overhead, and laughed joyously at their sport as each arrow fell short
of its mark. Big wolf dogs skulked here and there, looking for bits of
refuse, snapping and snarling ill-temperedly at each other.

A group of stalwart, swarthy-faced men, dressed in the garb of
northern hunters--light-coloured moleskin trousers tucked into the
tops of long-legged sealskin moccasins, short jackets and peakless
caps--stood before the post kitchen or lounged upon the rough board
walk which extended the full length of the reservation in front of the
servants' quarters and storehouses. They were watching a small
sailboat that, half a mile out upon the red flood, was bowling in
before a smart breeze, and trying to make out its single occupant.
Finally some one spoke.

"'Tis Bob Gray from Wolf Bight, for that's sure Bob's punt."

"Yes," said another, "'tis sure Bob."

Their curiosity satisfied, all but two strolled into the kitchen,
where supper had been announced.

Douglas Campbell, the older of the two that remained, was a short,
stockily built man with a heavy, full, silver-white beard, and skin
tanned dark as an Indian's by the winds and storms of more than sixty
years. A pair of kindly blue eyes beneath shaggy white eyebrows gave
his face an appearance at once of strength and gentleness, and an
erect bearing and well-poised head stamped him a leader and a man of
importance.

The other was a tall, wiry, half-breed Indian, with high cheek bones