"Build your school, but heed well my words. You'll not tamper, one way
or another, with my Indians. One hundred and seventy miles north of
here, upon Snare Lake, is my post. My Indians pass up and down the
Yellow Knife. They are to pass unquestioned, unmolested, unproselyted.
Confine your foolishness to the southward and I shall not
interfere--carry it northward, and you shall hear from me.

"Should you find yourself in danger from your enemies--or, your
_friends_"--he shot a swift glance toward Lapierre, who had remained a
pace behind the girl--"send for me. Good day."

Chloe Elliston was furious. She had listened in a sort of dumb rage as
the man's words stung, and stung again. MacNair's uncouth manner, his
blunt brutality of speech, his scornful, even contemptuous reference to
her work, and, most of all, his utter disregard of her, struck her to
the very depths. As MacNair turned to go, she stayed him with a voice
trembling with fury.

"Do you imagine, for an instant, I would stoop to seek _your_
protection? I would die first! You have had things your own way too
long, Mr. Brute MacNair! You think yourself secure, in your smug
egotism. But the end is in sight. Your petty despotism is doomed.
You have hoodwinked the authorities, bribed the police, connived with
the Hudson Bay Company, bullied and browbeaten the Indians, cheated
them out of their birthright of land and liberty, and have forced them
into a peonage that has filled your pockets with gold."

She paused in her vehement outburst and glared defiantly at MacNair, as
if to challenge a denial. But the man remained silent, and Chloe felt