# Adventure (magazine)/Volume 56/Number 5/The King of Matabanick

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from Adventure, 20 January 1926, pp. 123–148.
Canada—the Indians hated their master.
THE KING of MATABANICK
A Complete Novelette by Leslie McFarlane
Author of “An Imposter,” “The Black Suit,” etc.
THE fire had burned low. It stared from the shore like a scarlet eye out over the smooth, black water. The moon had gone down and the sky was dark, merging with the massed pines which towered gloomily from the river banks.
The infinite, overwhelming silence of the wilderness was sharply broken by a sound. It was faint and far away, but clear in the night stillness, and it brought the sleeper to his feet. He had been lying in the shadows, wrapped in his blankets, and he rose into the dim aura of firelight like a sudden fantom. He peered into the darkness intently. Then he heard the sound again. It was a thud, scarcely audible, the touch of wood against wood, and it was followed by a light splash, the drip-drip of water. The man started violently.
He reached to the ground beside his blankets and grasped a revolver lying there and then moved swiftly, silently, like a cat, until he was crouched beyond the fire. There he could see without being seen, and there was no betraying silhouette against the glow. He moved not a muscle, but crouched, rigid, alert, and his eyes searched the profound blackness of the river. Water lapped against the rocks on the shore. The man watched and waited.
He was powerful of build, and his shadowy figure was like a crouching statue, roughly hewn. He was swarthy and of crude features; he was heavy of jaw, and his under lip was pendulous. Thick, black brows shaded his narrow, snapping eyes, and his forehead was low, with bristly, short hair above. His hair was so short, so stiff and stubbly that the blunt contour of his skull was accentuated, and one would imagine that his head had been shaved not long ago. His ears were heavy and close to his skull, his neck was short and thick. He had wide, heavy shoulders, arms unnaturally long and huge hands, giving an effect almost simian, and which, with his dull, stupid and brutal face, rendered him primitive, almost bestial in appearance so that, as he stared into the darkness, he was like an ugly, black animal.
The faint thud, the light dripping of water, inconsequential sounds in themselves, told him a story. They told him that some one was approaching the camp-fire, paddling cautiously in toward shore. Who it might be he did not know, but he was a hunted man and he had no intention of being taken unawares. When he heard the light splash of water again, he reached quietly behind him for a stick of cedar, and this stick he placed carefully on the fire, then withdrew farther into the shadows.
The flames caught the stick; it crackled, and after a while the dying blaze revived and rose higher, so that the circle of firelight extended. It even cast a ruddy, rippling reflection out over the water and, in this glow on the inky river he had a fleeting glimpse of the side of a canoe which disappeared swiftly into the darkness again with a white gleam from the stern.
But the canoe did not go away. He knew that. He could see nothing, but he sensed that the canoe was lingering there like a shy and curious animal, just outside the radiance; and that the occupant was, like himself, searching the darkness with keen eyes. He made a sudden decision and spoke loudly—
“Who are you?”
His tones were accentuated by the mournful silence of the night, and echoes boomed from the river. The man flung himself swiftly to one side and lay flat on the ground, but there was no shot. Instead an answer—
“Who are you?”
It was like another echo. He heard a faint splash and a swirl of waters, and he sensed that the other man, like himself, had moved quickly, to glide from the path of any bullet that might be sent in the direction of his voice.
The short-haired man was reassured. They would not act like this. The canoeist might be a friend, and he needed friends. He would chance it.
“If you're the police, stay away, for I've got you covered.”
His voice was low and steady. He flung himself to one side again with the agility of a rabbit.
A sigh. A sigh from the darkness. A sigh of relief.
“I'm a friend.”
Like an apparition rising from the water, the canoe glided into the firelight, boldly, swiftly, and drew up by the shore. He saw a figure step lightly out as a paddle clattered; he heard the craft grate upon the pebbles as it was drawn up a little way on shore and then he saw the other man advance toward the fire.
The short-haired man did not move. He kept the revolver leveled cautiously, and he saw that the stranger also grasped a weapon. They faced each other thus for a moment, like two strange dogs, and then, apparently satisfied, the man behind the fire nodded and rose to his feet.
“Can't be too careful,” he growled.
The other lowered his gun.
“I thought you might be a RCMP.”
There was a wealth of introduction in this remark. They faced each other in grave scrutiny. The newcomer was a tall man with a white and haggard face, the whiteness intensified by a black beard, and he continually darted nervous little glances about him, as if not yet altogether confident of his safety. Like the man of the fire, he was bareheaded and roughly clad, but his clothes were torn, his hands were calloused and blackened and he seemed very tired. The short-haired man waved him to a seat beside the fire and then sprawled on his blankets again.
“You don't want to meet 'em either,” he observed in his heavy, sullen voice.
There was much meaning and an interrogative inflection in the “either.” They were now fully introduced as fugitives, as outcasts, as hunted men, and as such, linked by a common bond. The haggard man slouched despondently by the fire, staring into the flames. His eyelids flickered.
“Are there any near?”'
“There was a redcoat on my trail comin' up the railway,”' said the short-haired man indifferently. “I lost him at Cochrane. Two days ago. He might have picked it up since then. I dunno. If he did, he's still a good ways behind. Is there any police down river?”
The haggard one nervously caressed his unkempt beard.
“One,” he replied. “Right behind me at dark.”
THE other tapped at a stick of wood with the barrel of his revolver. His thick lips tightened.
The flickering blaze cast a gigantic shadow of his figure into the trees.
“Where's he stationed regular?” he asked.
“Lost Beaver. It's a trading post twenty miles down.”
“Ain't there no other Mounties, then, beyond?”
“Not in the fur country. Once in a while they go through, but there's no other stations until away north.”
“Any tradin' posts?”
The short-haired man asked this with a fine pretence of unconcern, but his heavy fingers tightened a little and he peered at the other man from under knitted brows.
“Not organized.”
“How d'you mean?”
“After you hit Lost Beaver you'll be goin' into John Glenn's country.”
The short-haired man nodded, and the darkness hid any expression that may have crossed his face. Then he poked at the fire.
“And who's John Glenn?” he inquired, idly.
The haggard man raised his eyebrows in surprize.
Never heard o' him?” he asked. “He's a big man, independent trader.” He waved a lank arm expressively toward the north, shrouded in blackness and silence. “He just about runs things in all the country north of Lost Beaver.”
“How come?”
“He's a big man, I tell you. He's king down there. The Indians are scared of him. He's got a tradin' post at Matabanick and he runs all that country. Regular king!”
The haggard man wagged his head in admiration.
The short-haired fellow attempted to conceal his interest. He had come a long way and this was the first man he had met who could tell him anything about John Glenn.
“He's a fur trader, you say?” he asked, as if moved by merely an idle curiosity.
“On his own hook. He won't let the companies come in. The Indians used to bring their furs up to Lost Beaver, but they don't no more, now. He come in there twelve years ago and built his own tradin' post. Built his own tradin' post, y'understand.” He stared challengingly at the other to emphasize the importance of this feat. “Not many can do that and get away with it. But he did. They tried to drive him out, but they couldn't do it. He beat 'em every turn. Buys furs from the Indians and sends 'em outside to be sold. It takes a big man to do that. He's a king.”
He gazed reflectively into the fire and went on:
“Somepin' queer about him, though. Not many's ever seen him. Lives to himself. Stays up there by himself all the time. Never comes out. Mystery about him.”
The short-haired man smiled, grimly.
“I see. A good place to hide?”
The haggard man laughed.
“If it was, I'd be there now. He won't let nobody into his country. You can pass down-river, sure. He can't stop that. But he won't help you. He'll hinder. You can't get guides. His Indians won't do nothin' for you and other Indians are scared to go there. This fellow Glenn, he don't like white men, See? And he keeps 'em out. Some men have tried to go up there and trade. They didn't get nothin' for the Indians stuck to Glenn. Two men got beat up bad when they tried to cut in on his territory. He beat 'em up. They came crawlin' back to Lost Beaver on foot, eat half to death by flies, half starved, both of 'em near dead. They learnt their lesson, I tell you. Not many white fellows went into Glenn's country after that.”
The haggard man looked at the other suspiciously for a moment and continued:
“You're not thinkin' of goin' up there, are you, friend? Better not. When you hit Lost Beaver, go across country to the other river, but don't go into Glenn's country. You won't be the first he's chased out. He don't like white men.”
“He'll like me,” said the short-haired man.
The haggard fellow, after making as if to speak, shrugged his shoulders again. It was none of his business. He had given his warning. If this convict fool—he had drawn swift conclusions from the short hair—chose to seek refuge in John Glenn's country, it was his own funeral. The haggard man had his own concerns. He peered anxiously down the river, his fingers twitching nervously.
“You'd best be on your way,” said the man of the fire, noticing his anxiety. “I'll take care of the Mounty.”
There was a sinister note in his voice, and the other man turned in alarm.
“You won't—”
“No,” growled the other, answering the unspoken question. “I'll just put him off your trail. He's not likely to know about me.”
“He's at Lost Beaver most all the time. How long since they been after you?”
“Two weeks.”
“He won't know.”
“All right. I'll tell him you set your canoe adrift and cut into the bush.” The short-haired man put the revolver in his belt. “Be on your way. Got enough grub?”
“Enough to last. Will I meet any one chasin' you?”
“Not unless he's picked up the trail again. It's fifty-fifty with us, though. He won't know you're wanted. Put him off my track.”
This excellent arrangement having been effected, they bestirred themselves. The haggard man rose from beside the fire and strode down toward the canoe. The other followed, and watched him drag the craft into the water, take his place in the stern and push out into the river with a flash of the paddle.
“Tell him I cut across the portage to the lake,” came the voice of the departing fugitive.
“He won't follow you,” growled the man on the shore.
A silence, then the voice from the darkness again.
“It's none of my business, friend, but I wouldn't go into Glenn's country if I were you.”
“Thanks.”
Silence again. The paddle thumped against the gunwale. The dim shape of the canoe was hidden in the darkness. There were no farewells.
The short-haired man went back to the fire and crouched there again. It was June, and the night was cold. Once in a while he roused himself and put more wood on the blaze. Once he examined his revolver carefully.
HIS name, as attested by police circulars and records covering a period of years, was Sam Gregory, alias Green, alias Giles, etc., etc., but in his own world, peopled by the opposing forces of law and crime, he was known as “Spike,” a cognomen which seemed to have an obscure and poetic appropriateness when one considered his blunt, ugly visage, his burly, brutal form and his general impression of truculent strength. He had escaped from a penitentiary a fortnight previous due to some outside cooperation, some judicious bribery and the circumstance of having been called to police court to testify in the case of a former comrade, now unhappily in the toils.
His picture was now displayed in every police station on the continent, his description had been spread broadcast. His capture, the newspapers confidently announced, was but a matter of a few hours, yet here he was, on a northern Ontario river, bound for the forbidden kingdom of John Glenn. The warnings of the haggard man did not trouble him for he knew the mystery enshrouding the king of Matabanick and, whether white men were welcome there or not, he was determined to seek refuge in Glenn's domain.
Time passed, and then came a faint sound from down the river by the narrows. Spike had been dozing, but he straightened up swiftly at the sound and gazed out over the water. It was nearing dawn, for the sky was faintly lucent, and against it the mass of the forest was silhouetted with greater clarity. The river could be seen dimly, leaden in the gloom.
He crawled noiselessly from behind the fire, up through the undergrowth, wet with dew and finally came out upon a white rock some distance down the shore, a rock which overlooked the river. Here he lay flat and gazed out over the water, the revolver before him.
The mounted policeman in pursuit of the haggard fellow, the mounted policeman stationed at Lost Beaver was drawing near. Matters, he considered, had played into his hands very neatly. Here he was, nearing John Glenn's country, and John Glenn was a king in this wilderness, however formidable his isolation. And here was the one obstacle between himself and that asylum—a red-coated officer, paddling up river in the early morning! What more could he ask? His yellowed teeth were bared in a grimace which may have been meant for a smile. His swarthy forehead wrinkled as he gazed gut over the river.
For two weeks he had journeyed, seeking John Glenn's domain in this northern bush, shaking off his pursuers, and now there was but this one constable barring the way to the obscurity he sought. It was characteristic of him that he had decided, without the slightest compunction, that removal of the constable was necessary as a final safeguard. He could let the man go by, but if the officer returned to Lost Beaver later on, some one, sooner or later, was bound to tell him of a stranger who had gone down river; he was bound to find some trace, he was certain to hear of a new white man in Glenn's country and there would be investigation. This would be fatal. A new constable in his place, however, would not so easily pick up these loose threads.
He could hear the dip of the paddle in the water faintly, for the officer paddled with a minimum of noise; there was no betraying thump of paddle against gunwale, only the scarcely perceptible splash as water dripped from the blade. At last he could see the shape of the canoe out on the river. It was glowing brightly, but not too brightly—like a fire neglected, and he bared his teeth again as he saw the canoe turn toward the blaze.
Nearer and nearer. The canoe took on form now, and he could see the regular gleam of the paddle. Then he could make out the dim figure in the stern.
So, lying on the rock, like a predatory animal, the short-haired man watched the Mounty from Lost Beaver draw near the shore, lured by the flame like a moth. He saw the canoe swing to one side and glide silently toward an overhanging clump of bushes, a few yards up the shore. He saw the constable test the depth of the water with his paddle; he saw him lash the craft to an overhanging tree; and then he saw him slip waist deep into the water, creep up on the shore and commence to worm his way along the shore toward the fire.
The officer had drawn his revolver before he left the canoe, and he carried this, ready for instant action, as he crept down the shore. The short-haired man had expected all this, wherefore he had taken the position he did. The constable drew near the rock. He was only a few feet away. Spike shifted the revolver slightly; he took careful aim; he pulled the trigger.
The revolver roared in the stillness.
The constable whirled to one side, staring upward, and Spike could distinguish the startled expression upon his bronzed young face. He had been wounded, but he was able to fling the revolver up, and his surprized gaze swept the rock, swiftly searching for the hidden enemy. Spike wasted no time. He fired again just as the constable's revolver barked.
The shots crashed in unison. Tremendous echoes rolled from the trees, rolled across the river, coughing and crashing, and then came the screeching of startled birds and the sudden flapping of wings.
The constable pitched forward on his face, moved convulsively for a moment and then lay still.
Spike lay quietly, having flung himself sidewise on the rock with his characteristic movement and, after a while, he peeped down on to the beach again. The constable lay there, his scarlet tunic giving a gaudy note of color to the gray shore. There was a widening stain of blood.
The killer came down from the rock heavily, in indifferent triumph. He went over to the dead man, looked at the still form impassively, prodded the constable in the ribs with his foot, then knelt and turned him over. Yes, the man was dead. He did not concern himself with him any longer, although he shuffled about for a while, eradicating the outline of his own footprints in the sand. With satisfaction he reflected that the haggard man would be blamed for the crime and would be unable to prove otherwise. Any story he told of a short-haired stranger camped on the shore would not be believed. But that was the haggard man's lookout, and if he hanged for it, that would be a tribute to Spike's cleverness.
As for himself, he had removed the last obstacle on his way to John Glenn's domain. He had left no trail, and now he would invade the kingdom of Matabanick where white men were not welcome.
The river was calm in the early morning and the sky was flaming with pink clouds when he paddled away from the scene of his crime. The great masses of trees were green and solemn above the cool, smoky water, but he had no eye for the beauty of the daybreak, and only once did he look back. He could see a great white rock and, at the foot, a little splotch of color, the scarlet of the dead man's tunic.

### II

WHATEVER the respect the name of Matabanick imbued in the minds of white men on its boundaries, whatever the stories told of this mysterious trading post in the heart of the wilderness, the place was commonplace enough. On this June day there was but a wide clearing on the sloping bank of the river, a clearing hemmed in by towering trees and populated by an untidy score of tents and huts, with a large log building with a broad verandah in the centre. The wide river flowed past the slim, white birches at the bend, down past the clearing, past the scattering of tents and huts, into the great forest again. A solemn barricade of trees stood green and silent, heavy and motionless on the opposite shore. Indian children played about the huts, squaws waddled about, a few braves were in evidence, idling in the sunlight.
In the office of the trading post sat John Glenn, the feared, respected and now almost legendary figure who had carved for himself a kingdom out of this wilderness and had held it for twelve years against all comers. Facing him was the one man who had ever dared to dispute his kingship from within Matabanick. This was an Indian, Tom Squirrel, who would have been chief of the tribe, had Glenn countenanced such a thing in his domain. Tall, wiry, of slender build, he stood tensely before his master, his lean face a heavily creased mask, the color of mahogany, his ink black eyes devoid of light or expression.
“Tom Squirrel,” said Glenn heavily, “you are a bad Indian. You are trying to make trouble again.”
He was a big man, this ruler of Matabanick, clean-shaven, square of jaw, with cold, blue eyes. He had thick, black hair, and he was darkly tanned. Tom Squirrel stood straight, motionless, staring directly at him in somber abeyance. Glenn radiated virility and strength; there were lines of determination about his firm mouth; he was the physical embodiment of force that would brook no opposition, and his broad shoulders and powerful build gave the key to his kingship of might in that mighty wilderness. One could not look at him without feeling something of the force of his personality, without realizing something of the invincible will which possessed his powerful body, and as Tom Squirrel withstood his calm scrutiny for a few moments, he wavered and then shuffled his feet and looked away.
Glenn, satisfied, moved forward in his chair a trifle and went on.
“You've been telling the Indians to disobey me,” he proceeded in Squirrel's own language which he spoke well.
Tom Squirrel grunted and shook his head sullenly in denial.
“I say you are!”
Glenn's hairy right arm descended upon the table, his fist closed.
“You've been making trouble here for a long time,” went on the trader sternly. “Lately you've become bolder. You want to be chief. You want to have me driven away from here. That's what you've been aiming for, and unless you get some sense into your head pretty soon, you're going to collect more trouble than you ever bargained for. You've been telling the others that you can defy me and that I can not do anything about it. You've been trying to persuade them to fall in with you and take this place for themselves. You!” He laughed contemptuously at the Indian before him. “You'll never be chief, Tom Squirrel. Never, as long as I am at Matabanick. Get rid of that idea. If you want to be a chief, move away. Move away to some other part of the country out of my sight. See how many Indians will go with you.”
He spoke with the confidence of one who knows his own power, and then he turned his chair so that his back was to Tom Squirrel and looked out the window. He continued speaking:
“You brought furs up the river last week. You went away from here and told me you were going to the mountains for a few days. Instead of that you brought furs up to Lost Beaver to the company store. Where you got those furs, I don't know. Probably hid them away last winter.”
“No,” lied Tom Squirrel.
He could not imagine how the white man had discovered his trickery. He had been assured of secrecy. He shuffled nervously, and his brown fingers trembled.
“Yes,” contradicted Glenn with finality, turning slightly in the chair so that his smooth, determined jaw was visible in outline. “What did you get for them?”
Tom Squirrel shook his head and mumbled obstinate denials.
Glenn answered his own question:
“You got a new knife for one thing. And you got a silk thingumajig for that woman of yours.”
Tom Squirrel did not answer. The case against him was too complete even for denials. It was the woman, he reflected bitterly. She had shown that silk thingumajig to the other squaws. Women always talked too much. Privately he planned the fine beating he would give her when Glenn let him go.
There was a clatter. He looked at the desk. There lay the knife which Glenn had tossed carelessly back. Tom Squirrel had missed the knife just that morning, and he wondered despairingly how it had come into the white man's possession.
“There it is,” snapped Glenn. “It's yours isn't it? I don't keep knives like that at Matabanick. And if you didn't get it from me, where did you get it? Where else but at Lost Beaver?”
Tom Squirrel blinked at the knife on the table. Glenn, looking out the window, had detected a movement in the clearing, a stirring among the Indians there, and he leaned forward. Youngsters were running about, dogs were. barking, and he could see two or three squaws in a group, pointing up the river. He wondered what was causing this excitement, but went on, abstractedly.
“Just for that,” he proceeded to Tom Squirrel, “I am not going to pay you for the next furs you bring in. You will make up the value of those you sold at Lost Beaver. And if you ever go up there again without my orders, I'll shoot you the minute you come back. And stop this nonsense of yours among the Indians. I'm boss around here.”
There was no anger in his voice, but his tones were stern and implacable.
“Now get out,” he commanded, dismissing the matter.
He gazed out the window more intently. To his surprize, he saw that there was a strange canoe on the river with a single figure. Strange canoes were not often seen at Matabanick. Once in a while a white man, more daring that usual, would go down the river, but he usually gave the trading post a wide berth, for it was known all along the stream that white men or strange Indians were not wanted at Matabanick. But this canoe was coming in toward shore, and Glenn's look of surprize gave way to gathering anger.
SUDDENLY he became aware that Tom Squirrel had not left the room. In the glass of the window a movement had caught his eye, and he focussesd his gaze to catch the reflection of the room behind him. He smiled bitterly. He could see Tom Squirrel's obscure figure as the Indian made a quick, stealthy movement forward and seized the knife on the table. There was a moment of indecision, and then he saw the figure glide swiftly toward him.
He shifted sidewise in his chair too rapidly for Tom Squirrel. The Indian went crashing headlong in his plunge, fell over the chair, and brought up against the wall, knife still in hand. Glenn leaped upon him.
He grabbed the Indian by the collar of his shirt, then reached down, wrenching the knife from his grasp.
“You would?” he said grimly. “You would, eh?”
But Tom Squirrel was desperate now; he realized that he could expect little mercy after his attempt on Glenn's life, and he fought back. His sinewy hands flashed to Glenn's throat and he clung there like a bulldog.
Glenn was taken aback by the ferocity of this assault. It was the first time in his régime at Matabanick that his power had been actively disputed, but after his first surprize he gathered himself together and fought to shake the Indian off.
Tom Squirrel was incredibly wiry and strong, however; his fingers were like steel, digging into Glenn's throat, and he wrapped his long legs about the trader, swaying back and forth until he caught Glenn off his balance, and together they rolled on the floor. The knife clattered into a corner.
Powerful as he was, Glenn could not break away from those clutching fingers at his throat, and he struck out savagely at the redskin's face. Fierce, smashing blows they were, and in a moment Tom Squirrel's visage was bruised and bleeding, but he did not relinquish his death grip. The trader was strangling, his ruddy face began to turn blue, his eyes were staring. With all his great strength he struggled to wrest himself away from Tom Squirrel, pounding him mercilessly, the blows growing feebler, however, but to no avail for the fingers did not relax.
He groped for the knife, but it was some distance away. His face was distorted with agony, he fought desperately for escape, but all the while the bleeding, gasping Indian clung like a limpet.
Then came an interruption.
A heavy foot appeared from nowhere and settled upon Tom Squirrel's face. Cruelly, heavily it trod upon him with terrible, grinding force, until the Indian's mouth opened like the mouth of a dying fish and he groaned with pain and his grasp on Glenn's throat relaxed as he flung back his hands, trying to push away the foot which crushed him.
Glenn rose unsteadily to his feet, rubbing at his throat, taking deep breaths. In the excitement of the attack he had forgotten about the strange canoe drawing up at the landing, and now that he realized the source of this timely intervention, he flashed back to his old mood of resentment against the intruder.
“Looks as if I just come in time,” growled Spike indifferently.
He turned to look at Tom Squirrel, writhing on the floor, and removed his foot. The Indian, dazed, struggled to his knees, crawled toward the door and then scuttled outside.
Tom Squirrel was glad enough to escape with his life. For a moment he thought he had ended Glenn's régime at Matabanick, thought he had regained his lost chieftainship, for he. knew the trader had been near death, but fate had been with the white man.
Tom Squirrel knew that all pretences were over, that Matabanick was not big enough to hold both him and John Glenn. For the time being he had been defeated, and he knew that in a little while the trader would order him away. But the arrival of this white stranger would give him time to play his last card. He hastened down into the clearing and disappeared into his tent.
And back in the office of the trading post Glenn confronted the cruel, villainous stranger who had broken in on his wilderness kingdom, the man who had “criminal” written in every lineament of his swarthy countenance.
Had he but known it, forces were gathered which threatened his kingship of Matabanick from two sides.

### III

“HOW did you get here?” asked Glenn shortly, without welcome. Spike showed his yellow teeth and rubbed his jaw with a calloused hand.
“You're Glenn, ain't you?” he said.
“I'm Glenn. What of it?”
Spike put his hands on his hips. His feet were planted firmly apart, and he gave an impression of brutal defiance.
“I've come to stay wit' you for a while,” he said.
“I never invite white men here. You can't stay.”
Spike did not appear surprized.
“Mebbe you better wait till you hear what I got to say first.”
“You can have nothing to interest me.”
“Mebbe—mebbe,” said Spike softly. “Whitey Whiteman—”
Glenn started. The movement was slight and instantly controlled, but it was not missed by the other.
“What is your name?”
“My name? My name is—aw, well, it don't matter.” He waved it away. “Call me Spike. It's a nickname I have. Just Spike.”
He strode over to a chair and sat down. Deliberately he tilted it back against the wall, spat on the floor and stared at Glenn with a greasy grin.
Glenn stiffened.
“No white men ever come here,” he said. “No white men are ever wanted.”
Spike seemed to be paying no attention. He had turned his chair slightly and was looking out the window over the unkempt clearing, over the river, to the ragged line of tree tops across the great stream.
“I was speakin' about Whitey Whiteman,” he said softly. “Me and Whitey was pretty good pals, see? We was both in stir. That,” he added, by way of explanation, “is where I just come from.”
“So I noticed.”
Spike rubbed the top of his shorn head ruefully.
“This guy Whiteman,” he continued, “died a few months ago. He used to tell me about you. Only he didn't call you Glenn. You had another name when he knew you.”
Spike talked slowly, with tantalizing deliberation, and then leaned back, grinning defiantly at the trader.
“And what did he have to say?” Glenn's voice was cool, but it was plain that he spoke with an effort.
“Well, now,” drawled Spike, “Whitey had a lot to say. Quite a lot. He was tellin' me one day about a mix-up in Montreal. It was a killin'—”
“Not uncommon in Montreal.”
“Well, mebbe not. But this was big stuff, see? Political. One of the big boys got bumped off. His secretary had a row wit' him just the day before. Mebbe wanted his share in some crooked deals 'at was goin' on—”
“You liar!” shouted Glenn, clenching his fists and stepping forward. “I didn't—”
Spike ignored the instinctive outburst and proceeded lazily.
“Well, anyway, no matter what the row was about, the big fella was bumped off. They pinched the secretary and he got away.”
There was a long silence. Spike glanced up and said finally—
“Get me?”
Glenn's voice was tired.
“Oh, I understand you. And you know the truth as well as I do. Whitey Whiteman and his gang did the killing. Under orders. They framed me!” His voice rose. “They framed me! They knew I'd quarrelled with him. I'd stumbled on some of his crooked work and he was afraid I'd tell. I quit him. I told him I'd never work for him any more. Whiteman and his crowd saw their chance, and they killed him and hung it on me. I got away.”
“Lucky for you. They'd 'a hanged you.”
“I came up here. Hunted from pillar to post. My picture in every newspaper, in every police station in the country.”
Spike waved a hard hand eloquently toward the clearing, the wide clearing along the shore with its huts, its tents, with the canoes along the river.
“You ain't done bad, Mr. Glenn.”
“No, it hasn't been bad,” declared Glenn proudly. “I took this country for myself. I made it my own. I drove white men out of it, for you can't trust people, and somebody would have found out sooner or later and informed—”
“Somebody did.”
“What?”
“There was a fella from up north in the pen. He told Whitey about you up here. Figgered you might be wanted, though he didn't know for what. Whitey knew, though. He knew it must be you, but he didn't say nothin'. He kep' it to himself, but when he got sick and was goin' to snuff out, he tipped me off. We was good pals, see? Told me if ever I got out to come to you and you'd look after me.”
“And if I didn't?”
“Well,” Spike shrugged. “I can tell what I know. You're still wanted for that killin'. You'll keep me all right. I was in for life, but I made my getaway, and now I'm here. It's as good a place to lay low in that I'd want. No white men ever come here, you say. Nobody knows I'm here. It's safe as a church.” He stretched his great arms luxuriously, like an animal, and grinned triumphantly at Glenn. The latter nodded mechanically. He was sitting slumped in his chair, his wide shoulders drooping, despondent. He appeared defeated. For twelve years he had been free, obeying no one but himself; and he was the sort of man to whom freedom is life. Now he was in the power of another. He spoke without looking up—
“I suppose there's nothing else for it.”
Spike laughed harshly. It was the laugh of a man who had not laughed for so long that he had almost forgotten how.
“Mebbe you don't let white men in your country, Mr. Glenn,” he said, “but here's one white man you've gotta put up with.”
There was silence between them for a long while, but Glenn was finally roused from his somber abstraction by a movement among the huts and tents in the clearing. In the excitement attendant upon the arrival of Spike he had almost forgotten about Tom Squirrel, but that worthy was brought forcibly to his attention again when he saw him glide into one of the larger huts, carrying a rifle.
He watched suspiciously. He saw another Indian shamble across the clearing, look quickly about him, then disappear into the hut. A little while later, came another, peeping about the corner of the building, then sneaking inside. After a while came another and another, until soon the majority of the Indians of Matabanick, about a score all told, were in the hut, whereupon Glenn reached into a drawer of his desk and drew out a revolver.
A wary light flashed into the eyes of Spike, who missed the significance of the Indians' movements, and he knitted his black brows.
“What's comin' off?” he demanded truculently.
“Nothing—nothing,” said Glenn, his gaze still riveted on the hut, but he got to his feet and went out of the room. Spike, curious, followed.
At the door leading to the veranda, Glenn hesitated, then put back his arm, commanding silence.
“Wait a while,” he said. “I want to watch. There's trouble of some kind.”
THEY waited, pressed back in the doorway. The clearing was unusually silent. The Indian youngsters were all indoors and the squaws had disappeared. From the hut into which the Indians had gone, however, they could hear a murmur of voices. One redskin appeared in the doorway, looked about cautiously and then stood there so that he could hear what was going on inside and, at the same time, keep watch on the clearing.
“A guard!” exclaimed Glenn, thoughtfully. He left the doorway and went to the rear of the building, then plunged into the heavy undergrowth which fringed the clearing.
He went cautiously, making little noise, and finally emerged directly behind the hut in which the Indians were gathered. It was a roughly built structure, and by peering through one of the many chinks in the logs he could see the Indians inside, squatted about in a circle. In the center of this circle stood Tom Squirrel, and the Indian was making an oration to them in their own language. Glenn listened, his lips tightening with the realization that he was facing a mutiny.
“The white man takes our furs and makes much money,” declared Tom Squirrel. “If we brought our furs to Lost Beaver, we would get more. I know, for I have been there and they told me so. But the white man will not let us go to Lost Beaver. Is that fair?”
He paused challengingly. There were dubious murmurs from the other Indians, most of whom were afraid of Glenn or contented with their lot and averse to change.
“The white man beat me just now,” went on Tom Squirrel as he touched his battered features. “I am the son of a chief, but he beat me. Is that right? Would any other white man dare to do that? Will the tribe let the white man beat a chief's son and say nothing?”
This had more effect, for the Indians were proud, and while they had no chief now and did not exist as a tribe under Glenn's régime, they had the dignity of their race and preferred to think that the old days were not entirely gone.
Tom Squirrel saw that the point had taken effect. He pounded his chest.
“Me, the son of your old chief! He beat me. As one beats a dog. And for nothing,” he added, wisely.
The Indians nodded and mumbled to each other in guttural murmurs.
“And now,” went on Tom Squirrel, his evil, mahogany face twisting in many wrinkles as he talked more rapidly, “now he brings another white man here. A dark man who looks bad. Why does he come here? Why does he come when no other white men are allowed? Will he beat us too? Is not one white man, this Glenn, enough? Soon there will be more white men and we will be slaves. They will make us work for them and we will have to give them our furs and get nothing in return.”
With a true demagogue's gift for creating imaginary wrongs and conjuring up frightful bogies, he carried. his listeners along by the sheer force of his words, by his crude eloquence, and once he had their attention, once he had reminded them that there was the blood of a chief in his veins, he played upon their pride, their fear, until soon the whole hut was filled with whisperings, murmurings. And at that juncture Tom Squirrel swooped toward a corner of the little building and grasped a rifle.
“We have suffered long enough,” he declared. “Let us drive the white men away, back to their own country. We have rifles. We are stronger than they. Then we can trade at Lost Beaver and get plenty of fire water, which he will not let us have.”
Glenn had heard enough. He saw that Tom Squirrel had almost swayed the Indians over to his side. Impressionable, easily convinced, they were beginning to reach for their rifles, their knives. Boldly, he strode around to the front of the hut. The guard, peering inside, did not see him until he was upon him, and then gave a squeak of fear, which died in his throat as Glenn grabbed him by the collar and flung him to one side. He rolled over and over in the dust, finally scrambling to his feet in continuation of this undignified progress and went scampering away to his own tent.
Glenn strode into the hut, into the very center of the circle until he confronted Tom Squirrel.
“What is this?” he thundered. “Why do you meet here in the dark? What is all this whispering about?”
The very sound of his voice awed most of the redskins, although a few still murmured and fumbled with their rifles. One or two sneaked out the door. Tom Squirrel, who saw his mutiny slipping out of hand, stepped forward.
“We are tired of you,” he began, insolently. “We wish to be free—”
He got no further for Glenn swung swiftly, his heavy fist catching the Indian on the jaw. Tom Squirrel crumpled to the floor and lay there. Glenn wheeled on the others.
“Now get out!” he roared. “Get out of here, and no more of this talk or I'll treat you all as I'm going to treat Squirrel. Quick! Quick, now! Get out!”
He stepped menacingly about, and in a twinkling the doorway was jammed with frightened redskins plunging out of the hut. They dropped their weapons and rushed madly for the door, fearful of his great fists, fearful of the deadly revolver, and in a moment the hut was cleared.
Glenn went over to the corner and dragged Tom Squirrel to the entrance of the building. After a while the Indian opened his eyes and groaned, but he glared defiantly when he saw Glenn standing above him.
“Ah, you're awake, are you?” asked the trader. “We've had enough of you, my man. Quite enough, d'you hear? You weren't content with trying to knife me back there a while ago and trying to choke me to death, you dog, but now you'd try to turn the Indians against me. There's no room here for the likes of you.”
He paused for a moment and smiled as he saw a look of fear creep into Tom Squirrel's smoldering eyes.
“There's no room here for you. I ought to shoot you right where you lie, you black-hearted cut-throat. After all I've done for you and your tribe. Found you dyin' off with disease and bein' cheated outa your eye-teeth by every Tom, Dick and Harry fur trader that came into the country. Sellin' a winter's furs for a bottle of booze. I cleared out the rascals and set your tribe on its feet. Gave medicine to your sick people and paid you good money for your furs and kept the booze away from you. And this is what I get for it!”
He reached down and dragged Tom Squirrel to his feet. The redskin cringed.
“Yes! A fine lot you'll stand up to me now that you're alone and I haven't got my back turned. A fine lot!”
He wheeled toward the river and flung his arm in a broad gesture toward the placid stream.
“Come,” he roared. “Get away! Get away from Matabanick and never come back. We have no use for the likes of you. Go to Lost Beaver if you want and see if the other tribes will take you in. See how they'll receive you at Lost Beaver when you don't bring the rest of the tribe! Quick!”
The Indian made as though to protest, for he had a deep-rooted fear of being cast off from his own tribe, but Glenn menaced him.
“Get to your canoe.”
He hustled Tom Squirrel down to the river bank, while Indians peeped out of every hut and tent in frightened wonder and Spike leered on the scene in amusement from the veranda. Down to the river bank they went, Glenn whipping the Indian with scornful words, and when they reached the shore he motioned to Tom Squirrel's canoe.
“Get in!”
The Indian made a gesture of protest, but he wilted as Glenn stepped forward angrily, and then got into the canoe.
“Away you go! Anywhere! Never come back.”
Submissively, Tom Squirrel paddled out his dark face into the river. He looked back once, and his dark face was distorted with terrific malice and undying hate. Then he turned to his paddle again, and the gathering twilight swallowed him up.

### IV

THUS it came about that John Glenn, the king of Matabanick, made a remorseless enemy and at the same time began to share his wilderness kingdom with one who was a black criminal and a treacherous killer. He had crushed an uprising in much the same manner in which he had gained his kingdom—by showing the iron hand; and while he told himself that he was now secure and that the Indians would never again even think of disputing his power, he was often disquieted by remembrance of the look of malice which Tom Squirrel had cast him that evening he had paddled away from Matabanick.
Then, kingdom or no kingdom, he found that he was growing homesick.
Days passed. The short-haired man, Spike, developed a more respectable hirsute thatch and slipped indolently into the easy and monotonous round of life at the post. For a while it suited him. He had not loafed in such freedom for a long time. Day after day he did nothing but sit on the front veranda, his feet in the air, and smoke his pipe.
At first Glenn did not talk to him a great deal, for he was filled with resentment against the blunt-jawed outcast who had come into possession of his secret, who had forced his company upon him and had forced him to give the hospitality of Matabanick to a white man for the first time; and, although he talked briefly to Spike at meal times, for the most part he ignored him.
Perhaps he thought he could drive the man away. In this he was mistaken.
“The trouble wit' you,” observed Spike heavily one evening as they sat at the table after supper, “is that you've lived alone so long you don't like good company no more.”
He picked at his crooked, yellow teeth with a match and spat on the floor. He knew Glenn did not like him to spit on the floor.
“You think,' he continued, his tones thick with insolence, “that just because you rule the roost up here, nobody can talk to you. Now don't think for one little minute, Mister Glenn, that you can freeze me outta here. I won't be froze out. I'm used to bein' by myself just as much as you, although I'm not used to bein' treated like a little yella dog without no friends. So if you think you can make me sick of this place and clear out, you're wrong. All wrong! For there's other places that I'm a lot sicker of than this one, and. I don't want to go back to 'em, believe me. In a few years, mebbe, when things kinda blow over I'll beat it for the States, but until then I'm stayin' right here and you're goin' to put up wit' it. See?”
“You're quite welcome to stay,” replied Glenn stiffly.
Spike laughed harshly.
“Not a bit. I know I'm not welcome. You're wishin' I'd get outta here. You're sore because I got somepin' on you, but that's all right. You can just get used to it. Tain't goin' to do you no harm at all. I'm a peaceable guy and willin' to live and let live, so we might as well get along agreeable. Oh, I know. You don't want me, but I'm not askin' to share your graft. You just tend to your fur tradin'. I won't butt in.”
“Fortunately for me.”
Spike did not miss the sarcasm.
“Mebbe — mebbe. I ain't sayin' I wouldn't try to run this place of yours if I could. It's every man for himself in this world, and you've had your share of fur money from all tellin'. But you just be agreeable and we'll get along nice.”
Glenn stared at Spike for a moment without a word and then he laughed contemptuously.
“You!” he said. “You rule this country! Do you know how long it took me? Twelve years! Twelve years of fighting!”
“Sure, twelve years' work that the next man won't have to do. It's all done for him. The Injuns'll be just as scared of the next white man as they are of you.”
Spike poured himself some more tea.
“Aw, well, what's the use of talkin' that way?” he growled to himself. “We'll get along all right, but just don't be so high and mighty wit' me. See?” He turned to other topics. “I remember oncet I was in Toronto—”
He proceeded into a long-winded narrative, largely compounded of lies designed to glorify his own prowess, but Glenn, forgetting his resentment, found himself listening eagerly. He listened to Spike's stories of the outside world with a repelled fascination of late. He did not want to hear them, for he had cut himself apart from this world and had resigned himself to his exile, but he found himself listening in spite of himself, found himself eager to hear this stupid, brutal and vicious man talk of cities and men, and the more he heard, the more he found himself thinking of the world he had left. He found that he was thinking more and more of white men and their land and that the trading post was becoming depressing. The solid barrier of trees across. the river became mournful spectaters of an exile which he began to find. unbearable, and whenever he looked at the river now it was not with the thought that it flowed north into the country of furs, but that it flowed from the south where white men lived.
And so it came about that day after day John Glenn listened to the talk of Spike, the stranger from the white man's land, and as he listened to those tales, he knew an aching hunger for the country he had left. There was irony in the fact that he had never toyed with ideas of return until the arrival of Spike, who made such return impossible.
“D'you think—suppose I went back now,” he said diffidently one evening. “D'you think they'd remember me? That I'd be picked up, I mean.”
Spike glanced swiftly at him.
“What's the idea?” he asked. “Gettin' homesick are you?”
“No,” replied Glenn hastily. “Not homesick. Just wondering.”
“Well, you can just drop that kind of wondering,” growled Spike. “It won't do you no good. You can't go back and leave me up here. If you went away, there'd be white men swarmin' in, and somebody'd tell the Mounties about me. No sir, you don't go thinkin' any fool things about clearin' away back south. You gotta stay here. You made this a fine place for a man to hide in, and it's goin' to stay that way.”
“I'm not thinking about it,” lied Glenn coldly. “I was just wondering if they'd remember. There must be lots of small towns a man could settle down in. It was twelve years ago—”
“Mebbe they would and mebbe they wouldn't. They'd remember you mighty quick if I spilled the beans on you, though. Don't you forget that. And I'd spill 'em mighty quick if you ever left me up here.”
GLENN looked gloomily into the dusk, at the moonlight streaming across the river. There was no freedom in Matabanick any more. Hitherto he had stayed because he wished; now he was bound to stay. He could not even risk returning to his own world in the chance that twelve years had wiped out the memory of him. An overpowering nostalgia had been growing upon him of late, and he felt that he wanted to go back, to leave the wilderness and go perhaps to some town where men who were “wanted” a dozen years before would never be remembered. But now he could not for Spike knew his secret and Spike needed his protection.
He had lived apart from the white man's world for twelve years and had thought he was hardened to isolation, but now he found himself possessed by a profoundly moving desire to return to civilization. The constant presence of Spike, the very sound of that other white man's voice, stirred up in him a fire which he had long considered dead, and he found himself longing to see white people again, to see their towns and cities, to hear the pleasant hum and racket of urban life once more. The silence of the wilderness to which he had long become reconciled, which at first he had even welcomed, now became unendurable; the great, green forest became hateful because it was like a prison wall. He wanted noise, movement, life, because Spike had recalled all these things and because the longer he brooded on his isolation the more frightful it became.
“Five more years of this and I'll be insane,” he whispered to himself, and he knew he was right, for homesickness, held at bay for many years, now swept him like a raging fever, and a wilderness which had at least been tolerable now became a prison which could not be endured. He thought of city streets, under murky, smoky skies, with the rumble of traffic, and he thought of theatres, restaurants and hotels; of crowds, of people thronging the busy stores, of brightly lighted streets at night, to the accompaniment of a clanging of bells and honking of horns and roar of trolleys, and the longing to rise and leave this silent wilderness became so intense that he felt weak and helpless in face of the knowledge that he was doomed to stay in the exile he had voluntarily sought.
Perhaps, he thought, he did not know what he wanted. When he thought of leaving Matabanick, he knew that this would be hard, for the place was his. He had hewn out his wilderness kingdom by main strength throughout the years and he had guarded it jealously. He knew he could never be resigned to seeing it pass into the hands of other traders. And yet, the place was a prison to him, and he had a longing for the haunts of white men. Not only Spike stood between him and freedom, but Matabanick itself. He puffed at his pipe morosely.
WITH the departure of Tom Squirrel, quiet had prevailed at the post. Glenn's power had never seemed more secure, and yet he brooded more than had been his wont.
As for Spike, he found Matabanick tiresome, for he was not by nature fond of the wilderness, but he had been broken to imprisonment, and at least this was immeasurably better than a lifetime in the cells. But there was little for him to do, and as countless proverbs have declared, idleness hatches mischief. His mind harked back occasionally to Glenn's scorn when he had hinted that he might run the post just as well as the trader; he planned lazily, considering the possibilities of such a coup.
But it was impossible. He was greedy, and he envied Glenn the power and wealth which Matabanick brought him. Glenn had plenty of money, the Indians told him, in the bank at Cochrane. He transacted his dealings through a trusted Indian who went down to the town a few times every year for supplies and the like. Spike speculated on the possibilities of getting some of this money for himself. Privately he planned blackmail, but he had no need for money just at the time, and the time was not ripe. When he was ready to leave Matabanick he could frighten Glenn into buying his further silence.
He was sitting on the river bank one evening, occupying himself with these pleasant fancies when he became aware of an Indian, a gnarled, crippled little gnome, Limping Wolf by name, who was shuffling about near-by. This Limping Wolf had been crushed by a falling tree while a boy and had been crippled for life. It had not sweetened his nature. Forced to fight for existence in a community not overly kind to the weak, he had developed cunning, and was not generally trusted. He made his way awkwardly along the bank, his long, brown arms almost touching the ground, his bright, glittering little eyes fixed on Spike as he limped along, his toothless mouth grinning in a smile meant to be propitiating.
“Beat it!” grunted Spike.
“Limping Wolf, friend,” grinned the cripple with humility.
“Beat it,” grunted Spike again. Spike could speak but one language and he had high convictions in the superiority of the white race. All others were scum. His contempt for the Indians was devastating.
Limping Wolf, who could speak two languages, having learned a smattering of English from Glenn, ignored the command to depart.
“Bringum message,” he said.
Spike regarded him in surprize. Message from whom? His attention having been secured, Limping Wolf came over beside him and gazed out over the water, then began to talk without looking at Spike at all.
“Tom Squirrel, he wantum talk wit' you. Tom Squirrel, he say you come to leaning birch up river now.”
He motioned toward the stream. About a quarter of a mile away there was a white streak in the mass of green foliage along the bank. This was a leaning birch tree, a familiar landmark, singularly outstanding.
“What's he want?” growled Spike, surprized that Tom Squirrel should be so near Matabanick.
Limping Wolf chuckled horribly to himself and did not answer. Instead he scrambled to his feet again and went swaying down the bank with surprizing speed considering his infirmity. He turned at once and looked back.
“You go,” he said, his features wreathed in a hideous grin.
He disappeared behind a rock.
Spike scratched his head. He sensed an intrigue of some sort, so he got to his feet and went down to the landing, where he appropriated a canoe and paddled up the river. The movement excited no interest for he often did so, and he soon passed out of sight of the trading post, finally arriving at the leaning birch, where he found Tom Squirrel seated on the bank awaiting him. He beached the canoe and came up to the Indian.
“Well,” he said. “What's the trouble? You want to see me?”
Tom Squirrel nodded. Spike had expected humility, had expected that perhaps the Indian wanted him to plead for him with Glenn, but the redskin was strangely independent.
“Injun near Lost Beaver say p'liceman killed,” he grunted. “You killum. I know.”
Spike gasped, then stared. He felt as if he had received an electric shock.
“You're crazy!” he said angrily after he had recovered himself. “I don't know nothin' about no policeman.”
Tom Squirrel gazed at him with sneering disbelief flickering in his eyes.
“I know,” he said with finality. Then, suddenly, “You likeum Glenn?” he inquired.
Spike was cautious.
“Mebbe.”
Tom Squirrel grunted.
“You no likeum,” he asserted.
“Well?”
“You come along me,” said the Indian. “You'n me, we killum.”
Tom Squirrel said it as casually as if he were suggesting that they paddle down the river. Spike glanced at him in surprize. Callous as he was, he was somewhat taken aback by this cool proposal to help murder John Glenn.
IT WAS characteristic of Spike's treacherous nature that his first thought was in regard to the possibility of turning the plot to his own account by informing Glenn, but then it came over him with unpleasant truth that the Indian knew of the killing of the Mounty of Lost Beaver and that this was the very object of his introductory remark. He felt as though he were in the jaws of a great trap. Tom Squirrel had him absolutely in his power and he knew it.
“What good would it do us to kill him?” he asked, trying to gain time.
“You takum place. Live in big house.” The Indian motioned in the direction of the trading post. “Me big chief then. We makeum money.”
“You figger if we can get rid of him I can take his place and you fellows will back me up?”
Tom Squirrel grunted assent.
“The Indians are with you?”
“Me big chief.”
“How 'bout me. I don't know nothin' about runnin' the tradin' post. Other traders'll find out Glenn is gone. They'll come up here.”
There was no hesitancy in Spike's mind concerning Glenn's removal. He thought no more of that than of lighting a match. But he had to look ahead. His own safety must be considered.
“Won't know,” said Tom Squirrel. “White men never seeum long time now.”
“White men never see him?”
The Indian shook his head. Well, that was feasible too. It fell in line with what the haggard man up the river had said. Glenn himself had told him. Beyond a few brushes with traders some years before he had seen no white man. He had feared recognition for his case had been famous at the time. His photograph had been distributed broadcast and he had many enemies in the fur country—curious enemies. All his fur dealings had been through Indian intermediaries.
He was in a quandary. Never a clear thinker at best, he found himself bewildered by the problem the Indian presented. He needed Glenn. He needed the protection of the white trader. In fact, he had insisted on it from the start, and while he bore no love for Glenn, he realized that Matabanick was a safe refuge as long as the trader remained. But then he had to consider the fact that Tom Squirrel knew about the murder of the Mounted Policeman, the bronzed young redcoat he had slain in the early morning on his way down the river near Lost Beaver. He had to consider the fact that a word from Tom Squirrel would bring the law upon him for that killing, with every probability of a hanging. It would do him no good to refuse for Matabanick would be no refuge, would afford no protection if Tom Squirrel told what he knew. Of two evils he was obliged to choose the lesser and although for a long time he scratched his head and stared at the river as if hopeful of finding a third alternative he finally admitted to himself that the Indian held the upper hand. Despite the fact that he was being forced into the plot, Spike was rather flattered at being invited into such an alliance, not knowing that Tom Squirrel wanted him merely as a white man to strengthen his scheme, to give the Indians confidence.
He looked at Tom Squirrel. They understood each other. Into Spike's face had crept a look of cupidity. He loved power, and now he had a chance for power and wealth allied. True, it meant isolation at Matabanick, but he was an outcast as it was. As for Tom Squirrel, he saw the chance for which he had been waiting many years, the chance to ally himself with one who would help him rid Matabanick of the white man and restore him to his chieftainship.
“I'll come in wit' you,” said Spike bruskly. “Keep your mouth shut about this other thing though. That Mounty.”
Tom Squirrel nodded in satisfaction. Together they talked, laying plans.

### V

GLENN sensed a strange atmosphere about Matabanick. Alert to the slightest change in the placid current of life at the trading post, he felt some such difference now, although he could not define it. The Indians seemed watchful, as if a thunderstorm were brooding. Spike seemed suspiciously polite, and he had caught the ex-convict regarding him with contemplative gaze several times.
He wondered if there was some scheme afoot. Scheme! There could be no scheme. He brushed away the idea contemptuously. The Indians were docile, now that Tom Squirrel was gone, and Spike could certainly never hope to go far with any plot. Still, he was worried, and he had an instinctive feeling of lurking danger, but he put it down to his imagination and tried to forget about it.
However, as he lay in bed one night, while the whip-poor-wills chanted with rhythmical, sawing notes in the bush, he found himself disturbed by a premonition of harm. He could not go to sleep. He got up and went to the window.
The clearing was flooded with moonlight, which shone in a wide, rippling silver road across the river. The sky was flawless and deeply blue, the trees cast heavy shadows, the air was very still.
As he looked he saw one of the shadows break as another shadow detached itself from it and glided swiftly across the clearing. It was the figure of a man, and he sped silently across the open space to one of the tents. There, he was lost for a moment, but then he appeared again, running to another tent, and as Glenn watched, he saw this figure swiftly visit each of the huts and tents in the clearing. Then, in his wake, came other figures, the Indians, emerging from their dwellings, until soon the clearing was alive with shadowy forms.
Then he heard a sound, a sound close by in the hall outside his door. He wasted no further time, but dressed himself quickly and then went over to the door and waited tensely, listening.
He could hear a faint rustling, cautious footsteps as if some person were stealthily creeping down the hall, and his face grew stern as he listened.
Cautiously he opened the door and peeped out. The hall was in darkness save for a patch of moonlight flooding through a window at the far end, and in this light he was just in time to see a figure vanishing down the stairs. He looked out farther, and then something slapped swiftly against his throat and tightened horribly.
He struggled and leaped out into the hallway as two figures sprang on him from either side of the door. A rawhide thong had been flung about his throat, and it had been drawn tight, half strangling him. He fought fiercely, but his assailants were nimble and agile and he could not get his hands on them. Coughing and choking, he suddenly relaxed and tumbled to the floor.
The thong relaxed. He lay quietly until a dark figure bent over him. Then he sprang, hurling the Indian against the railing at the head of the stairs and wheeling to meet the other as he leaped at him in frightened surprize.
Silently they fought in the dark hall. He was a strong man and the Indian was powerless against him, but the other recovered and came at him from behind, lank fingers seeking his throat. They struggled back and forth, crashing against the wall, into the railing. Glenn exerted every ounce of strength he possessed; he smashed about him with his huge fists, but it was dark and his blows often went wide. One of the Indians flopped to the floor and wrapped his arms about Glenn's ankles so that the trader was powerless to get away.
Glenn and the other man fell together when the trader lost his balance. They went crashing against the railing, already weakened by their constant impacts; it creaked, splintered, then gave way, and all three went tumbling down the stairs.
Glenn landed atop the other man, who was stunned by the fall, and flung the second Indian aside as he rose, half dazed. He wrenched himself free and leaped for the doorway, but hardly had he reached it than there came a rush of figures from the veranda, and half a dozen dark forms closed about him. He was thrown to the floor, still struggling, still fighting. He kicked and struck about him, and although barked shins and bleeding noses testified to the fury of his struggles, he was at last overcome, and lay bound and breathing heavily on the floor.
Somebody struck a match, and when the lamp was lit he saw that the big room was crowded with Indians, the Indians of Matabanick whom he had ruled for twelve years. They were gazing at him in faint terror for they still feared him, but there was no pity in their glances. Then, standing above him, he was aware of Tom Squirrel, grinning evilly at him, hatred blazing in his dark eyes, while sprawled in a chair near-by was Spike. The latter was gazing contemplatively at him, quite unconcerned.
“Why didn't somebody knock him on the head and be done wit' it?” demanded Spike in an aggrieved tone. “Now we gotta go and get rid of him anyway. Who's goin' to do the job?”
He fingered at a revolver in his belt as he spoke and looked at Tom Squirrel, who only grinned maliciously and spoke rapidly in his own tongue to two of the other Indians, who left hastily. Glenn could hear them descending the cellar stairs and after a while he could hear the clink of bottles from his own small private stock of good liquor. Whereat the faces of the Indians lighted up.
The Indians returned, carrying bottles, and these they distributed. Glenn was ignored, and for half an hour he lay there, while the Indians went about the business of getting drunk. He did not know what was going to happen to him, but he feared the effect of the liquor. The Indians of Matabanick were wilder than the redskins of most other trading posts; they had been kept apart from white men, and Glenn knew that when liquor inflamed their brains they would revert to savagery. Particularly did he fear Tom Squirrel, whose hatred of him was intense.
At last, however, he heard drunken words outside the door as Tom Squirrel gave orders to two of the men. The others he could hear yelling and screeching out in the clearing, reckless with freedom, inflamed with drink.
“Whatcha goin' to do?” demanded Spike thickly of Tom Squirrel, but the Indian turned away and Spike stumbled into the room and gazed stupidly at Glenn, lying bound and helpless on the floor.
“You—you—” stammered Glenn in his rage. “A white man you call yourself—a white man—”
“Sure I'm white,” muttered Spike truculently. “None o' your lip or I'll soak you one.”
He stood over the prostrate figure, snarling. But Glenn was not to be silenced.
“A white man. You fiend, and you'll stand by and let them go ahead with this. You'll let that Tom Squirrel burn me—burn me, you hear!”
Spike stared soddenly, and then he turned and looked out into the clearing. Indians were rolling drunkenly about and, as he looked he saw some of them obeying the orders of Tom Squirrel, grouped about a dim heap in the centre of the open space. He saw something glow, saw a flame rise and then he licked his lips. He was too drunk to realize the full meaning of it, and he hesitated a moment.
“Well, what can I do about it?” he demanded fretfully. “You gotta be bumped off—”
He shambled unsteadily away, clutching a bottle.
The lamp glowed solemnly on the table. As Glenn looked hopelessly at it, realizing the treachery of Spike, realizing that Tom Squirrel now controlled the Indians and that liquor was fast reverting them to savagery, he knew the full extent of his peril. He gazed at the lamp. It appeared to afford a slim hope of escape, and he rolled over and over on the floor until he reached the table, then managed to struggle to his feet, using the table leg as a brace. His ankles were tied, his wrists bound behind his back and he tottered unsteadily, but he managed to get near the lamp, and he groped about behind him until his fingers reached the chimney. This, he removed, and placed on the table. Then, steeling himself for the ordeal, he groped about until the tightly knotted rope was in the flame.
For a moment tee was unable to stand the searing pain and he drew away, but he realized it was his only chance and again he forced his wrists over the flame. The pain was agonizing as the flesh of his wrists was burned, but he managed to attain an angle at which the flame was concentrated chiefly on the rope, and then clenched his teeth and endured the burning.
IT WAS slow progress, and the excruciating pain more than once made him move his wrists involuntarily away. He could hear footsteps on the veranda. Desperately he strained at his bonds, but they had not burned sufficiently: The footsteps came nearer. He plunged the rope full into the flame and waited.
Tom Squirrel stood in the doorway, his eyes burning with drunken hatred. He had a knife in his belt, Glenn saw. The Indian did not at first comprehend, and then he grunted and sprang. forward. With a mighty effort Glenn strained at the rope again and suddenly it snapped. His wrists were free. He threw himself at the Indian, and they tumbled to the floor, Glenn reaching for the knife. His searching fingers found the weapon, and he swiftly rolled away while the befuddled Indian strove to collect his wits. Glenn hacked frantically at the rope around his ankles, just as Tom Squirrel recovered and crawled toward him. But he had gained the respite he needed. The ropes fell apart, and he sprang to his feet and made for the door.
The Indian shouted, and Glenn ran into half a dozen redskins crowding in from the veranda. They were drunk, and he took them so by surprize that he had crashed his way through before they knew who he was. There was no use staying to fight for he was outnumbered; so he leaped off the veranda and raced across the clearing.
He heard a shot behind him and he redoubled his efforts, leaping from side to side, dodging this way and that, keeping to the shadow of the huts and tents. He heard yells, more shots, a sound of trampling feet, and he dashed for the river.
He looked back once, and he could see the great glow of the fire, a flashing of lights, confused figures running back and forth and an occasional scarlet flash as a rifle rang out. He was near the river now, but the moonlight was so clear that he knew he was an easy mark, and he was fearful of a bullet at any time.
He reached the bank in safety and dove into the water. By the time the Indians has reached the water's edge, he was far out in the middle of the stream and swimming steadily, his head a dark, round object in the moonlight.
Two or three rifles spoke. Glenn flung up his hands. The Indians heard a loud cry, and then he disappeared beneath the water.
They stood there watching for a long while, but he did not reappear. A dark log floated down the stream, crossing the barred path of moonlight. To Spike, who gazed in drunken apathy, it was mindful of a corpse.
The Indians returned to their celebration. Once the feared trader was out of the way, they acclaimed Tom Squirrel as their chief and their deliverer. They were forgetful of the fact that although Glenn had made money from their furs, he had also done much for them. In lean years he had looked after them; he had helped the sick; he had protected them from the depredations of the traders in liquor. Now all this was forgotten.
Spike went back to the veranda and gazed benignly on the celebration in the light of the huge fire. He was just as glad Glenn had been killed in the river. Had to get rid of the fellow, of course, but this burning stuff wasn't just right. Through a hazy glow he watched the redskins reeling about the clearing. As the night wore on fights became numerous, bottles were smashed and not a few of the braves fell into the river in the course of their jubilation. Shrieks, shouts, the bawling of awakened and frightened infants, the thumping of a drum improvised from a discarded copper boiler increased the bedlam.
“Atta boy!' applauded Spike in vast good humor, taking a pull at the bottle.
“You'n me'll run this place, eh Tom?” he said drunkenly as Tom Squirrel came near. He clutched a bottle of rye by the neck. “You go tell 'em that, Tom,” said Spike. “You 'member our bargain. You go tell the Injuns I'm boss here now. I'll act right by 'em. You go tell 'em that see. Go tell 'em.”
He dragged Squirrel over to the veranda steps, staggering, and stood there unsteadily, a foolish grin on his swarthy face as the Indian made a guttural speech in his own language, the Indians desisting long enough from their orgy to listen with drunken solemnity. Tom Squirrel punctuated his speech frequently by pounding his chest, and when he finally pointed to Spike with a gesture unmistakably derisive there was a cackling of drunken laughter.
Spike stared suspiciously, and then he saw that the Indians were jeering at him.
“Whatsh th'idea?” he demanded darkly, turning on Tom Squirrel. “Whatsh comin' off?”
But Tom Squirrel had turned his back on him, and from the Indians he received nothing but scornful glances and derisive laughter. He strode forward unsteadily. The Indians fell back and resumed their celebration, ignoring him, but the cripple, Limping Wolf, was unable to make good progress, and Spike collared him.
“What—what'd he say?” he demanded, his face dark with rage as he shook the Indian. “C'mon, tell me?”
Limping Wolf snarled in sullen anger and wriggled, but he could not twist himself free.
“Hurry, you li'l rat,” said Spike, his befuddled brain aflame with suspicion. “Wha'd he say?”
“He say—he say you big fool,” stammered Limping Wolf. “He say him chief now. You on'y big fool.”
With an oath, Spike hurled the cripple to one side. Limping Wolf fell into the sand, mumbling to himself.
So that was it! The double cross. Angrily, he reeled across the clearing toward Tom Squirrel who was talking to two other braves. Spike grabbed him by the shoulder.
“What's the idea?” he roared, whirling Tom Squirrel about. “You tryin' to double cross me? You promised we'd share an' share alike if I helped you.”
Curtly Tom Squirrel brushed aside his arm, then deliberately turned his back on the raging Spike. The latter looked about him and he became aware that a crowd had gathered, and all about him he could see inscrutable brown faces. He also saw brown hands close to knives, and he could see the firelight flashing on rifle barrels. He realized that at a word from Tom Squirrel he could be annihilated. He stammered, he weakened, and then turned away and plunged blindly through the crowd, back to the trading post, and there he flung himself into a chair on the veranda.
He was dazed by this terrific and incredible treachery. He was alone among strange, hostile people, all his pitiful dreams of power gone aglimmering. All his conceited dreams of having these Indians at his bidding, going into the wilderness at his command, bringing back furs, shiny furs, which would make him wealthy—all these fancies had gone crashing to the dust and he was overcome with unbelievable despair and disappointment.
He groped for a bottle beside the chair and drank heavily. There he sat, slumped forward, staring morosely out over the clearing, at the great fire, at the leaping, fantastic figures of the Indians. The black sky, the dark forest, the moonlit river, the red fire, all these seemed to be laughing at him, pitilessly and silently, and he felt suddenly afraid.
Gradually he grew sleepy. The liquor numbed his brain and his head fell on his chest. Finally, he snored. The bottle fell from his fingers and the liquor flowed out over the floor. The Indians ignored him. He slept, drunken, defeated, a victim of his own treachery.

### VI

WHEN Glenn dove into the river he saw the floating log slowly drifting down the stream, and when he heard the rifle shots behind him he simulated injury and let himself go under. Then, being a good swimmer, he continued under water until he judged himself to be on the far side of the log.
He judged correctly, and when he again emerged he was hidden from the sight of the Indians on the bank. He clung to the wet and slippery refuge until it finally drifted beyond the bend and out of sight of Matabanick. Then he took to the shore and followed an obscure trail by the river.
He followed this trail which was close to the water's edge until morning, and when the sun rose he dried his clothing and slept for a while. Then, after eating freely of berries which grew plentifully by the path, he continued his journey.
Glenn was so relieved at having escaped from Matabanick with his life that the seizure of the post worried him little. There would be time enough to consider that later. For the present he sought refuge. He was satisfied that Tom Squirrel, Spike and the Indians thought him dead, and this was in his favor for his future course would be rendered easier.
Toward noon he came to a trail which branched off into the woods, and this trail he followed until, after a while, he came to a small clearing. There was a dingy tent, and an old, hard-bitten Indian was cooking meat over an open fire. He had heard Glenn approaching long before the trader himself appeared out of the bush and he was peering curiously at him as he came up to the fire.
“Hello, Sam,” greeted Glenn.
The Indian grunted a welcome and then waited for the trader to explain his presence there. His keen eyes missed no detail of Glenn's appearance, and he had a shrewd idea of what had happened before the trader even spoke.
“Tom Squirrel chased me out,” said Glenn briefly. “Tom Squirrel and a white man. They wanted to kill me. Tom Squirrel is chief now.”
Sam listened to the news impassively and stirred the fire.
“I want you to help me drive out Tom Squirrel from Matabanick. Get all the good Injun fellows you can. Double prices for your furs next winter.”
Sam nodded his satisfaction. He had always hated Tom Squirrel anyway. There were a number of Indians who, like himself, stayed in the bush throughout the summer and came to Matabanick but seldom. He would be able to enlist them on Glenn's behalf. They were few in number; perhaps but a dozen at the most could be gathered at once.
“Me gettum,” he said.
They discussed the prospects of regaining Matabanick. Greater than his desire to return to civilization was Glenn's determination to recapture Matabanick, to recover his lost kingdom. It was his—his own accomplishment, and he was fiercely jealous of it and could not bear to see it in the hands of another. He would rather die in the attempt to regain it than to return to the haunts of white men defeated—defeated by a rascally, ambitious redskin and a greedy, treacherous criminal.
THERE came a morning a week later when nine Indians gathered at Glenn's refuge in the forest. Lean, dusky fellows of middle age, faithful to the trader, he knew that he could trust them to fight for him with all the bravery and cunning at their command. He wished their numbers had been more for they were greatly outnumbered by the force at the trading post, but he was well satisfied with their loyalty and with their worth as fighting men.
Particularly appreciative of their fidelity was he in view of the fact that bush fire had been raging in the wilderness to the north for the past few days. The forests were dry and the weather was warm, with high winds blowing to the south. There was a constant veil of thin smoke over the land. He could not have blamed them had they preferred to stay near their tents in expectation of danger, for the forest fire sweeps down swiftly, but they had left their wilderness homes at his call.
They gathered about the camp-fire in a grim, silent circle, their rifles lying near-by, and waited for him to speak.
“You all know what has happened at Matabanick,” said Glenn gravely. “You all know that Tom Squirrel and the other white man have driven me away. You know that Tom Squirrel now calls himself chief.”
There were murmurs of assent.
“Can Tom Squirrel get the money for your furs that I can get you? Can Tom Squirrel keep out the white traders as I have kept them out? You know that it is better for you as it is. If there are any here who do not want to help drive Tom Squirrel out of Matabanick, let them drop out. Let them go back to their women.”
No one moved.
“There will be fighting—” some of the faces lighted up eagerly, for old traditions were not dead—“some of you may be killed. If you are afraid, do not come.”
They were motionless. Glenn gazed apprehensively to the sky.
“The big fires are burning. The wind is from the north. If any would rather be back in their tents, let them go.”
Still no one moved. Glenn nodded his satisfaction. He picked up a rifle loaned him by Sam.
“Come,” he said simply, and led the way toward the river.
There they embarked in their canoes, and the little party set out in the gray morning for Matabanick.
The smoke cloud hung like a mist on the horizon, thicker than it had been for some days. The sky was dull and the river was sluggish and unruffled. There was an atmosphere of tense expectancy; even the trees seemed cringing, waiting. Glenn realized that the forest fire was closer than he had thought; he knew that the sharp-eyed Indians also recognized the fact. Should the wind rise, he knew that the danger would be great.
The canoes glided up the river and, as the morning passed, they recognized by landmarks that they were nearing Matabanick. They had the advantage of surprize, even if they were outnumbered, and Glenn determined to make fullest use of this advantage by attacking the post by land. If they came by river, they could be wiped out by defenders of the place before they could set foot on shore, but if they swept in suddenly from the forest they might easily capture Matabanick by surprize. Tom Squirrel would not have time to rally his Indians. The more Glenn considered this plan, the more it appealed to him as almost certain of success. So when they were near a bend in the river, beyond which lay the trading post, he gave the signal to go in toward shore, and the canoes swung swiftly in beneath the shadows of the great trees.
Now, on a huge rock above the river, the Indian, Limping Wolf, had been officiating as lookout, watching the progress of the fires to the north. The wind had risen during the morning and where the smoke had once been a mist it was now a cloud, and he could see it rolling up from the densely wooded horizon in thick, silent, billows. He had just about reached the conclusion that the steadily rising breeze boded ill for Matabanick and that he had better warn Tom Squirrel that flight was advisable when he discovered, with a start of surprize, the canoes proceeding up the river.
It did not take him long to grasp matters, and terror filled him when he saw that in the first canoe sat none other than Glenn, or his ghost. He showed more haste than he had ever shown before in his life and, despite his infirmity, scrambled down off the rock and plunged down the bush path in the direction of the post, a few hundred yards away.
On the chive oblivious of this, confident that they would come upon Matabanick by surprize, Glenn gathered his Indians and gave them their instructions. They were to deploy through the bush, within sight of each other, but sufficiently apart to give the impression of great numbers when they opened fire; they were to make as much noise as possible when Glenn should fire the first shot at the outskirts of the clearing; and they were to shoot Tom Squirrel or the white man, Spike, at sight. They were not to shoot any of the Indians already at the post, unless they sought first to shoot the attackers, for Glenn realized that these Indians had turned against him only because they were easily swayed, and he wished as little bloodshed as possible. He believed that they would be frightened and thrown into confusion by a surprize attack and would surrender without battle, which would be entirely according to his wishes.
Silently, then, they entered the forest. A slight rustling of branches, the occasional hasty fluttering of startled birds—these were the only indications of their progress. They became swiftly moving shadows in the undergrowth and then the forest swallowed them up.
Above them the sky was dun-colored, for the wind was blowing high and the fires were drawing closer to Matabanick with every hour. The Indian, Sam, sniffed and then pointed to the smoke-filled sky through the intersections of the trees. He shook his head doubtfully. But they went on. Fire or no fire, Glenn was determined to recapture Matabanick, even if it were wiped out ten minutes afterward.
The bush began to thin out and soon, through the trees, he could catch a glimpse of the roof of the trading post. A few stealthy strides and he had reached the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing. Here, however, an unexpected sight confronted him.
Indians, carrying rifles, were running hastily about. He could hear the voice of Tom Squirrel somewhere in the background as the Indian gave orders. He could see Limping Wolf struggling awkwardly about among the huts and tents. He could hear the squalling of children being hastily bundled into shelter. Tremendous excitement prevailed. There could be only one explanation; the Indians had somehow become apprised of the impending attack.
THERE was no time to lose. He raised his rifle and fired toward the trading post, aiming at one of the upper windows. The glass shattered, a frightened shouting rose from the clearing and then behind him, on either side, arose a weird and unearthly screeching, punctuated with a resounding banging of rifles as his own Indians advanced to the attack.
But Tom Squirrel had been warned in time. Hardly had the screeching commenced than shots rang out from the trading post in a perfect fusillade. The clearing seemed to be emptied of scurrying figures in an instant and bullets pattered among the trees. All his hopes of a surprize attack were destroyed, but he ran out from the bush and his own men emerged into the clearing at the same time.
The light was poor for a great pall of smoke hung in the dull sky. Through the windows of the trading post he could make out dim figures and among the tents and huts he could see crouching figures. Shots rang out on every side. He managed to get ten or twelve yards. across the clearing when he saw one of his own Indians a few feet away tumble heavily to the ground. Bullets were plopping into the dust on every side. Another redskin, just coming out of the shelter of the bush, reeled and fell, kicking, while another suddenly dropped his rifle and clung to his shoulder with nerveless fingers.
Clearly, this could not go on. The trading post was still twenty yards away and they could not hope to win by hand-to-hand fighting. He could see flashes of flame as the rifles barked, and he knew that Matabanick was too well defended. So he turned, shouted to his men to take cover and retreated ingloriously to the bush.
In the shelter of the trees, with the sound of desultory firing from the post ringing in their ears, they gathered. They had left two Indians lying dead in the clearing and one man was wounded in the shoulder so that Glenn now had but half a dozen Indians fit for further battle. These, however, were staunch, and had no comment on the failure of the first attack.
They could see that there was no use making another open attack as they were outnumbered and the defenders. were under cover while they were not. They could never hope to overcome that open space in the clearing against the concealed fire of the men in the trading post. Perhaps three or four of them might make it, but they would make it only to be cut to pieces in hand-to-hand fighting, annihilated by a superior force. They agreed that they should wait until nightfall, in the meantime sniping at the defenders from the woods and, above all, making every effort to locate Tom Squirrel. Should the leader show his head and should a lucky shot bring him low, Glenn was confident that the others would quickly give up the defence of Matabanick and surrender to him.
They made their way cautiously to the edge of the bush again and took their places in the undergrowth, but the Indians kept to the trading post. Once in a while one of Glenn's men would fire at a shifting figure passing by one of the windows, but Tom Squirrel wisely remained in hiding. So the afternoon passed and the smoke cloud which hung over Matabanick grew heavier and more opaque, seemed to sink lower in the sky, while the grayness on the horizon became black. There was a brisk wind in the trees, and one or two of the Indians sniffed in alarm and told Glenn that the fire was but a few hours away and travelling fast.
Night fell at last, and the sky became fiercely crimson to the north, while a great ruddy glow rose to the zenith. They could plainly smell the approaching fire. The Indians in the trading post did not light the lamps for their figures would be visible thereby to the lurking snipers in the bush, but Glenn became aware of a number of creeping figures in the clearing. He watched curiously and then chanced a shot. There was a rush. Half a dozen of the men from the post converged in a dark mass and, as Glenn's men opened fire, something glowed. There was a burst of flame and then the dark figures rushed back toward the trading post.
A heap of wood had been piled there by the party and as the flames rose, the edge of the clearing was illuminated so that Glenn's men were forced to draw farther back into the shelter of the bushes. In the flickering light they could see that the bonfire had been lighted at the cost of two men.
They were obliged to wait for the fire to die down. Glenn knew that the defenders would grow weary with the night and he knew he still had a chance to regain the post as long as he did not throw away his opportunities and waste his men by premature attacks. So the night wore on and the silent glow in the sky grew brighter as the surrounding darkness deepened, while the bonfire at the edge of the clearing gradually died. The coals glowed, but there was no longer the brilliant radius of firelight which etched every branch, every tree trunk in bold relief and made attack impossible.
Glenn crouched in the undergrowth, waiting the proper moment. Just before dawn he decided. The smoke from the northern bush fire was heavy for his eyes were stinging. He knew that when morning came it would be hanging over Matabanick in a thick cloud. He had ordered his men to cease firing, hoping that the defenders might think they had withdrawn. By morning, he knew, some of the men in the trading post would be asleep, others weary, others careless. None of them had much stomach for fighting, and he knew that the approaching forest fire was worrying them.
There was a sudden crackling in the bush behind him. He turned quickly and peered suspiciously into the darkness. Clearly, it was not one of his own Indians for they could glide through the bush as silently as cats, but this noise was evidently made by one unused to such progress. He saw a dark form close-by and he knew it for Sam on the alert, but he placed a restraining hand on the Indian's arm and bade him wait.
Then he heard the bush crackle again and a figure loomed into view and he heard a hoarse whisper:
“Mister Glenn, Mister Glenn, don't shoot. It's me—Spike!”

### VII

HIS face contracted with contempt. What treachery was that black fiend up to now? His grasp on the rifle tightened.
“Mister Glenn, Mister Glenn, where are you?”
“Here,” whispered Glenn, abruptly. “Stop that noise.”
He had no fear of Spike for his men were on every side and he knew Spike realized that a false move meant his death.
Spike came nearer.
“I'm a friend,” he panted. “I'm on your side. On the level, Mister Glenn, I'm a friend to you.”
“Speak lower. A fine friend you've been to me.”
“I know, Mister Glenn. I made a mistake. I got all that was comin' to me. Them red skunks over there did me dirt.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I'm through. I'm through wit' them,” whimpered Spike. “The crooks double-crossed me.”
“Just as you double-crossed me. What more would you expect? What more did you deserve?”
“I won't stay wit' them. I played a bad one on you Mister Glenn, but let me come wit' you. I don't want to stay wit' them redskins.”
His voice was a whine, and he was cringing.
“Come with me? No. You can't be trusted. Go back to them. Go back, I tell you. You made your choice, now stick to it. Take your medicine.”
“But lissen,” pleaded Spike hastily. “I come to tell you somepin'. They're comin' around behind, sneakin' up on you. They're goin' to try and drive y'out into the clearin' and then knock you off. You and your crowd. Let me stay, Mister Glenn. I'll help. We can clean up on 'em now you know they're comin'.”
Glenn considered swiftly. He did not trust Spike. This might be a trap to divert his attention, to divide his forces, and enable an attack from the trading post. Then again, it might simply be a lie of the ex-convict's to gain favor. Still, there was a possibility of truth in it for it would be very easy for Tom Squirrel to come up behind him unexpectedly and attack from the rear. Caught between two forces, they would be wiped out.
He summoned his men and, as they gathered about him, dark, uncertain shapes in the gloomy bush, he told them what Spike had said. They listened silently to his instructions, then drew away again, scattering to points of vantage where they might better be able to cope with such an attack. There they waited in the night hours.
At last came a barely perceptible sound from the bushes, a faint stirring of twigs which might have been made by some nocturnal animal, and then the forest burst into activity. There was a flash of flame, a shot, then a yell of anguish; a constant uproar began as the screeching of the attackers mingled with the cracking of rifles. Forms ran crashing through the undergrowth. One tumbled heavily with a groan. The attackers broke and fled. Soon only a heavy threshing of bushes marked their incontinent flight.
Spike's hoarse voice broke out.
“See, Mister Glenn. I was right, wasn't I? If I hadn't told you, they'd 'a' cleaned up on us. You lemme stay wit' you, eh, Mister Glenn.”
Glenn said nothing and Spike stayed. He knew that Spike was largely influenced by the belief that he had a big force of Indians at his command and that the post was doomed to fall; also that he feared for his own hide should the trader recapture Matabanick. He did not consider that he owed Spike any thanks for telling of the surprize attack. Spike had simply used that information as an excuse to ingratiate himself with what he thought would be the winning side.
“They double-crossed me,” went on the ex-convict in a hoarse, querulous monotone. “That Injun Squirrel did me dirt, all right. Wouldn't pay no notice to me after you—after you went away. Ditched me, he did. Made me get my own meals. Can you beat it? My own meals. I've led an awful life there, Mister Glenn.”
“You deserved it.”
“Sure, I guess I did, all right. Didn't know when I was well off. But I wouldn't 'a' seen you killed, Mister Glenn. Honest, I wouldn't. I was pretty sure you was all right when you dived into the river. I told 'em. I said, 'Aw, he's drownded. There's no use shootin' any more,' and made 'em come away, and all the time I was sure you 'was all right.”
Glenn laughed shortly.
“I don't believe it, you know.”
“It's the truth. Honest it is. That Injun, Squirrel, had somepin' on me, see? He made me come in wit' him.”
“Keep quiet or they'll be shooting this way.”
“Aw right, Mister Glenn. I'll be quiet. But I just wanted you to know I was wit' you to the finish. See?”
He subsided into muttered protestations of loyalty.
Morning dawned gray and bleak, scarcely morning at all for the darkness of night persisted in the south, and they saw that the red glow did not fade from the smoke cloud. Instead, it covered all the northern sky. There was a wind and it came sweeping toward the south, bowing the tree tops violently.
The smell of smoke was strong, and they could even see flakes of black ash floating down across the clearing. The forest to the north was veiled in smoke. The river wound from a foggy bank, the water pallid and gray trees cowered in sad obscurity in the dingy cloud.
There were flitting shapes in the foggy clearing, and Glenn could see that the Indians were growing nervous for the fire was very close. He judged the time ripe for another attack. Unless the wind changed the fire would be upon Matabanick during the morning.
He gathered his men, told them to prepare for an attack and finally gave the signal, rushing out into the clearing, tearing like mad.
The smoke cloud veiled their movements, and although there came a scattering of shots from the trading post, they took little effect.
Glenn and his handful of Indians withheld their fire, but sprinted across the open space, scarce able to see each other in the thick smoke, running like fantoms toward the gloomy bulk of the big building in the centre of the clearing. He could see the veranda of the trading post now through the fog, and there came a stab of flame and more shots rang out, for now the defenders could see them. He plunged forward and he could see one of his Indians scaling the veranda rail. They were lithe as panthers in their movements.
HE WAS aware that the forest fire was much closer than he had thought. The air was close, hot, stifling, and the hot breath of the blaze was swept down on the clearing by the roaring wind. As he crossed the clearing he could see high flickers of flame from back in the bush, flames which rose scarlet against the rolling volumes of smoke. Trees at the edge of the clearing were threshing and moaning as if fearful of the approaching tornado of fire. The flames were sweeping down with a hollow roar.
He was at the veranda now, and he leaped up the steps into a knot of dim figures. They scattered as he bounded toward them. Some scrambled through the doorway, others leaped off the veranda. Over to one side he could see a tall figure whom he instinctively knew to be Tom Squirrel, swinging his rifle about his head like a club, urging the defenders to hold firm. Glenn, berserk, rushed toward him, but Tom Squirrel at that moment saw that his Indians, divided in fear of the attackers and of the approaching flames, had given way and were scattering on every hand. He ran to the edge of the veranda, leaped over the rail and disappeared into the smoke.
Glenn went into the trading post and his men crowded after him. It had been a complete rout. Through the windows they could see dim figures fleeing madly hither and thither. The building had been emptied of its attackers, who had fled in fear, and now they were occupied with their new terror, the forest fire.
The Indians were all down by the river. Squaws were gabbling in fright, children were howling, there was a great din of crashing pots and pans and above all sounded the increasing roar of the fire which seemed to gather in speed and overwhelming frightfulness as it approached Matabanick. All the wilderness to the north was ablaze and the wind roared like a ravening beast. The Indians were fleeing before it. Already he could see canoes out on the river, loaded to the gunwales; already he could see others embarking. The redskins were in the grip of a rank panic. They tumbled madly over each other in their zeal for flight.
“We'd best go,” said Glenn to the Indian, Sam, who stood, silent and stern, beside him. Sam nodded. Matabanick was doomed. There was sadness in Glenn's heart for the place was his and he knew that his handiwork was marked for destruction, but he was glad that it had again been his at the last and that he at least had the satisfaction of wresting it from the hands of Tom Squirrel.
There was still time. To the south of Matabanick was a wide stretch of wilderness that had been burnt over the year previous and here, he knew, the fire would be halted. Despite its appalling ferocity, despite the furious roar of the flames and of the wind, despite the hot redness of the sky and the thick blackness of the smoke, he knew that it would be half an hour before the fire reached the post and that in that time they could all be well up the river.
He left the post and went down toward the shore.
The Indians had almost all fled. He could see canoes bobbing through the smoke as the braves paddled skillfully up the stream, with lusty strokes, spurred on by fear of the roaring terror behind. A few dilatory redskins were just embarking as he reached the river bank.
There were still a few canoes left and he assigned his men to these. The Indian, Sam, took the stern of one and waited for him to take his place.
He turned and looked to the north. The world seemed to be burning up. The roaring sky was black as night and a tremendous red glow leaped high from above the blazing forest. The heat of the enormous conflagration was overwhelming, blinding, and smoke swept in clouds across the clearing. He could see the dim shape of the trading post there, the trading post which represented all his efforts, all his life for twelve long years. It looked very lonely for he was deserting it to the indomitable fury of the flames.
Then, as he watched, two figures, locked together, came reeling through the smoke, stumbling down toward the bank. They were fighting, struggling fiercely, and even as they fought, Glenn could see the flash of a knife, could see an arm upraised, could see it fall and rise again. Right to the bank they came, fighting like catamounts. Then in a flash he recognized them. The tall, dark, figure with the knife he knew to be Tom Squirrel, and the other was Spike—the two men who had been treacherous to him now locked in death-grips.
They tumbled down the bank into the water until they were waist deep. There under the black sky in the cloudy smoke with the hot breath of the onrushing forest fire upon them, with the massed trees along the opposite bank but eerie shadows in the smoke, in the roar of the wind and the flames, they battled, grimly, tensely, silently, for their lives.
Once, twice Tom Squirrel freed his right hand from Spike's grasp and swung with the keen knife, and each time came a red smear on the back of the white man's shirt. He kicked and struggled, the waves battered them about, they fell and went beneath the water. Spike emerged gasping, his hands still at the redskin's throat, holding him beneath the waves. There was a great splashing as Tom Squirrel struggled in a frenzy of terror. Glenn saw Spike lose his balance and again fall beneath the water, but again he rose, still clinging to the Indian, struggling to keep his own head above the waves, but after a while the splashing grew weaker and weaker, and at last Tom Squirrel ceased to struggle. Spike relaxed his grasp, the redskin slipped limply out of his fingers, and the body sank to the sandy bottom.
SPIKE looked about him, dazed. His back was slashed and bleeding, and his clothes were soaking. He reeled and fell into the water, got to his knees, struggled toward the shore, fell again, then crawled on hands and knees.
“Hurry,” shouted Glenn. “Into the canoe.”
Spike shook his head, mumbling something they could not hear.
“Him die,” said Sam, the Indian, impassively.
He looked back at the roaring wall of flame above the trees, and would have paddled away had not Glenn restrained him and leaped out of the canoe. He went over to Spike, lying helplessly on the shore.
“Badly hurt?” he asked.
“Done for,” muttered Spike. “He—he tried to get me—for goin' over on your side. Said he'd—pay me up—”
He coughed, and it was a cough of death. Glenn looked at the man who had been thus a final victim to the treachery which had marked all his life at Matabanick, and there was pity in his eyes.
“Lissen,” gasped Spike. “I'm a goner. I played a dirty trick on you.”
“That's all right. Let it pass.”
“Not that. This is different. Whiteman. Remember me talkin' about Whiteman?”
“Yes.”
“Whiteman told me to tell you before he died. He told everything. Cleared you—”
Glenn leaned forward, catching his breath in excitement.
“Cleared me? Cleared me, you say?”
Spike nodded feebly.
“Took all the blame for that affair. Wrote—wrote a confession. He was feelin' bad about it before he died. Told me if ever I got out—to hunt you up—come up here and tell you—”
“And why didn't you tell me?”
“I figgered you'd have to help me—” The voice grew huskier. “I had to have some place to hide. Long as you thought I had somepin' on you—long as you thought you was still wanted and I'd squeal on you if you turned me down—you'd have to let me stay. If I'd told you, I couldn't 'a' made you help me. See? You'd 'a' gone back anyway, and I couldn't stay up here—alone. Needed you here too. Just thought I'd use what I knew—”
He fell back, exhausted.
Glenn crouched there, understanding. Spike, knowing that if he delivered Whiteman's message, Glenn would return to civilization and that his own hope of a hiding place under Glenn's protection would be wrecked, had kept the secret. He had, as he said, used what he knew to force Glenn to remain in the wilderness and protect him.
For a moment, he hated the prostrate figure, the man who knew no honor, no law but his own, the man who was false, treacherous, and deadly; but now that he was free, free to leave the wilderness, free to return to his own people, he was filled with gladness, and he forgave Spike everything for having told him at last.
“Come,” broke in the guttural voice of the Indian in the canoe.
“I'm coming, Sam. A minute.”
Spike sighed heavily and turned over on one side.
“Spike.”
There was no answer. Spike was dead.
“Fire ver' near.” The Indian had glanced indifferently at the body of Spike, and then looked meaningly back at the raging fire, now so close that flickering spires of flame were bursting from the bush within a short distance of the clearing. The fire roared, belched black smoke and infernal gusts of heat. The great trees were crashing and falling and crackling before the overwhelming flames.
“I'm coming.”
Glenn stepped into the canoe. With a stroke of the paddle the Indian sent the craft skimming out over the water.
There was still time for escape, but there was no escape for Matabanick. In a little while, within the hour, it would be destroyed. Glenn saw a dark figure lying by the river and he could see the dim shape of the trading post looming sadly through the smoke.
Before the evening sun had set he knew there would be nothing left of the Matabanick wilderness save an enormous desolation. His Indians would be scattered to the four winds. He cared little. His work was done and no others would usurp the power he had held so long. He was going away, away from the kingdom, back to his own people.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1977, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 47 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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