"Gathering the proper outfit for a new trail," the father explained,
taking the boy from the mother's arms. "I was grub-staked, once, into
the Cascades, and had everything in the kit except salt. Never shall
forget it. And if the woman and the kid cross the divide to-night they
might as well be prepared for pot-luck. A long shot, Bill, between
ourselves, but nothing lost if it misses."

A cup of water served the purpose, and the child was laid away in a
secure corner of the barricade. The men built the fire, and the evening
meal was cooked.

The sun hurried round to the north, sinking closer to the horizon. The
heavens in that quarter grew red and bloody. The shadows lengthened, the
light dimmed, and in the sombre recesses of the forest life slowly died
away. Even the wild fowl in the river softened their raucous chatter and
feigned the nightly farce of going to bed. Only the tribesmen increased
their clamor, war-drums booming and voices raised in savage folk songs.
But as the sun dipped they ceased their tumult. The rounded hush of
midnight was complete. Stockard rose to his knees and peered over the
logs. Once the child wailed in pain and disconcerted him. The mother
bent over it, but it slept again. The silence was interminable,
profound. Then, of a sudden, the robins burst into full-throated song.
The night had passed.

A flood of dark figures boiled across the open. Arrows whistled and bow-
thongs sang. The shrill-tongued rifles answered back. A spear, and a
mighty cast, transfixed the Teslin woman as she hovered above the child.
A spent arrow, diving between the logs, lodged in the missionary's arm.