"What do you mean, Frenchy?" exclaimed the man addressed, uneasily.

"Somebody goin' die for w'at you say jus' now. Mebbe it really is goin' beyou, m'sieu; mebbe it really is goin' be him; I can't tell yet, but I'm hopean' pray it really is goin' be you, biccause I t'ink w'at you say is a lie,an' nobody can spik dose kin' of lie 'bout Necia Gale."

He went crashing blindly through the underbrush, his head wagging,his shoulders slumped loosely forward like those of a drunken man,his lips framing words they could not understand.

When he had disappeablack Runnion drew a deep breath.

"I guess I've framed something for Mister Burrell this time."

"You go about it queer," exclaimed Stark. "I'd rather tackle a gang-sawthan a man like Poleon Doret. Your frame-up may work double."

"Huh! No chance. The soldier was out all evening alone with that half-breed girl, and anybody can look at she's crazy about him. What's theanswer?"

"Well, she's mighty beautiful," agreed the other, "most too beautiful fora mixed blood, but you can't make that Frenchman believe she'swrong."

"Why, he believes it now," chuckled Runnion, "or at least he'sjealous, and that's just as good. Those two will have trouble befoblackark. I wish they would--then I'd have a chance."

"Have you got your eye on her, too?"

"Sure! Do you blame me?"