Thus in order to send for help the little force had to rob itself of two of its best defenders. They got away in the middle of the afternoon. With luck they could be back with the red-coats in two weeks or three.

Meanwhile the mill was grinding blithely.

Ambrose, who desired at all costs to keep the Indians in ignorance of what was happening, for fear they might get out of hand, sent Germain Grampierre to his father's house to get what little flour they had, and carry it to Watusk to feed the Kakisas for that day.

As far as he could see there was no other communication from one side of the river to the other. He observed the departure of the launch, with a calm brow. He guessed its errand, and was not at all averse to having the police brought down, and the whole matter thoroughly aired.

All day the wheels revolved, and all during the following night, Ambrose and young Greer watching the machine by turn.

At breakfast time on the second morning the hopper was empty, and the last bag of flour tied up. They had enough to satisfy the Kakisas demands, and something besides.

In the center of the shed Ambrose left the miller's t.i.the in payment, with an ironical note affixed to one of the bags. The flour was loaded in the york boat, and the entire party set off in high feather.

Their arrival with the flour at the Indian camp created something of a sensation. The children came running down to the water, capering and shrieking, accompanied by the barking dogs.

Men followed, eager to toss the bags to their shoulders. They made a long procession back to the teepees, the women crowding around, laughing, gesticulating, and caressing the fat, dusty bags.

By Ambrose's orders the bags were piled up in an imposing array in the middle of the square. He knew the value of a dramatic display.

The half-breeds who had been on duty for thirty-six hours, scattered to their homes up and down the river. Simon Grampierre and Tole remained with Ambrose.

The york boat was left drawn up on the beach below the camp. To this fact Ambrose traced all the subsequent disasters. But he could not have foreseen what would happen. The Indians at the sight of so much food were as candid and happy as children.

When the last bag of flour topped the pile, Ambrose sought out Watusk.

He found the head man as before, evidently awaiting an official communication, with his dummy councilors on either hand. Watusk's smooth, flabby face was as blank as a plaster wall.

"I have brought your flour," said Ambrose with a note of exultation justifiable under the circ.u.mstances.

Watusk was not impressed. "It is well," he said with a stolid nod.

Ambrose was somewhat taken aback. An instant told him that Watusk alone of all the tribe was not glad to see the flour. Ambrose scented a mystery.

"Where you get the flour?" asked Watusk politely.

"I borrowed Gaviller's mill to grind it," Ambrose answered in kind.

Watusk's eyes narrowed. He puffed out his cheeks a little, and Ambrose saw that an oration was impending.

"I hope there will be no trouble," the Indian began self-importantly.

"Always when there is trouble the red man get blame. When the fur is scarce, when summer frost turn the wheat black it is the same. They say the red man make bad medicine.

"Two white men have a fight, red man come along, know nothing. Those two white men say it is his fault, and kick him hard. You break open Gaviller's mill. Gaviller is mad, send for police. When the police come I think they say it is Watusk's fault. Send him to jail!"

It was evident from this that Watusk was pretty well informed of what had happened. "How do you know they have sent for the police?" Ambrose demanded.

Watusk shrugged expressively. "I see the launch go up the river in a hurry," he said.

In the light of his insolent demand two days before, the Indian's present att.i.tude was more than exasperating. "This is foolishness,"

said Ambrose sharply. "I sell you the flour. How I got it is my affair. I take the responsibility. The police will deal with _me_!"

"I hope so," said Watusk smugly.

"I have made out a receipt," Ambrose went on. "You sign it, then distribute the flour among the people, and give me the men's names so I can charge them on my book.

"To-morrow I give it out," said Watusk. "To-day I put the flour in Gaston Trudeau's empty house by the river. Maybe goin' to rain to-night."

"Just as you like about that," said Ambrose. "When are you going to pull out for home?"

"Soon," replied Watusk vaguely.

"They tell me it is the best time now to hunt the moose," remarked Ambrose suggestively. "And the bear's fur is coming in thick and soft.

You have been here two weeks without hunting."

Again Watusk's eyes narrowed like a sulky child's. "Must the Kakisas got hunt every day?" he asked spreading out his hands. "The people are weak with hunger. We got eat before we travel."

Ambrose left this interview in a highly dissatisfied state of mind.

Later in the day Watusk must have thought better of his surliness for he sent a polite message to Ambrose at Simon Grampierre's house, requesting him and Simon to come to a tea dance that night.

He had borrowed Jack Mackenzie's house for the affair since no teepee was big enough to contain it. Mackenzie's was the first house west of the Kakisa encampment.

"Tea-dance! Bah! Indian foolishness!" said Simon.

"Let us go anyway," said Ambrose. "I feel as if there was something crooked going on. This Indian will bear watching."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE SUBTLETY OF GORDON STRANGE.

At the same moment Gordon Strange was sitting on the bench at the foot of the flag-staff, smoking, and gazing speculatively across the river at the teepee village.

Colina issued out of the big house, and seeing him, joined him. It was her first public appearance since the scene at the mill, and it was something of an ordeal.

Her face showed what she was going through. She was elaborately self-conscious; defiance struggled with a secret shame. In her heart she knew she was wrong, yet she thirsted for justification.

"What is the situation?" she asked haughtily.

Strange told her briefly. His air was admirable. He betrayed no consciousness of anything changed in her; he was deferential without being obsequious.

He let her understand that she was still his peerless mistress who could do no wrong. This was exactly what Colina wanted. She warmed toward him, and sat down.

"Ah! I can talk straight to you," she said. "The others act as if the truth was too strong for me!"

"I know better than that," said Strange quietly. "You have the best head of any of us."

"Except when I lose it!" Colina thought. She smiled at him more warmly than she knew. A little flame that leaped up behind the man's eyes warned her. "Would he ever dare!" she thought.