most fortunate men in the big wilderness. That was before La Mort
Rouge--the Red Death--came. He was half French, and he had married a
Cree chief's daughter, and in their log cabin on the Gray Loon they had
lived for many years in great prosperity and happiness. Pierrot was
proud of three things in this wild world of his. He was immensely proud
of Wyola, his royal-blooded wife. He was proud of his daughter; and he
was proud of his reputation as a hunter. Until the Red Death came, life
was quite complete for him. It was then--two years ago--that the
smallpox killed his princess wife. He still lived in the little cabin
on the Gray Loon, but he was a different Pierrot. The heart was sick in
him. It would have died, had it not been for Nepeese, his daughter. His
wife had named her Nepeese, which means the Willow.

Nepeese had grown up like the willow, slender as a reed, with all her
mother's wild beauty, and with a little of the French thrown in. She
was sixteen, with great, dark, wonderful eyes, and hair so beautiful
that an agent from Montreal passing that way had once tried to buy it.
It fell in two shining braids, each as big as a man's wrist, almost to
her knees. "Non, M'sieu," Pierrot had said, a cold glitter in his eyes
as he saw what was in the agent's face. "It is not for barter."

Two days after Baree had entered his trapping ground, Pierrot came in
from the forests with a troubled look in his face.

"Something is killing off the young beavers," he explained to Nepeese,
speaking to her in French. "It is a lynx or a wolf. Tomorrow--" He
shrugged his thin shoulders, and smiled at her.

"We will go on the hunt," laughed Nepeese happily, in her soft Cree.