Sleeping Dawn followed the crest of the ridge till it fell away to
the mouth of the coulée. She crept up behind the white-topped wagon
nearest the entrance.

An axe lay against the tongue. She picked it up, glancing at the same
time toward the camp-fire. So far she had quite escaped notice. The
hound lay blinking into the flames, its nose resting on crossed paws.

With her hunting-knife the girl ripped the canvas from the side of the
top. She stood poised, one foot on a spoke, the other on the axle. The
axe-head swung in a half-circle. There was a crash of wood, a swift
jet of spouting liquor. Again the axe swung gleaming above her head. A
third and a fourth time it crashed against the staves.

A man by the camp-fire leaped to his feet with a startled oath.
"What's that?" he demanded sharply.

From the shadows of the wagons a light figure darted. The man snatched
up a rifle and fired. A second time, aimlessly, he sent a bullet into
the darkness.

The silent night was suddenly alive with noises. Shots, shouts, the
barking of the dog, the slap of running feet, all came in a confused
medley to Sleeping Dawn.

She gained a moment's respite from pursuit when the traders stopped
at the wagons to get their bearings. The first of the white-topped
schooners was untouched. The one nearest the entrance to the coulée
held four whiskey-casks with staves crushed in and contents seeping
into the dry ground.