"_Non_! _Non_!" he cried, and Chloe noticed that his glance flashed
swiftly over the sprawling forms of the five sleeping scowmen.

"And you are afraid of him," the girl added before he could frame a
reply.

A sudden gleam of anger leaped into the eyes of the half-breed. He
seemed on the point of speaking, but with an unintelligible muttered
imprecation he relapsed into sullen silence. Chloe had purposely
baited the man, hoping in his anger he would blurt out some bit of
information concerning the mysterious Pierre Lapierre. Instead, the
man crouched silent, scowling, with his gaze fixed upon the forms of
the scowmen.

Had the girl been more familiar with the French half-breeds of the
outlands she would have been suspicious of the man's sudden taciturnity
under stress of anger--suspicious, also, of the gradual shifting that
had been going on for days among the crews of the scows. A shifting
that indicated Vermilion was selecting the crew of his own scow with an
eye to a purpose--a purpose that had not altogether to do with the
scow's safe conduct through white-water. But Chloe had taken no note
of the personnel of the scowmen, nor of the fact that the freight of
the head scow consisted only of pieces that obviously contained
provisions, together with her own tent and sleeping outfit, and several
burlapped pieces marked with the name "MacNair." Idly she wondered who
MacNair was, but refrained from asking.

The long-gathering twilight deepened as the scows floated northward.
Vermilion's face lost its scowl, and he smoked in silence--a sinister
figure, thought the girl, as he crouched in the bow, his dark features