sweep of the back-trail, and all three noted with relief that the stiff wind had filled their trail with the shifting snow. All through the night they had avoided the timbered swamps and the patches of scrub both for the purpose of allowing the wind full sweep at their trail, and also to force their pursuers to expose themselves to the open. It was decided that until danger of pursuit was past they would travel only at night and thus eliminate in so far as possible, the danger of a surprise attack.

Because the men had been on the trail almost constantly for twenty-four hours, Snowdrift insisted upon standing first watch, and as Brent unrolled his blankets, he removed the moss-bag from his shoulders and handed it to the girl. Both he and Joe Pete were asleep the instant they hit the blankets, and for a long time Snowdrift sat with the moss-bag hugged close, and her eyes fixed upon the long sweep of back-trail. At length she thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew the packet, secure in its waterproof wrapping. Over and over she turned it in her hand as she speculated, woman like, upon its contents. Time and again she essayed to untie the thong that bound it but each time her fingers were stilled before the knot was undone.

"Oh, I am afraid--afraid," she murmured, when her burning curiosity urged her fingers to do their task. "Suppose he--my father was a man like--like those two--suppose he was Claw, himself!" She shuddered at the thought. "No, no!" she whispered, "Wananebish said that he was good.

My mother, then, who was she? Is some terrible stigma attached to her name? Better never to know who I am, than to know _that_!" For a moment she held the packet above the little flames of her fire as though she would drop it in, but even as she held it she knew she would not destroy it, for she decided that even to know the worst would be better than the gnawing of life-long uncertainty. "He, too, has the right to know," she murmured, "And we will open it together." And with a sigh, she replaced the packet in the bag, and returned to her scrutiny of the back-trail.

Despite the agreement to divide equally the time of watching, the girl resolved to let the men sleep until mid-day before calling Brent who was to take the second watch.

At noon, Brent awoke of his own accord, and the girl was startled by the sound of his voice in her ear: "Anything doing?"

"No," she answered, "Not even a wolf, or a caribou has crossed the open."

"Have you explored that?" He indicated the moss-bag with a nod, and the girl was quick to note the carefully suppressed eagerness of the words.

"No. I--waited. I wanted you--and--Oh, I was afraid!"

"Nonsense, darling!" laughed the man, "I am not afraid! Give me the bag.

Again I swear to you, I do not care who you are. You are mine--and nothing else matters!" Snowdrift slipped her hand into the bag and withdrew the packet, and she handed it to Brent, he placed his arm about her shoulders and drew her close against his side, and with her head resting upon his shoulders, her eyes followed his every movement as his fingers fumbled at the knot.

Carefully he unwrapped the waterproof covering and disclosed a small leather note book, and a thick packet wound round with parchment deer skin. On the fly leaf of the note book, in a round, clear hand was written the name MURDO MACFARLANE, and below, Lashing Water.

"Murdo MacFarlane," cried Brent, "Why, that's the name in the book that told of Hearne's lost mines--the book that brought me over here!"

"And the name on the knife--see, I have it here!" exclaimed the girl.

"But, go on! Who was MacFarlane, and what has he to do with me?"

Eagerly Brent read aloud the closely written pages, that told of the life of Murdo MacFarlane; of his boyhood in Scotland, of his journey to Canada, his service with the Hudson's Bay Company, his courtship of Margot Molaire, and their marriage to the accompaniment of the booming of the bells of Ste. Anne's, of the birth of their baby--the little Margot, of his restless longing for gold, that his wife and baby need not live out their lives in the outlands, of the visit of Wananebish and her little band of Dog Ribs, of his venture into the barrens, accompanied by his wife and little baby, of the cabin beside the nameless lake and the year of fruitless search for gold in the barrens.

"Oh, that is it! That is it! The memory!" cried the girl.

"What do you mean? What memory?"

"Always I have had it--the memory. Time and time again it comes back to me--but I can never seem to grasp it. A cabin, a beautiful woman who leaned over me, and talked to me, and a big man who took me up in his arms, a lake beside the cabin, and--that is all. Dim and elusive, always, I have tried for hours at a time to bring it sharply into mind, but it was no use--the memory would fade, and in its place would be the tepee, or my little room at the mission. But, go on! What became of Murdo MacFarlane, and Margot--of my father and my mother. And why have I always lived with Wananebish?"

Brent read the closing lines with many a pause, and with many a catch in his voice--the lines which told of the death of Margot, and of his determination to take the baby and leave her with Wananebish until he should return to her, of his leaving with the squaw all of his money--five hundred pounds in good bank notes, with instructions to use it for her keep and education in case he did not return. And so he came to the concluding paragraph which read:

"In the morning I shall carry my wee Margot to the Indian woman. It is the only thing I can do. And then I shall strike North for gold. But first I must return to this cabin and bury my dead. G.o.d! Why did she have to die? She should be buried beside her mother in the little graveyard at Ste. Anne's. But it cannot be. Upon a high point that juts out onto the lake, I will dig her grave--upon a point where we used often to go and watch the sunset, she and I and the little one. And there she will lie, while far below her the booming and the thunder of the wind-lashed waters of the lake will rise about her like the sound of bells--her requiem--like the tolling of the bells of Ste. Anne's."

"Oh, where is he now--my father?" sobbed the girl, as he concluded.

Brent's arm tightened about her shoulders, "He is dead," he whispered, "He has been dead these many years, or he would have found you." He swept his arm toward the barrens, "Somewhere in this great white land your father met his death--and it was a man's death--the kind of death he would have welcomed--for he was a man! The whole North is his grave.

And out of it, his spirit kept calling--calling. And the call was heard--by a drunkard in a little cabin on the Yukon. I am that drunkard, and into my keeping the spirit of Murdo MacFarlane has entrusted the life of his baby--his wee Margot." Brent paused, and his voice suddenly cut hard as steel, "And may G.o.d Almighty strike me dead if I ever violate that trust!"

Slender brown fingers were upon his lips. "Don't talk like that, dear, it scares me. See, I am not afraid. And you are _not_ a drunkard."

"I got drunk on the _Belva Lou_."

"Didn't I say we couldn't expect to win all the battles?"

"And, I carry my bottle with me." He reached into his blankets and drew out the bottle of rum.

"And the cork has not been pulled," flashed the girl, "And you have carried it ever since you left the whaler."

"Yes, darling," answered the man softly, "And I always shall keep it, and I never will pull the cork. I can give you that promise, now. I can promise you--on the word of a Brent that----"

"Not yet, sweetheart--please!" interrupted the girl, "Let us hold back the promise, till we need it. That promise is our heavy artillery. This is only the beginning of the war. And no good general would show the enemy all he has got right in the beginning."

"You wonder woman!" laughed Brent, as he smothered the upraised eyes with kisses, "But see, we have not opened the packet." Carefully he unwound the parchment wrapping, and disclosed a closely packed pile of bank notes. So long had they remained undisturbed that their edges had stuck together so that it was with difficulty he succeeded in counting them. "One hundred," he announced, at length, "One hundred five-pound notes of the Bank of England."