He--Vermilion--would get away with it! He glanced toward the sleeping
forms of the five scowmen and shuddered. He, Vermilion, knew that he
was afraid to sleep!

For an instant he thought of abandoning the plan. It was not too late.
The other scows could be run through in the morning, and, if Pierre
Lapierre came, would it not be plain that Chenoine had lied? But, even
with the thought, the avaricious gleam leaped into the man's eyes, and
with a muttered imprecation, he greeted the first faint light of dawn.

Chloe Elliston opened her eyes sleepily in answer to a gruff call from
without her tent. A few minutes later she stepped out into the grey of
the morning, followed by her two companions. Vermilion was waiting for
her as he watched the scowmen breaking open the freight pieces and
making up hurried trail-packs of provisions.

"Tam to mush!" sad the man tersely.

"But where are the other scows?" asked Chloe, glancing toward the bank
where the scow was being rapidly unloaded. "And what is the meaning of
this? Here, you!" she cried, as a half-breed ripped the burlap from a
bale. "Stop that! That's mine!" By her side, Vermilion laughed, a
short, harsh laugh, and the girl turned.

"De scow, she not com'. We leave de rivaire. We tak' 'long de grub,
eh?" The man's tone was truculent--insulting.

Chloe flushed with anger. "I am not going to leave the river! Why
should I leave the river?"