been drawn deeper into the draw to a spot more fully protected from
the wind.

While darkness gathered, Sleeping Dawn lay in the bunch grass with her
eyes focused on the camp below. Her untaught soul struggled with the
problem that began to shape itself. These men were wolfers, desperate
men engaged in a nefarious business. They paid no duty to the British
Government. She had heard her father say so. Contrary to law, they
brought in their vile stuff and sold it both to breeds and tribesmen.
They had no regard whatever for the terrible injury they did the
natives. Their one intent was to get rich as soon as possible, so they
plied their business openly and defiantly. For the Great Lone Land was
still a wilderness where every man was a law to himself.

The blood of the girl beat fast with the racing pulse of excitement.
A resolution was forming in her mind. She realized the risks and
estimated chances coolly. These men would fire to kill on any skulker
near the camp. They would take no needless hazard of being surprised
by a band of stray Indians. But the night would befriend her. She
believed she could do what she had in mind and easily get away to the
shelter of the hill creases before they could kill or capture her.

A shadowy dog on the outskirt of the camp rose and barked. The girl
waited, motionless, tense, but the men paid little heed to the
warning. The man working at the stirrup leather got to his feet,
indeed, carelessly, rifle in hand, and stared into the gloom; but
presently he turned on his heel and sauntered back to his job of
saddlery. Evidently the hound was used to voicing false alarms
whenever a coyote slipped past or a skunk nosed inquisitively near.