"How can you be so hard to me?" she murmured.

She overdid it. Behind the intoxicating, soft appeal of her eyes, he perceived a dangerous glitter, and steeled himself.

"Come outside a moment," she whispered, turning up her face a little.

The unregenerate man in him leaped to accept what she offered and still hold firm. If she chose to play that game let her take the consequences? His more generous self held back. Somehow he realized that the humiliation would almost kill her--later.

"It is too late," he said coldly.

This in itself was a humiliation the proud Colina could not have conceived herself living after. From between narrowed lids she shot him a glance of the purest hate, and quickly turned away.

The riding crop switched the air like the tail of an angry cat. There was a silence. All watched to see what she would do next.

Meanwhile the mill was grinding smoothly. The young miller was hidden from Colina by the barricade of grain bags. Finally she looked over the top and saw him attending the machine.

"Greer!" she exclaimed in surprise.

The boy started, and turned a pair of stricken eyes in her direction.

His ruddy cheeks paled a little. Manifestly she wielded a power over him too.

"Are you against me?" she murmured sadly.

This was the same tone she had just used to Ambrose. His lip curled.

"He has to do what I tell him or be knocked on the head," he said quickly.

Colina ignored this. "You could fight for me if you would," she murmured to the boy.

A hot little flame of jealousy scorched Ambrose's breast. He laughed jeeringly. "Who's next?" he cried.

Colina, not looking at him, drew a baleful breath between her teeth.

Suddenly she turned, and with hanging head slowly made her way toward the door.

Ambrose thought she was beaten, and a swift wave of compa.s.sion almost unmanned him. He abruptly turned away. He could stand anything but to see Colina defeated and grieving. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out to her.

She had another card to play. She stopped at the door, and looked about through her lashes to see if the way out was clear.

"Duncan!" she softly cried. The word was accompanied by a dazzling smile of invitation.

The boy dropped his wrench as if he had been shot, and vaulting over the grain bags, was out through the door after her before any one could stop him.

CHAPTER XX.

UNDERCURRENTS.

As Greer disappeared in the darkness several men started in pursuit.

Ambrose was quicker. He flung himself into the opening, and thrust them back. Though he was on fire with jealousy, he would not go after Greer, nor let the others go.

He could scarcely have explained why--perhaps because he dimly apprehended that it was Colina's game to drive him mad with jealousy.

"Let him go," he said thickly. "I will run the mill myself!"

So long as the wheels revolved smoothly and the stream of creamy flour issued from the mouth of the machine the miller had a sinecure.

Ambrose scowling and grinding his teeth scarcely saw what his eyes were turned on. His mind was busy outside.

He was sharply recalled to his job by a tearing sound from within the machinery. The flour came out mixed with bran. The wheels jammed and stopped.

Ambrose threw out the clutch, and doggedly attacked the problem. It was cruelly hard to concentrate his mind on machinery while a d.a.m.nable little voice in his brain persisted in asking over and over:

"Where are they? What are they doing? How far will rage carry her?"

He contrived to remove the torn frame without much difficulty, but how to clean out the ma.s.s of stuff that clogged every part of the mechanism defied his ingenuity. Apparently the thing must be taken apart. How could he hope to put it together by lantern light?

There was a stir at the door, and Duncan Greer slouched in with a hang-dog scowl. Never in his life had Ambrose been so glad to see a man. He was careful to mask his joy. He glanced at the boy carelessly and went on with his work. Duncan came directly to him.

"I'm your man," he muttered. "For keeps, if you want me."

"Sure," said Ambrose, very offhand. "Help me get this thing going, will you?"

As they worked side by side in the lantern light, Ambrose perceived a red welt across the boy's forehead and cheek that was momentarily growing darker. He smiled grimly. Duncan, finding his eyes fixed on it, flushed up painfully.

"Women are the devil!" he muttered.

A great unholy joy filled Ambrose's breast. In his relief he could have hugged the boy, and laughed.

"Don't abuse the women, my son," he said grimly. "They have to fight with what weapons they can. You were warned. You only got what was coming to you!"

When the machine was running smoothly again, Ambrose went to the door to reconnoiter.

"They've gone," he said. "I don't think they'll trouble us again before morning. You can all sleep."

Daybreak and the following hours found Ambrose and his party on the _qui vive_ for a renewed demonstration from the other side. None was made.

Neither Macfarlane, Gordon Strange, nor Colina could have mustered a corporal's guard of the natives to their aid. The breeds in their own mysterious way had simply disappeared.

Without them, the half dozen whites could do nothing against Ambrose's strong party. Colina herself had suffered a moral defeat, and required time to recoup her losses.

In the back of the store the white men and Gordon Strange held lengthy consultations without agreeing on any course of action. Strange in his modest way deferred to Macfarlane and the others.

But John Gaviller's absolute sway at the post had sapped the lesser men's initiative. He was not able to be present, and they were helpless.

It was decided to send for help to police headquarters at Caribou Lake.

They could not despatch the big steam-boat which had been dismantled for the winter, but the launch was available.

Gaviller had it to use at the end of summer when the water ran low in the river. They managed to collect enough half-breeds for a crew; Masters ran the engine, and Captain Stinson piloted.