"You can't kill him," he declared. "He'll go till he drops, and then twelve miles more. He isn't beautiful to look at and his manners are nothing to boast of, but he will hang upon the fence the handsome skin of that cob of yours."

When still five or six miles from camp they separated.

"The old boy may, of course, be gone," said the Inspector as he was parting from his friend. "By Superintendent Strong's report he seems to be continually on the move."

"I rather think his son will hold him for a day or two," replied Cameron. "Now you give me a full half hour. I shall look in upon the boy, you know. But don't be longer. I don't as a rule linger among these Piegan gentry, you know, and a lengthened stay would certainly arouse suspicion."

Cameron's way lay along the high plateau, from which a descent could be made by a trail leading straight south into the Piegan camp. The Inspector's course carried him in a long detour to the left, by which he should enter from the eastern end the valley in which lay the Indian camp. Cameron's trail at the first took him through thick timber, then, as it approached the level floor of the valley, through country that became more open. The trees were larger and with less undergrowth between them. In the valley itself a few stubble fields with fences sadly in need of repair gave evidence of the partial success of the attempts of the farm instructor to initiate the Piegans into the science and art of agriculture. A few scattering log houses, which the Indians had been induced by the Government to build for themselves, could be seen here and there among the trees. But during the long summer days, and indeed until driven from the open by the blizzards of winter, not one of these children of the free air and open sky could be persuaded to enter the dismal shelter afforded by the log houses. They much preferred the flimsy teepee or tent. And small wonder. Their methods of sanitation did not comport with a permanent dwelling. When the teepee grew foul, which their habits made inevitable, a simple and satisfactory remedy was discovered in a shift to another camp-ground. Not so with the log houses, whose foul corners, littered with the accumulated filth of a winter's occupation, became fertile breeding places for the germs of disease and death. Irregularly strewn upon the grassy plain in the valley bottom some two dozen teepees marked the Piegan summer headquarters. Above the camp rose the smoke of their camp-fires, for it was still early and their morning meal was yet in preparation.



CHAPTER VI

THE ILLUSIVE COPPERHEAD

Cameron's approach to the Piegan camp was greeted by a discordant chorus of yelps and howls from a pack of mangy, half-starved curs of all breeds, shapes and sizes, the invariable and inevitable concomitants of an Indian encampment. The squaws, who had been busy superintending the pots and pans in which simmered the morning meal of their lords and masters, faded from view at Cameron's approach, and from the teepees on every side men appeared and stood awaiting with stolid faces the white man's greeting. Cameron was known to them of old.

"Good-day!" he cried briefly, singling out the Chief.

"Huh!" replied the Chief, and awaited further parley.

"No grub yet, eh? You sleep too long, Chief."

The Chief smiled grimly.

"I say, Chief," continued Cameron, "I have lost a couple of steers—big fellows, too—any of your fellows seen them?"

Trotting Wolf turned to the group of Indians who had slouched toward them in the meantime and spoke to them in the singsong monotone of the Indian.

"No see cow," he replied briefly.

Cameron threw himself from his horse and, striding to a large pot simmering over a fire, stuck his knife into the mass and lifted up a large piece of flesh, the bones of which looked uncommonly like ribs of beef.

"What's this, Trotting Wolf?" he inquired with a stern ring in his voice.

"Deer," promptly and curtly replied the Chief.

"Who shot him?"

The Chief consulted the group of Indians standing near.

"This man," he replied, indicating a young Indian.

"What's your name?" said Cameron sharply. "I know you."

The young Indian shook his head.

"Oh, come now, you know English all right. What's your name?"

Still the Indian shook his head, meeting Cameron's look with a fearless eye.

"He White Cloud," said the Chief.

"White Cloud! Big Chief, eh?" said Cameron.

"Huh!" replied Trotting Wolf, while a smile appeared on several faces.

"You shot this deer?"

"Huh!" replied the Indian, nodding.

"I thought you could speak English all right."

Again a smile touched the faces of some of the group.

"Where did you shoot him?"

White Cloud pointed vaguely toward the mountains.

"How far? Two, three, four miles?" inquired Cameron, holding up his fingers.

"Huh!" grunted the Indian, holding up five fingers.

"Five miles, eh? Big deer, too," said Cameron, pointing to the ribs.

"Huh!"

"How did you carry him home?"

The Indian shook his head.

"How did he carry him these five miles?" continued Cameron, turning to Trotting Wolf.

"Pony," replied Trotting Wolf curtly.

"Good!" said Cameron. "Now," said he, turning swiftly upon the young Indian, "where is the skin?"

The Indian's eyes wavered for a fleeting instant. He spoke a few words to Trotting Wolf. Conversation followed.

"Well?" said Cameron.

"He says dogs eat him up."

"And the head? This big fellow had a big head. Where is it?"

Again the Indian's eyes wavered and again the conversation followed.

"Left him up in bush," replied the chief.

"We will ride up and see it, then," said Cameron.

The Indians became voluble among themselves.

"No find," said the Chief. "Wolf eat him up."

Cameron raised the meat to his nose, sniffed its odor and dropped it back into the pot. With a single stride he was close to White Cloud.

"White Cloud," he said sternly, "you speak with a forked tongue. In plain English, White Cloud, you lie. Trotting Wolf, you know that is no deer. That is cow. That is my cow."

Trotting Wolf shrugged his shoulders.

"No see cow me," he said sullenly.

"White Cloud," said Cameron, swiftly turning again upon the young Indian, "where did you shoot my cow?"

The young Indian stared back at Cameron, never blinking an eyelid. Cameron felt his wrath rising, but kept himself well in hand, remembering the purpose of his visit. During this conversation he had been searching the gathering crowd of Indians for the tall form of his friend of the previous night, but he was nowhere to be seen. Cameron felt he must continue the conversation, and, raising his voice as if in anger—and indeed there was no need of pretense for he longed to seize White Cloud by the throat and shake the truth out of him—he said:

"Trotting Wolf, your young men have been killing my cattle for many days. You know that this is a serious offense with the Police. Indians go to jail for this. And the Police will hold you responsible. You are the Chief on this reserve. The Police will ask why you cannot keep your young men from stealing cattle."

The number of Indians was increasing every moment and still Cameron's eyes searched the group, but in vain. Murmurs arose from the Indians, which he easily interpreted to mean resentment, but he paid no heed.

"The Police do not want a Chief," he cried in a still louder voice, "who cannot control his young men and keep them from breaking the law."

He paused abruptly. From behind a teepee some distance away there appeared the figure of the "Big Chief" whom he so greatly desired to see. Giving no sign of his discovery, he continued his exhortation to Trotting Wolf, to that worthy's mingled rage and embarrassment. The suggestion of jail for cattle-thieves the Chief knew well was no empty threat, for two of his band even at that moment were in prison for this very crime. This knowledge rendered him uneasy. He had no desire himself to undergo a like experience, and it irked his tribe and made them restless and impatient of his control that their Chief could not protect them from these unhappy consequences of their misdeeds. They knew that with old Crowfoot, the Chief of the Blackfeet band, such untoward consequences rarely befell the members of that tribe. Already Trotting Wolf could distinguish the murmurs of his young men, who were resenting the charge against White Cloud, as well as the tone and manner in which it was delivered. Most gladly would he have defied this truculent rancher to do his worst, but his courage was not equal to the plunge, and, besides, the circumstances for such a break were not yet favorable.

At this juncture Cameron, facing about, saw within a few feet of him the Indian whose capture he was enlisted to secure.

"Hello!" he cried, as if suddenly recognizing him. "How is the boy?"

"Good," said the Indian with grave dignity. "He sick here," touching his head.

"Ah! Fever, I suppose," replied Cameron. "Take me to see him."

The Indian led the way to the teepee that stood slightly apart from the others.

Inside the teepee upon some skins and blankets lay the boy, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks proclaimed fever. An old squaw, bent in form and wrinkled in face, crouched at the end of the couch, her eyes gleaming like beads of black glass in her mahogany face.

"How is the foot to-day?" cried Allan. "Pain bad?"

"Huh!" grunted the lad, and remained perfectly motionless but for the restless glittering eyes that followed every movement of his father.

"You want the doctor here," said Cameron in a serious tone, kneeling beside the couch. "That boy is in a high fever. And you can't get him too quick. Better send a boy to the Fort and get the Police doctor. How did you sleep last night?" he inquired of the lad.

"No sleep," said his father. "Go this way—this way," throwing his arms about his head. "Talk, talk, talk."

But Cameron was not listening to him. He was hearing a jingle of spurs and bridle from down the trail and he knew that the Inspector had arrived. The old Indian, too, had caught the sound. His piercing eyes swiftly searched the face of the white man beside him. But Cameron, glancing quietly at him, continued to discuss the condition of the boy.

"Yes, you must get the doctor here at once. There is danger of blood-poisoning. The boy may lose his foot." And he continued to describe the gruesome possibilities of neglect of that lacerated wound. As he rose from the couch the boy caught his arm.

"You' squaw good. Come see me," he said. "Good—good." The eager look in the fevered eye touched Cameron.

"All right, boy, I shall tell her," he said. "Good-by!" He took the boy's hand in his. But the boy held it fast in a nervous grasp.

"You' squaw come—sure. Hurt here—bad." He struck his forehead with his hand. "You' squaw come—make good."

"All right," said Cameron. "I shall bring her myself. Good-by!"

Together they passed out of the teepee, Cameron keeping close to the Indian's side and talking to him loudly and earnestly about the boy's condition, all the while listening to the Inspector's voice from behind the row of teepees.

"Ah!" he exclaimed aloud as they came in sight of the Inspector mounted on his horse. "Here is my friend, Inspector Dickson. Hello, Inspector!" he called out. "Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to help us."

"Hello, Cameron!" cried the Inspector, riding up and dismounting. "What's up?"

Trotting Wolf and the other Indians slowly drew near.

"There is a sick boy in here," said Cameron, pointing to the teepee behind him. "He is the son of this man, Chief—" He paused. "I don't know your name."

Without an instant's hesitation the Indian replied:

"Chief Onawata."

"His boy got his foot in a trap. My wife dressed the wound last night," continued Cameron. "Come in and see him."

But the Indian put up his hand.

"No," he said quietly. "My boy not like strange man. Bad head—here. Want sleep—sleep."

"Ah!" said the Inspector. "Quite right. Let him sleep. Nothing better than sleep. A good long sleep will fix him up."

"He needs the doctor, however," said Cameron.

"Ah, yes, yes. Well, we shall send the doctor."

"Everything all right, Inspector?" said Cameron, throwing his friend a significant glance.

"Quite right!" replied the Inspector. "But I must be going. Good-by, Chief!" As his one hand closed on the Indian's his other slid down upon his wrist. "I want you, Chief," he said in a quiet stern voice. "I want you to come along with me."

His hand had hardly closed upon the wrist than with a single motion, swift, snake-like, the Indian wrenched his hand from the Inspector's iron grasp and, leaping back a space of three paces, stood with body poised as if to spring.

"Halt there, Chief! Don't move or you die!"

The Indian turned to see Cameron covering him with two guns. At once he relaxed his tense attitude and, drawing himself up, he demanded in a voice of indignant scorn:

"Why you touch me? Me Big Chief! You little dog!"

As he stood, erect, tall, scornful, commanding, with his head thrown back and his arm outstretched, his eyes glittering and his face eloquent of haughty pride, he seemed the very incarnation of the wild unconquered spirit of that once proud race he represented. For a moment or two a deep silence held the group of Indians, and even the white men were impressed. Then the Inspector spoke.

"Trotting Wolf," he said, "I want this man. He is a horse-thief. I know him. I am going to take him to the Fort. He is a bad man."

"No," said Trotting Wolf, in a loud voice, "he no bad man. He my friend. Come here many days." He held up both hands. "No teef—my friend."

A loud murmur rose from the Indians, who in larger numbers kept crowding nearer. At this ominous sound the Inspector swiftly drew two revolvers, and, backing toward the man he was seeking to arrest, said in a quiet, clear voice:

"Trotting Wolf, this man goes with me. If he is no thief he will be back again very soon. See these guns? Six men die," shaking one of them, "when this goes off. And six more die," shaking the other, "when this goes off. The first man will be you, Trotting Wolf, and this man second."

Trotting Wolf hesitated.

"Trotting Wolf," said Cameron. "See these guns? Twelve men die if you make any fuss. You steal my cattle. You cannot stop your young men. The Piegans need a new Chief. If this man is no thief he will be back again in a few days. The Inspector speaks truth. You know he never lies."

Still Trotting Wolf stood irresolute. The Indians began to shuffle and crowd nearer.

"Trotting Wolf," said the Inspector sharply, "tell your men that the first man that steps beyond that poplar-tree dies. That is my word."

The Chief spoke to the crowd. There was a hoarse guttural murmur in response, but those nearest to the tree backed away from it. They knew the Police never showed a gun except when prepared to use it. For years they had been accustomed to the administration of justice and the enforcement of law at the hands of the North West Mounted Police, and among the traditions of that Force the Indians had learned to accept two as absolutely settled: the first, that they never failed to get the man they wanted; the second, that their administration of law was marked by the most rigid justice. It was Chief Onawata himself that found the solution.

"Me no thief. Me no steal horse. Me Big Chief. Me go to your Fort. My heart clean. Me see your Big Chief." He uttered these words with an air of quiet but impressive dignity.

"That's sensible," said the Inspector, moving toward him. "You will get full justice. Come along!"

"I go see my boy. My boy sick." His voice became low, soft, almost tremulous.

"Certainly," said Cameron. "Go in and see the lad. And we will see that you get fair play."

"Good!" said the Indian, and, turning on his heel, he passed into the teepee where his boy lay.

Through the teepee wall their voices could be heard in quiet conversation. In a few minutes the old squaw passed out on an errand and then in again, eying the Inspector as she passed with malevolent hate. Again she passed out, this time bowed down under a load of blankets and articles of Indian household furniture, and returned no more. Still the conversation within the teepee continued, the boy's voice now and again rising high, clear, the other replying in low, even, deep tones.

"I will just get my horse, Inspector," said Cameron, making his way through the group of Indians to where Ginger was standing with sad and drooping head.

"Time's up, I should say," said the Inspector to Cameron as he returned with his horse. "Just give him a call, will you?"

Cameron stepped to the door of the teepee.

"Come along, Chief, we must be going," he said, putting his head inside the teepee door. "Hello!" he cried, "Where the deuce—where is he gone?" He sprang quickly out of the teepee. "Has he passed out?"

"Passed out?" said the Inspector. "No. Is he not inside?"

"He's not here."

Both men rushed into the teepee. On the couch the boy still lay, his eyes brilliant with fever but more with hate. At the foot of the couch still crouched the old crone, but there was no sign of the Chief.

"Get up!" said the Inspector to the old squaw, turning the blankets and skins upside down.

"Hee! hee!" she laughed in diabolical glee, spitting at him as he passed.

"Did no one enter?" asked Cameron.

"Not a soul."

"Nor go out?"

"No one except the old squaw here. I saw her go out with a pack."

"With a pack!" echoed Cameron. And the two men stood looking at each other. "By Jove!" said Cameron in deep disgust, "We're done. He is rightly named Copperhead. Quick!" he cried, "Let us search this camp, though it's not much use."

And so indeed it proved. Through every teepee they searched in hot haste, tumbling out squalling squaws and papooses. But all in vain. Copperhead had as completely disappeared as if he had vanished into thin air. With faces stolid and unmoved by a single gleam of satisfaction the Indians watched their hurried search.

"We will take a turn around this camp," said Cameron, swinging on to his pony. "You hear me!" he continued, riding up close to Trotting Wolf, "We haven't got our man but we will come back again. And listen carefully! If I lose a single steer this fall I shall come and take you, Trotting Wolf, to the Fort, if I have to bring you by the hair of the head."

But Trotting Wolf only shrugged his shoulders, saying:

"No see cow."

"Is there any use taking a look around this camp?" said the Inspector.

"What else can we do?" said Cameron. "We might as well. There is a faint chance we might come across a trace."

But no trace did they find, though they spent an hour and more in close and minute scrutiny of the ground about the camp and the trails leading out from it.

"Where now?" inquired the Inspector.

"Home for me," said Cameron. "To-morrow to Calgary. Next week I take up this trail. You may as well come along with me, Inspector. We can talk things over as we go."

They were a silent and chagrined pair as they rode out from the Reserve toward the ranch. As they were climbing from the valley to the plateau above they came to a soft bit of ground. Here Cameron suddenly drew rein with a warning cry, and, flinging himself off his broncho, was upon his knee examining a fresh track.

"A pony-track, by all that's holy! And within an hour. It is our man," he cried, examining the trail carefully and following it up the hill and out on to the plateau. "It is our man sure enough, and he is taking this trail."

For some miles the pony-tracks were visible enough. There was no attempt to cover them. The rider was evidently pushing hard.

"Where do you think he is heading for, Inspector?"

"Well," said the Inspector, "this trail strikes toward the Blackfoot Reserve by way of your ranch."

"My ranch!" cried Cameron. "My God! Look there!"

As he spoke the ginger-colored broncho leaped into a gallop. Five miles away a thin column of smoke could be seen rising up into the air. Every mile made it clearer to Cameron that the smoke rising from behind the round-topped hill before him was from his ranch-buildings, and every mile intensified his anxiety. His wife was alone on the ranch at the mercy of that fiend. That was the agonizing thought that tore at his heart as his panting broncho pounded along the trail. From the top of the hill overlooking the ranch a mile away his eye swept the scene below, swiftly taking in the details. The ranch-house was in flames and burning fiercely. The stables were untouched. A horse stood tied to the corral and two figures were hurrying to and fro about the blazing building. As they neared the scene it became clear that one of the figures was that of a woman.

"Mandy!" he shouted from afar. "Mandy, thank God it's you!"

But they were too absorbed in their business of fighting the fire. They neither heard nor saw him till he flung himself off his broncho at their side.

"Oh, thank God, Mandy!" he panted, "you are safe." He gathered her into his arms.

"Oh, Allan, I am so sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry? Why?"

"Our beautiful house!"

"House?"

"And all our beautiful things!"

"Things!" He laughed aloud. "House and things! Why, Mandy, I have YOU safe. What else matters?" Again he laughed aloud, holding her off from him at arm's length and gazing at her grimy face. "Mandy," he said, "I believe you are improving every day in your appearance, but you never looked so stunning as this blessed minute." Again he laughed aloud. He was white and trembling.

"But the house, Allan!"

"Oh, yes, by the way," he said, "the house. And who's the Johnny carrying water there?"

"Oh, I quite forgot. That's Thatcher's new man."

"Rather wobbly about the knees, isn't he?" cried Cameron. "By Jove, Mandy! I feared I should never see you again," he said in a voice that trembled and broke. "And what's the chap's name?" he inquired.

"Smith, I think," said Mandy.

"Smith? Fine fellow! Most useful name!" cried Cameron.

"What's the matter, Allan?"

"The matter? Nothing now, Mandy. Nothing matters. I was afraid that—but no matter. Hello, here's the Inspector!"

"Dear Mrs. Cameron," cried the Inspector, taking both her hands in his, "I'm awfully glad there's nothing wrong."

"Nothing wrong? Look at that house!"

"Oh, yes, awfully sorry. But we were afraid—of that—eh—that is—"

"Yes, Mandy," said her husband, making visible efforts to control his voice, "we frankly were afraid that that old devil Copperhead had come this way and—"

"He did!" cried Mandy.

"What?"

"He did. Oh, Allan, I was going to tell you just as the Inspector came, and I am so sorry. When you left I wanted to help. I was afraid of what all those Indians might do to you, so I thought I would ride up the trail a bit. I got near to where it branches off toward the Reserve near by those pine trees. There I saw a man come tearing along on a pony. It was this Indian. I drew aside. He was just going past when he glanced at me. He stopped and came rushing at me, waving a pistol in his hand. Oh, such a face! I wonder I ever thought him fine-looking. He caught me by the arm. I thought his fingers would break the bone. Look!" She pulled up her sleeve, and upon the firm brown flesh blue and red finger marks could be seen. "He caught me and shook me and fairly yelled at me, 'You save my boy once. Me save you to-day. Next time me see your man me kill him.' He flung me away from him and nearly off my horse—such eyes! such a face!—and went galloping off down the trail. I feared I was going to be ill, so I came on homeward. When I reached the top of the hill I saw the smoke and by the time I arrived the house was blazing and Smith was carrying water to put out the fire where it had caught upon the smoke house and stables."

The men listened to her story with tense white faces. When she had finished Cameron said quietly:

"Mandy, roll me up some grub in a blanket."

"Where are you going, Allan?" her face pale as his own.

"Going? To get my hands on that Indian's throat."

"But not now?"

"Yes, now," he said, moving toward his horse.

"What about me, Allan?"

The word arrested him as if a hand had gripped him.

"You," he said in a dazed manner. "Why, Mandy, of course, there's you. He might have killed you." Then, shaking his shoulders as if throwing off a load, he said impatiently, "Oh, I am a fool. That devil has sent me off my head. I tell you what, Mandy, we will feed first, then we will make new plans."

"And there is Moira, too," said Mandy.

"Yes, there is Moira. We will plan for her too. After all," he continued, with a slight laugh and with slow deliberation, "there's—lots—of time—to—get him!"



CHAPTER VII

THE SARCEE CAMP

The sun had reached the peaks of the Rockies far in the west, touching their white with red, and all the lesser peaks and all the rounded hills between with great splashes of gold and blue and purple. It is the sunset and the sunrise that make the foothill country a world of mystery and of beauty, a world to dream about and long for in later days.

Through this mystic world of gold and blue and purple drove Cameron and his wife, on their way to the little town of Calgary, three days after the ruthless burning of their home. As the sun dipped behind the western peaks they reached the crossing of the Elbow and entered the wide Bow Valley, upon whose level plain was situated the busy, ambitious and would-be wicked little pioneer town. The town and plain lay bathed in a soft haze of rosy purple that lent a kind of Oriental splendor to the tawdry, unsightly cluster of shacks that sprawled here and there in irregular bunches on the prairie.

"What a picture it makes!" cried Mandy. "How wonderful this great plain with its encircling rivers, those hills with the great peaks beyond! What a site for a town!"

"There is no finer," replied her husband, "anywhere in the world that I know, unless it be that of 'Auld Reekie.'"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning!" he echoed indignantly. "What else but the finest of all the capitals of Europe?"

"London?" inquired Mandy.

"London!" echoed her husband contemptuously. "You ignorant Colonial! Edinburgh, of course. But this is perfectly splendid," he continued. "I never get used to the wonder of Calgary. You see that deep cut between those peaks in the far west? That is where 'The Gap' lies, through which the Bow flows toward us. A great site this for a great town some day. But you ought to see these peaks in the morning with the sunlight coming up from the east across the foothills and falling upon them. Whoa, there! Steady, Pepper!" he cried to the broncho, which owed its name to the speckled appearance of its hide, and which at the present moment was plunging and kicking at a dog that had rushed out from an Indian encampment close by the trail. "Did you never see an Indian dog before?"

"Oh, Allan," cried Mandy with a shudder, "do you know I can't bear to look at an Indian since last week, and I used to like them."

"Hardly fair, though, to blame the whole race for the deviltry of one specimen."

"I know that, but—"

"This is a Sarcee camp, I fancy. They are a cunning lot and not the most reliable of the Indians. Let me see—three—four teepees. Ought to be fifteen or twenty in that camp. Only squaws about. The braves apparently are in town painting things up a bit."

A quarter of a mile past the Indian encampment the trail made a sharp turn into what appeared to be the beginning of the main street of the town.

"By Jove!" cried Cameron. "Here they come. Sit tight, Mandy." He pointed with his whip down the trail to what seemed to be a rolling cloud of dust, vocal with wild whoops and animated with plunging figures of men and ponies.

"Steady, there, boys! Get on!" cried Cameron to his plunging, jibing bronchos, who were evidently unwilling to face that rolling cloud of dust with its mass of shrieking men and galloping ponies thundering down upon them. Swift and fierce upon their flanks fell the hissing lash. "Stand up to them, you beggars!" he shouted to his bronchos, which seemed intent upon turning tail and joining the approaching cavalcade. "Hie, there! Hello! Look out!" he yelled, standing up in his wagon, waving his whip and holding his bronchos steadily on the trail. The next moment the dust cloud enveloped them and the thundering cavalcade, parting, surged by on either side. Cameron was wild with rage.

"Infernal cheeky brutes!" he cried. "For two shillings I'd go back and break some of their necks. Ride me down, would they?" he continued, grinding his teeth in fury.

He pulled up his bronchos with half a mind to turn them about and pursue the flying Indians. His experience and training with the Mounted Police made it difficult for him to accept with equal mind what he called the infernal cheek of a bunch of Indians. At the entreaties of his wife, however, he hesitated in carrying his purpose into effect.

"Let them go," said Mandy. "They didn't hurt us, after all."

"Didn't? No thanks to them. They might have killed you. Well, I shall see about this later." He gave his excited bronchos their head and sailed into town, drawing up in magnificent style at the Royal Hotel.

An attendant in cowboy garb came lounging up.

"Hello, Billy!" cried Cameron. "Still blooming?"

"Sure! And rosebuds ain't in it with you, Colonel." Billy was from the land of colonels. "You've got a whole garden with you this trip, eh?"

"My wife, Billy," replied Cameron, presenting her.

Billy pulled off his Stetson.

"Proud to meet you, madam. Hope I see you well and happy."

"Yes, indeed, well and happy," cried Mandy emphatically.

"Sure thing, if looks mean anything," said Billy, admiration glowing in his eyes.

"Take the horses, Billy. They have come a hundred and fifty miles."

"Hundred and fifty, eh? They don't look it. But I'll take care of 'em all right. You go right in."

"I shall be back presently, Billy," said Cameron, passing into the dingy sitting-room that opened off the bar.

In a few minutes he had his wife settled in a frowsy little eight-by-ten bedroom, the best the hotel afforded, and departed to attend to his team, make arrangements for supper and inquire about the incoming train. The train he found to be three hours late. His team he found in the capable hands of Billy, who was unharnessing and rubbing them down. While ordering his supper a hand gripped his shoulder and a voice shouted in his ear:

"Hello, old sport! How goes it?"

"Martin, old boy!" shouted Cameron in reply. "It's awfully good to see you. How did you get here? Oh, yes, of course, I remember. You left the construction camp and came here to settle down." All the while Cameron was speaking he was shaking his friend's hand with both of his. "By Jove, but you're fit!" he continued, running his eye over the slight but athletic figure of his friend.

"Fit! Never fitter, not even in the old days when I used to pass the pigskin to you out of the scrimmage. But you? You're hardly up to the mark." The keen gray eyes searched Cameron's face. "What's up with you?"

"Oh, nothing. A little extra work and a little worry, but I'll tell you later."

"Well, what are you on to now?" inquired Martin.

"Ordering our supper. We've just come in from a hundred and fifty miles' drive."

"Supper? Your wife here too? Glory! It's up to me, old boy! Look here, Connolly," he turned to the proprietor behind the bar, "a bang-up supper for three. All the season's delicacies and all the courses in order. As you love me, Connolly, do us your prettiest. And soon, awfully soon. A hundred and fifty miles, remember. Now, then, how's my old nurse?" he continued, turning back to Cameron. "She was my nurse, remember, till you came and stole her."

"She was, eh? Ask her," laughed Cameron. "But she will be glad to see you. Where's MY nurse, then, my little nurse, who saw me through a fever and a broken leg?"

"Oh, she's up in the mountains still, in the construction camp. I proposed to bring her down here with me, but there was a riot. I barely escaped. If ever she gets out from that camp it will be when they are all asleep or when she is in a box car."

"Come along, then," cried Cameron. "I have much to tell you, and my wife will be glad to see you. My sister comes in by No. 1, do you know?"

"Your sister? By No. 1? You don't say! Why, I never thought your sister—by No. 1, eh?"

"Yes, by No. 1."

"Say, Doc," said the hotel man, breaking into the conversation. "There's a bunch of 'em comin' in, ain't there? Who's the lady you was expectin' yourself on No. 1?"

"Lady?" said Cameron. "What's this, Martin?"

"Me? Wake up, Connolly, you're walking in your sleep," violently signaling to the hotel man.

"Oh, it won't do, Martin," said Cameron with grave concern. "You may as well own up. Who is it? Come. By Jove! What? A blush? And on that asbestos cheek? Something here, sure enough."

"Oh, rot, Cameron! Connolly is a well-known somnambulist."

"Sure thing!" said Connolly. "Is it catchin,' for I guess you had the same thing last night?"

"Connolly, you've gone batty! You need a nurse."

"A nurse? Maybe so. Maybe so. But I guess you've got to the point where you need a preacher. Ha! ha! Got you that time, Doc!" laughed the hotel man, winking at Cameron.

"Oh, let it out, Martin. You'll feel better afterward. Who is it?"

"Cameron, so help me! Connolly is an infernal ass. He's batty, I tell you. I'm treating him for it right now."

"All right," said Cameron, "never mind. I shall run up and tell my wife you are here. Wait for me," he cried, as he ran up the stairs.

"Connolly, you fool! I'll knock your wooden block off!" said the doctor in a fury.

"But, Doc, you did say—"

"Oh, confound you! Shut up! It was—"

"But you did say—"

"Will you shut up?"

"Certain, sure I'll shut up. But you said—"

"Look here!" broke in the doctor impatiently. "He'll be down in a minute. I don't want him to know."

"Aw, Doc, cut it out! He ain't no Lady Clara."

"Connolly, close that trap of yours and listen to me. This is serious. He'll be back in a jiffy. It's the same lady as he is going to meet."

"Same lady? But she's his sister."

"Yes, of course, you idiot! She's his sister. And now you've queered me with him and he will think—"

"Aw, Doc, let me be. I'll straighten that tangle out."

"Sh-h! Here he is. Not a word, on your life!"

"Aw, get out!" replied Connolly with generous enthusiasm. "I don't leave no pard of mine in a hole. Say," he cried, turning to Cameron, "about that lady. Ha! ha!"

"Shut your ugly mug!" said the doctor savagely.

"It's the same lady. Ha! ha! Good joke, eh, Sergeant?"

"Same lady?" echoed Cameron.

"Sure, same lady."

"What does he mean, Martin?"

"The man's drunk, Cameron. He got a permit last week and he hasn't been sober for a day since."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Connolly again. "Wish I had a chance."

"But the lady?" said Cameron, looking at his friend suspiciously. "And these blushes?"

"Oh, well, hang it!" said Martin. "I suppose I might as well tell you. I found out that your sister was to be in on this train, and in case you should not turn up I told Connolly here to have a room ready."

"Oh," said Cameron, with his eyes upon his friend's face. "You found out? And how did you find out that Moira was coming?"

"Well," said Martin, his face growing hotter with every word of explanation, "you have a wife and we have a mutual friend in our little nurse, and that's how I learned. And so I thought I'd be on hand anyway. You remember I met your sister up at your Highland home with the unpronounceable name."

"Ah, yes! Cuagh Oir. Dear old spot!" said Cameron reminiscently. "Moira will be heart broken every day when she sees the Big Horn Ranch, I'm afraid. But here comes Mandy."

The meeting between the doctor and Cameron's wife was like that between old comrades in arms, as indeed they had been through many a hard fight with disease, accident and death during the construction days along the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway through the Rocky Mountains.

A jolly hour they had together at supper, exchanging news and retailing the latest jokes. And then Cameron told his friend the story of old Copperhead and of the task laid upon him by Superintendent Strong. Martin listened in grave silence till the tale was done, then said with quiet gravity:

"Cameron, this is a serious business. Why! It's—it's terrible."

"Yes," replied Mandy quickly, "but you can see that he must do it. We have quite settled that. You see there are the women and children."

"And is there no one else? Surely—"

"No, there is no one else quite so fit to do it," said Mandy.

"By Jove, you're a wonder!" cried Martin, his face lighting up with sudden enthusiasm.

"Not much of a wonder," she replied, a quick tremor in her voice. "Not much of a wonder, I'm afraid. But how could I keep him? I couldn't keep him, could I," she said, "if his country needs him?"

The doctor glanced at her face with its appealing deep blue eyes.

"No, by Jove! You couldn't keep him, not you."

"Now, Mandy," said Cameron, "you must upstairs and to bed." He read aright the signs upon her face. "You are tired and you will need all the sleep you can get. Wait for me, Martin, I'll be down in a few moments."

When they reached their room Cameron turned and took his wife in his arms.

"Mandy! as Martin says, you are wonderful. You are a brave woman. You have nerve enough for both of us, and you will need to have nerve for both, for how I am going to leave you I know not. But now you must to bed. I have a little business to attend to."

"Business?" inquired his wife.

"Yes. Oh, I won't try to hide it from you, Mandy. It's 'The Big Business.' We are—Dr. Martin and I—going up to the Barracks. Superintendent Strong has come down for a consultation." He paused and looked into his wife's face. "I must go, dear."

"Yes, yes, I know, Allan. You must go. But—do you know—it's foolish to say it, but as those Indians passed us I fancied I saw the face of Copperhead."

"Hardly, I fancy," said her husband with a laugh. "He'd know better than run into this town in open day just now. All Indians will look to you like old Copperhead for a while."

"It may be so. I fancy I'm a little nervous. But come back soon."

"You may be sure of that, sweetheart. Meantime sleep well."

The little town of Calgary stands on one of the most beautiful town-sites in all the world. A great plain with ramparts of hills on every side, encircled by the twin mountain rivers, the Bow and the Elbow, overlooked by rolling hills and far away to the west by the mighty peaks of the Rockies, it holds at once ample space and unusual picturesque beauty. The little town itself was just emerging from its early days as a railway construction-camp and was beginning to develop ambitions toward a well-ordered business activity and social stability. It was an all-night town, for the simple and sufficient reason that its communications with the world lying to the east and to the west began with the arrival of No. 2 at half-past twelve at night and No. 1 at five o'clock next morning. Few of its citizens thought it worth while to settle down for the night until after the departure of No. 2 on its westward journey.

Through this "all-night" little town Cameron and the doctor took their way. The sidewalks were still thronged, the stores still doing business, the restaurants, hotels, pool-rooms all wide open. It kept Sergeant Crisp busy enough running out the "tin-horn" gamblers and whisky-peddlers, keeping guard over the fresh and innocent lambs that strayed in from the East and across from the old land ready for shearing, and preserving law and order in this hustling frontier town. Money was still easy in the town, and had Sergeant Crisp been minded for the mere closing of his eyes or turning of his back upon occasion he might have retired early from the Force with a competency. Unhappily for Sergeant Crisp, however, there stood in the pathway of his fortune the awkward fact of his conscience and his oath of service. Consequently he was forced to grub along upon the munificent bounty of the daily pay with which Her Majesty awarded the faithful service of the non-coms. in her North West Mounted Police Force. And indeed through all the wide reaches of that great West land during those pioneer days and among all the officers of that gallant force no record can be found of an officer who counted fortune dearer than honor.

Through this wide awake, wicked, but well-watched little town Cameron with his friend made his way westward toward the Barracks to keep his appointment with his former Chief, Superintendent Strong. The Barracks stood upon the prairie about half a mile distant from the town. They found Superintendent Strong fuming with impatience, which he controlled with difficulty while Cameron presented his friend.

"Well, Cameron, you've come at last," was his salutation when the introduction was completed. "When did you get into town? I have been waiting all day to see you. Where have you been?"

"Arrived an hour ago," said Cameron shortly, for he did not half like the Superintendent's brusque manner. "The trail was heavy owing to the rain day before yesterday."

"When did you leave the ranch?" inquired Sergeant Crisp.

"Yesterday morning," said Cameron. "The colts were green and I couldn't send them along."

"Yesterday morning!" exclaimed Sergeant Crisp. "You needn't apologize for the colts, Cameron."

"I wasn't apologizing for anybody or anything. I was making a statement of fact," replied Cameron curtly.

"Ah, yes, very good going, Cameron. Very good going, indeed, I should say," said the Superintendent, conscious of his own brusqueness and anxious to appease. "Did Mrs. Cameron come with you?"

"She did."

"Indeed. That is a long drive for a lady to make, Cameron. Too long a drive, I should say. I hope she is quite well, not—eh—over-fatigued?"

"She is quite well, thank you."

"Well, she is an old campaigner," said the Superintendent with a smile, "and not easily knocked up if I remember her aright. But I ought to say, Cameron, how very deeply I appreciate your very fine—indeed very handsome conduct in volunteering to come to our assistance in this matter. Very handsome indeed I call it. It will have a good effect upon the community. I appreciate the sacrifice. The Commissioner and the whole Force will appreciate it. But," he added, as if to himself, "before we are through with this business I fear there will be more sacrifice demanded from all of us. I trust none of us will be found wanting." The Superintendent's voice was unduly solemn, his manner almost somber. Cameron was impressed with this manifestation of feeling so unusual with the Superintendent.

"Any more news, sir?" he inquired.

"Yes, every post brings news of seditious meetings up north along the Saskatchewan and of indifference on the part of the Government. And further, I have the most conclusive evidence that our Indians are being tampered with, and successfully too. There is no reason to doubt that the head chiefs have been approached and that many of the minor chiefs are listening to the proposals of Riel and his half-breeds. But you have some news to give, I understand? Dickson said you would give me particulars."

Thereupon Cameron briefly related the incidents in connection with the attempted arrest of the Sioux Chief, and closed with a brief account of the burning of his home.

"That is most daring, most serious," exclaimed the Superintendent. "But you are quite certain that it was the Sioux that was responsible for the outrage?"

"Well," said Cameron, "he met my wife on a trail five miles away, threatened her, and—"

"Good God, Cameron! Threatened your wife?"

"Yes, nearly flung her off her horse," replied Cameron, his voice quiet and even, but his eyes glowing like fires in his white face.

"Flung her off her horse? But—he didn't injure her?" replied the Superintendent.

"Only that he terrified her with his threats and then went on toward the house, which he left in flames."

"My God, Cameron!" said the Superintendent, rising in his excitement. "This is really terrible. You must have suffered awful anxiety. I apologize for my abrupt manner a moment ago," he added, offering his hand. "I'm awfully sorry."

"It's all right, Superintendent," replied Cameron. "I'm afraid I am a little upset myself."

"But what a God's mercy she escaped! How came that, I wonder?"

Then Cameron told the story of the rescue of the Indian boy.

"That undoubtedly explains it," exclaimed the Superintendent. "That was a most fortunate affair. Do an Indian a good turn and he will never forget it. I shudder to think of what might have happened, for I assure you that this Copperhead will stick at nothing. We have an unusually able man to deal with, and we shall put our whole Force on this business of arresting this man. Have you any suggestions yourself?"

"No," said Cameron, "except that it would appear to be a mistake to give any sign that we were very specially anxious to get him just now. So far we have not shown our hand. Any concentrating of the Force upon his capture would only arouse suspicion and defeat our aim, while my going after him, no matter how keenly, will be accounted for on personal grounds."

"There is something in that, but do you think you can get him?"

"I am going to get him," said Cameron quietly.

The superintendent glanced at his face.

"By Jove, I believe you will! But remember, you can count on me and on my Force to a man any time and every time to back you up, and there's my hand on it. And now, let's get at this thing. We have a cunning devil to do with and he has gathered about him the very worst elements on the reserves."

Together they sat and made their plans till far on into the night. But as a matter of fact they could make little progress. They knew well it would be extremely difficult to discover their man. Owing to the state of feeling throughout the reserves the source of information upon which the Police ordinarily relied had suddenly dried up or become untrustworthy. A marked change had come over the temper of the Indians. While as yet they were apparently on friendly terms and guilty of no open breach of the law, a sullen and suspicious aloofness marked the bearing of the younger braves and even of some of the chiefs toward the Police. Then, too, among the Piegans in the south and among the Sarcees whose reserve was in the neighborhood of Calgary an epidemic of cattle-stealing had broken out and the Police were finding it increasingly difficult to bring the criminals to justice. Hence with this large increase in crime and with the changed attitude and temper of the Indians toward the Police, such an amount of additional patrol-work was necessary that the Police had almost reached the limit of their endurance.

"In fact, we have really a difficult proposition before us, short-handed as we are," said the Superintendent as they closed their interview. "Indeed, if things become much worse we may find it necessary to organize the settlers as Home Guards. An outbreak on the Saskatchewan might produce at any moment the most serious results here and in British Columbia. Meantime, while we stand ready to help all we can, it looks to me, Cameron, that you are right and that in this business you must go it alone pretty much."

"I realize that, sir," replied Cameron. "But first I must get my house built and things in shape, then I hope to take this up."

"Most certainly," replied the Superintendent. "Take a month. He can't do much more harm in a month, and meantime we shall do our utmost to obtain information and we shall keep you informed of anything we discover."

The Superintendent and Sergeant accompanied Cameron and his friend to the door.

"It is a black night," said Sergeant Crisp. "I hope they're not running any 'wet freight' in to-night."

"It's a good night for it, Sergeant," said Dr. Martin. "Do you expect anything to come in?"

"I have heard rumors," replied the Sergeant, "and there is a freight train standing right there now which I have already gone through but upon which it is worth while still to keep an eye."

"Well, good-night," said the Superintendent, shaking Cameron by the hand. "Keep me posted and when within reach be sure and see me. Good-night, Dr. Martin. We may want you too before long."

"All right, sir, you have only to say the word."

The night was so black that the trail which in the daylight was worn smooth and plainly visible was quite blotted out. The light from the Indian camp fire, which was blazing brightly a hundred yards away, helped them to keep their general direction.

"For a proper black night commend me to the prairie," said the doctor. "It is the dead level does it, I believe. There is nothing to cast a reflection or a shadow."

"It will be better in a few minutes," said Cameron, "when we get our night sight."

"You are off the trail a bit, I think," said the doctor.

"Yes, I know. I am hitting toward the fire. The light makes it better going that way."

"I say, that chap appears to be going some. Quite a song and dance he's giving them," said the doctor, pointing to an Indian who in the full light of the camp fire was standing erect and, with hand outstretched, was declaiming to the others, who, kneeling or squatting about the fire, were giving him rapt attention. The erect figure and outstretched arm arrested Cameron. A haunting sense of familiarity floated across his memory.

"Let's go nearer," he said, "and quietly."

With extreme caution they made about two-thirds of the distance when a howl from an Indian dog revealed their presence. At once the speaker who had been standing in the firelight sank crouching to the ground. Instantly Cameron ran forward a few swift steps and, like a hound upon a deer, leapt across the fire and fair upon the crouching Indian, crying "Call the Police, Martin!"

With a loud cry of "Police! Police! Help here!" Martin sprang into the middle of an excited group of Indians. Two of them threw themselves upon him, but with a hard right and left he laid them low and, seizing a stick of wood, sprang toward two others who were seeking to batter the life out of Cameron as he lay gripping his enemy by the throat with one hand and with the other by the wrist to check a knife thrust. Swinging his stick around his head and repeating his cry for help, Martin made Cameron's assailants give back a space and before they could renew the attack Sergeant Crisp burst open the door of the Barracks, and, followed by a Slim young constable and the Superintendent, came rushing with shouts upon the scene. Immediately upon the approach of the Police the Indians ceased the fight and all that could faded out of the light into the black night around them, while the Indian who continued to struggle with incredible fury to free himself from Cameron's grip suddenly became limp and motionless.

"Now, what's all this?" demanded the Sergeant. "Why, it's you, doctor, and where—? You don't mean that's Cameron there? Hello, Cameron!" he said, leaning over him. "Let go! He's safe enough. We've got him all right. Let go! By Jove! Are they both dead?"

Here the Superintendent came up. The incidents leading up to the present situation were briefly described by the doctor.

"I can't get this fellow free," said the Sergeant, who was working hard to release the Indian's throat from the gripping fingers. He turned Cameron over on his back. He was quite insensible. Blood was pouring from his mouth and nose, but his fingers like steel clamps were gripping the wrist and throat of his foe. The Indian lay like dead.

"Good Lord, doctor! What shall we do?" cried the Superintendent. "Is he dead?"

"No," said Martin, with his hand upon Cameron's heart. "Bring water. You can't loosen his fingers till he revives. The blow that knocked him senseless set those fingers as they are and they will stay set thus till released by returning consciousness."

"Here then, get water quick!" shouted the Superintendent to the slim young constable.

Gradually as the water was splashed upon his face Cameron came back to life and, relaxing his fingers, stretched himself with a sigh as of vast relief and lay still.

"Here, take that, you beast!" cried the Sergeant, dashing the rest of the water into the face of the Indian lying rigid and motionless on the ground. A long shudder ran through the Indian's limbs. Clutching at his throat with both hands, he raised himself to a sitting posture, his breath coming in raucous gasps, glared wildly upon the group, then sank back upon the ground, rolled over upon his side and lay twitching and breathing heavily, unheeded by the doctor and Police who were working hard over Cameron.

"No bones broken, I think," said the doctor, feeling the battered head. "Here's where the blow fell that knocked him out," pointing to a ridge that ran along the side of Cameron's head. "A little lower, a little more to the front and he would never have moved. Let's get him in."

Cameron opened his eyes, struggled to speak and sank back again.

"Don't stir, old chap. You're all right. Don't move for a bit. Could you get a little brandy, Sergeant?"

Again the slim young constable rushed toward the Barracks and in a few moments returned with the spirits. After taking a sip of the brandy Cameron again opened his eyes and managed to say "Don't—"

"All right, old chap," said the doctor. "We won't move you yet. Just lie still a bit." But as once more Cameron opened his eyes the agony of the appeal in them aroused the doctor's attention. "Something wrong, eh?" he said. "Are you in pain, old boy?"

The appealing eyes closed, then, opening again, turned toward the Superintendent.

"Copperhead," he whispered.

"What do you say?" said the Superintendent kneeling down.

Once more with painful effort Cameron managed to utter the word "Copperhead."

"Copperhead!" ejaculated the Superintendent in a low tense voice, springing to his feet and turning toward the unconscious Indian. "He's gone!" he cried with a great oath. "He's gone! Sergeant Crisp!" he shouted, "Call out the whole Force! Surround this camp and hold every Indian. Search every teepee for this fellow who was lying here. Quick! Quick!" Leaving Cameron to the doctor, who in a few minutes became satisfied that no serious injury had been sustained, he joined in the search with fierce energy. The teepees were searched, the squaws and papooses were ruthlessly bundled out from their slumbers and with the Indians were huddled into the Barracks. But of the Sioux Chief there was no sign. He had utterly vanished. The black prairie had engulfed him.

But the Police had their own methods. Within a quarter of an hour half a dozen mounted constables were riding off in different directions to cover the main trails leading to the Indian reserves and to sweep a wide circle about the town.

"They will surely get him," said Dr. Martin confidently.

"Not much chance of it," growled Cameron, to whom with returning consciousness had come the bitter knowledge of the escape of the man he had come to regard as his mortal enemy. "I had him fast enough," he groaned, "in spite of the best he could do, and I would have choked his life out had it not been for these other devils."

"They certainly jumped in savagely," said Martin. "In fact I cannot understand how they got at the thing so quickly."

"Didn't you hear him call?" said Cameron. "It was his call that did it. Something he said turned them into devils. They were bound to do for me. I never saw Indians act like that."

"Yes, I heard that call, and it mighty near did the trick for you. Thank Heaven your thick Hielan' skull saved you."

"How did they let him go?" again groaned Cameron.

"How? Because he was too swift for us," said the Superintendent, who had come in, "and we too slow. I thought it was an ordinary Indian row, you see, but I might have known that you would not have gone in in that style without good reason. Who would think that this old devil should have the impudence to camp right here under our nose? Where did he come from anyway, do you suppose?"

"Been to the Blackfoot Reserve like enough and was on his way to the Sarcees when he fell in with this little camp of theirs."

"That's about it," replied the Superintendent gloomily. "And to think you had him fast and we let him go!"

The thought brought small comfort to any of them, least of all to Cameron. In that vast foothill country with all the hidings of the hills and hollows there was little chance that the Police would round up the fugitive, and upon Cameron still lay the task of capturing this cunning and resourceful foe.

"Never mind," said Martin cheerily. "Three out, all out. You'll get him next time."

"I don't know about that. But I'll get him some time or he'll get me," replied Cameron as his face settled into grim lines. "Let's get back."

"Are you quite fit?" inquired the Superintendent.

"Fit enough. Sore a bit in the head, but can navigate."

"I can't tell you how disappointed and chagrined I feel. It isn't often that my wits are so slow but—" The Superintendent's jaws here cut off his speech with a snap. The one crime reckoned unpardonable in the men under his own command was that of failure and his failure to capture old Copperhead thus delivered into his hands galled him terribly.

"Well, good-night, Cameron," said the Superintendent, looking out into the black night. "We shall let you know to-morrow the result of our scouting, though I don't expect much from it. He is much too clever to be caught in the open in this country."

"Perhaps he'll skidoo," said Dr. Martin hopefully.

"No, he's not that kind," replied the Superintendent. "You can't scare him out. You have got to catch him or kill him."

"I think you are right, sir," said Cameron. "He will stay till his work is done or till he is made to quit."

"That is true, Cameron—till he is made to quit—and that's your job," said the Superintendent solemnly.

"Yes, that is my job, sir," replied Cameron simply and with equal solemnity. "I shall do my best."

"We have every confidence in you, Cameron," replied the Superintendent. "Good-night," he said again, shutting the door.

"Say, old man, this is too gruesome," said Martin with fierce impatience. "I can't see why it's up to you more than any other."

"The Sun Dance Trail is the trail he must take to do his work. That was my patrol last year—I know it best. God knows I don't want this—" his breath came quick—"I am not afraid—but—but there's—We have been together for such a little while, you know." He could get no farther for a moment or two, then added quietly, "But somehow I know—yes and she knows—bless her brave heart—it is my job. I must stay with it."



CHAPTER VIII

THE GIRL ON NO. 1.

By the time they had reached the hotel Cameron was glad enough to go to his bed.

"You need not tell your wife, I suppose," said the doctor.

"Tell her? Certainly!" said Cameron. "She is with me in this. I play fair with her. Don't you fear, she is up to it."

And so she was, and, though her face grew white as she listened to the tale, never for a moment did her courage falter.

"Doctor, is Allan all right? Tell me," she said, her big blue eyes holding his in a steady gaze.

"Right enough, but he must have a long sleep. You must not let him stir at five."

"Then," said Mandy, "I shall go to meet the train, Allan."

"But you don't know Moira."

"No, but I shall find her out."

"Of course," said Dr. Martin in a deprecating tone, "I know Miss Cameron, but—"

"Of course you do," cried Mandy. "Why, that is splendid! You will go and Allan need not be disturbed. She will understand. Not a word, now, Allan. We will look after this, the doctor and I, eh, Doctor?"

"Why—eh—yes—yes certainly, of course. Why not?"

"Why not, indeed?" echoed Mandy briskly. "She will understand."

And thus it was arranged. Under the influence of a powder left by Dr. Martin, Cameron, after an hour's tossing, fell into a heavy sleep.

"I am so glad you are here," said Mandy to the doctor, as he looked in upon her. "You are sure there is no injury?"

"No, nothing serious. Shock, that's all. A day's quiet will fix him up."

"I am so thankful," said Mandy, heaving a deep sigh of relief, "and I am so glad that you are here. And it is so nice that you know Moira."

"You are not going to the train?" said the doctor.

"No, no, there is no need, and I don't like to leave him. Besides you don't need me."

"N-o-o, no, not at all—certainly not," said the doctor with growing confidence. "Good-night. I shall show her to her room."

"Oh," cried Mandy, "I shall meet you when you come. Thank you so much. So glad you are here," she added with a tremulous smile.

The doctor passed down the stairs.

"By Jove, she's a brick!" he said to himself. "She has about all she can stand just now. Glad I am here, eh? Well, I guess I am too. But what about this thing? It's up to me now to do the Wild West welcome act, and I'm scared—plain scared to death. She won't know me from a goat. Let's see. I've got two hours yet to work up my ginger. I'll have a pipe to start with."

He passed into the bar, where, finding himself alone, he curled up in a big leather chair and gave himself up to his pipe and his dreams. The dingy bar-room gave place to a little sunny glen in the Highlands of Scotland, in which nestled a little cluster of stone-built cottages, moss-grown and rose-covered. Far down in the bottom of the Glen a tiny loch gleamed like a jewel. Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified, and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet, in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather. Through many pipes he pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.

"Oh, pshaw!" he grumbled to himself at last, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "She has forgotten me. It was only one single day. But what a day!"

He lit a fresh pipe and began anew to dream of that wonderful day, that day which was the one unfading point of light in all his Old Country stay. Not even the day when he stood to receive his parchment and the special commendation of the Senatus and of his own professor for his excellent work lived with him like that day in the Glen. Every detail of the picture he could recall and ever in the foreground the maiden. With deliberate purpose he settled himself in his chair and set himself to fill in those fine and delicate touches that were necessary to make perfect the foreground of his picture, the pale olive face with its bewildering frame of golden waves and curls, the clear brown eyes, now soft and tender, now flashing with wrath, and the voice with its soft Highland cadence.

"By Jove, I'm dotty! Clean dotty! I'll make an ass of myself, sure thing, when I see her to-day." He sprang from his chair and shook himself together. "Besides, she has forgotten all about me." He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to train-time. He opened the door and looked out. The chill morning air struck him sharply in the face. He turned quickly, snatched his overcoat from a nail in the hall and put it on.

At this point Billy, who combined in his own person the offices of ostler, porter and clerk, appeared, his lantern shining with a dim yellow glare in the gray light of the dawn.

"No. 1 is about due, Doc," he said.

"She is, eh? I say, Billy," said the Doctor, "want to do something for me?" He pushed a dollar at Billy over the counter.

"Name it, Doc, without further insult," replied Billy, shoving the dollar back with a lordly scorn.

"All right, Billy, you're a white little soul. Now listen. I want your ladies' parlor aired."

"Aired?" gasped Billy.

"Yes, open the windows. Put on a fire. I have a lady coming—I have—that is—Sergeant Cameron's sister is coming—"

"Say no more," said Billy with a wink. "I get you, Doc. But what about the open window, Doc? It's rather cold."

"Open it up and put on a fire. Those Old Country people are mad about fresh air."

"All right, Doc," replied Billy with another knowing wink. "The best is none too good for her, eh?"

"Look here, now, Billy—" the doctor's tone grew severe—"let's have no nonsense. This is Sergeant Cameron's sister. He is knocked out, unable to meet her. I am taking his place. Do you get me? Now be quick. If you have any think juice in that block of yours turn it on."

Billy twisted one ear as if turning a cock, and tapped his forehead with his knuckles.

"Doc," he said solemnly, "she's workin' like a watch, full jewel, patent lever."

"All right. Now get on to this. Sitting-room aired, good fire going, windows open and a cup of coffee."

"Coffee? Say, Doc, there ain't time. What about tea?"

"You know well enough, Billy, you haven't got any but that infernal green stuff fit to tan the stomach of a brass monkey."

"There's another can, Doc. I know where it is. Leave it to me."

"All right, Billy, I trust you. They are death on tea in the Old Country. And toast, Billy. What about toast?"

"Toast? Toast, eh? Well, all right, Doc. Toast it is. Trust yours truly. You keep her out a-viewin' the scenery for half an hour."

"And Billy, a big pitcher of hot water. They can't live without hot water in the morning, those Old Country people."

"Sure thing, Doc. A tub if you like."

"No, a pitcher will do."

At this point a long drawn whistle sounded through the still morning air.

"There she goes, Doc. She has struck the grade. Say, Doc—"

But his words fell upon empty space. The doctor had already disappeared.

"Say, he's a sprinter," said Billy to himself. "He ain't takin' no chances on bein' late. Shouldn't be surprised if the Doc got there all right."

He darted upstairs and looked around the ladies' parlor. The air was heavy with mingled odors of the bar and the kitchen. A spittoon occupied a prominent place in the center of the room. The tables were dusty, the furniture in confusion. The ladies' parlor was perfectly familiar to Billy, but this morning he viewed it with new eyes.

"Say, the Doc ain't fair. He's too swift in his movements," he muttered to himself as he proceeded to fling things into their places. He raised the windows, opened the stove door and looked in. The ashes of many fires half filling the box met his eyes with silent reproach. "Say, the Doc ain't fair," he muttered again. "Them ashes ought to have been out of there long ago." This fact none knew better than himself, inasmuch as there was no other from whom this duty might properly be expected. Yet it brought some small relief to vent his disgust upon this offending accumulation of many days' neglect. There was not a moment to lose. He was due in ten minutes to meet the possible guests for the Royal at the train. He seized a pail left in the hall by the none too tidy housemaid and with his hands scooped into it the ashes from the stove, and, leaving a cloud of dust to settle everywhere upon tables and chairs, ran down with his pail and back again with kindling and firewood and had a fire going in an extraordinarily short time. He then caught up an ancient antimacassar, used it as a duster upon chairs and tables, flung it back again in its place over the rickety sofa and rushed for the station to find that the train had already pulled in, had come to a standstill and was disgorging its passengers upon the platform.

"Roy—al Ho—tel!" shouted Billy. "Best in town! All the comforts and conveniences! Yes, sir! Take your grip, sir? Just give me them checks! That's all right, leave 'em to me. I'll get your baggage all right."

He saw the doctor wandering distractedly up and down the platform.

"Hello, Doc, got your lady? Not on the Pullman, eh? Take a look in the First Class. Say, Doc," he added in a lower voice, coming near to the doctor, "what's that behind you?"

The doctor turned sharply and saw a young lady whose long clinging black dress made her seem taller than she was. She wore a little black hat with a single feather on one side, which gave it a sort of tam o' shanter effect. She came forward with hand outstretched.

"I know you, Mr. Martin," she said in a voice that indicated immense relief.

"You?" he cried. "Is it you? And to think I didn't know you. And to think you should remember me."

"Remember! Well do I remember you—and that day in the Cuagh Oir—but you have forgotten all about that day." A little flush appeared on her pale cheek.

"Forgotten?" cried Martin.

"But you didn't know me," she added with a slight severity in her tone.

"I was not looking for you."

"Not looking for me?" cried the girl. "Then who—?" She paused in a sudden confusion, and with a little haughty lift of her head said, "Where is Allan, my brother?"

But the doctor ignored her question. He was gazing at her in stupid amazement.

"I was looking for a little girl," he said, "in a blue serge dress and tangled hair, brown, and all curls, with brown eyes and—"

"And you found a grown up woman with all the silly curls in their proper place—much older—very much older. It is a habit we have in Scotland of growing older."

"Older?"

"Yes, older, and more sober and sensible—and plainer."

"Plainer?" The doctor's mind was evidently not working with its usual ease and swiftness, partly from amazement at the transformation that had resulted in this tall slender young lady standing before him with her stately air, and partly from rage at himself and his unutterable stupidity.

"But you have not answered me," said the girl, obviously taken aback at the doctor's manner. "Where is my brother? He was to meet me. This is Cal—gar—ry, is it not?"

"It's Calgary all right," cried the doctor, glad to find in this fact a solid resting place for his mind.

"And my brother? There is nothing wrong?" The alarm in her voice brought him to himself.

"Wrong? Not a bit. At least, not much."

"Not much? Tell me at once, please." With an imperious air the young lady lifted her head and impaled the doctor with her flashing brown eyes.

"Well," said the doctor in halting confusion, "you see, he met with an accident."

"An accident?" she cried. "You are hiding something from me, Mr. Martin. My brother is ill, or—"

"No, no, not he. An Indian hit him on the head," said the doctor, rendered desperate by her face.

"An Indian?" Her cry, her white face, the quick clutch of her hands at her heart, roused the doctor's professional instincts and banished his confusion.

"He is perfectly all right, I assure you, Miss Cameron. Only it was better that he should have his sleep out. He was most anxious to meet you, but as his medical adviser I urged him to remain quiet and offered to come in his place. His wife is with him. A day's rest, believe me, will make him quite fit." The doctor's manner was briskly professional and helped to quiet the girl's alarm.

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"Most certainly, in a few hours when he wakes and when you are rested. Here, Billy, take Miss Cameron's checks. Look sharp."

"Say, Doc," said Billy in an undertone, "about that tea and toast—"

"What the deuce—?" said the doctor impatiently. "Oh, yes—all right! Only look lively."

"Keep her a-viewin' the scenery, Doc, a bit," continued Billy under his breath.

"Oh, get a move on, Billy! What are you monkeying about?" said the doctor quite crossly. He was anxious to escape from a position that had become intolerable to him. For months he had been looking forward to this meeting and now he had bungled it. In the first place he had begun by not knowing the girl who for three years and more had been in his dreams day and night, then he had carried himself like a schoolboy in her presence, and lastly had frightened her almost to death by his clumsy announcement of her brother's accident. The young lady at his side, with the quick intuition of her Celtic nature, felt his mood, and, not knowing the cause, became politely distant.

On their walk to the hotel Dr. Martin pointed out the wonderful pearly gray light stealing across the plain and beginning to brighten on the tops of the rampart hills that surrounded the town.

"You will see the Rockies in an hour, Miss Cameron, in the far west there," he said. But there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

"Ah, yes, how beautiful!" said the young lady. But her tone, too, was lifeless.

Desperately the doctor strove to make conversation during their short walk and with infinite relief did he welcome the appearance of Mandy at her bedroom door waiting their approach.

"Your brother's wife, Miss Cameron," said he.

For a single moment they stood searching each other's souls. Then by some secret intuition known only to the female mind they reached a conclusion, an entirely satisfactory conclusion, too, for at once they were in each other's arms.

"You are Moira?" cried Mandy.

"Yes," said the girl in an eager, tremulous voice. "And my brother? Is he well?"

"Well? Of course he is—perfectly fine. He is sleeping now. We will not wake him. He has had none too good a night."

"No, no," cried Moira, "don't wake him. Oh, I am so glad. You see, I was afraid."

"Afraid? Why were you afraid?" inquired Mandy, looking indignantly at the doctor, who stood back, a picture of self condemnation.

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Cameron, blame me. I deserve it all. I bungled the whole thing this morning and frightened Miss Cameron nearly into a fit, for no other reason than that I am all ass. Now I shall retire. Pray deal gently with me. Good-by!" he added abruptly, lifted his hat and was gone.

"What's the matter with him?" said Mandy, looking at her sister-in-law.

"I do not know, I am sure," replied Moira indifferently. "Is there anything the matter?"

"He is not like himself a bit. But come, my dear, take off your things. As the doctor says, a sleep for a couple of hours will do you good. After that you will see Allan. You are looking very weary, dear, and no wonder, no wonder," said Mandy, "with all that journey and—and all you have gone through." She gathered the girl into her strong arms. "My, I could just pick you up like a babe!" She held her close and kissed her.

The caressing touch was too much for the girl. With a rush the tears came.

"Och, oh," she cried, lapsing into her Highland speech, "it iss ashamed of myself I am, but no one has done that to me for many a day since—since—my father—"

"There, there, you poor darling," said Mandy, comforting her as if she were a child, "you will not want for love here in this country. Cry away, it will do you good." There was a sound of feet on the stairs. "Hush, hush, Billy is coming." She swept the girl into her bedroom as Billy appeared.

"Oh, I am just silly," said Moira impatiently, as she wiped her eyes. "But you are so good, and I will never be forgetting your kindness to me this day."

"Hot water," said Billy, tapping at the door.

"Hot water! What for?" cried Mandy.

"For the young lady. The doctor said she was used to it."

"The doctor? Well, that is very thoughtful. Do you want hot water, Moira?"

"Yes, the very thing I do want to get the dust out of my eyes and the grime off my face."

"And the tea is in the ladies' parlor," added Billy.

"Tea!" cried Mandy, "the very thing!"

"The doctor said tea and toast."

"The doctor again!"

"Sure thing! Said they were all stuck on tea in the Old Country."

"Oh, he did, eh? Will you have tea, Moira?"

"No tea, thank you. I shall lie down, I think, for a little."

"All right, dear, we will see you at breakfast. Don't worry. I shall call you."

Again she kissed the girl and left her to sleep. She found Billy standing in the ladies' parlor with a perplexed and disappointed look on his face.

"The Doc said she'd sure want some tea," he said.

"And you made the tea yourself?" inquired Mandy.

"Sure thing! The Doc—"

"Well, Billy, I'd just love a cup of tea if you don't mind wasting it on me."

"Sure thing, ma'm! The Doc won't mind, bein' as she turned it down."

"Where is Dr. Martin gone, Billy? He needs a cup of tea; he's been up all night. He must be feeling tough."

"Judgin' by his langwidge I should surmise yes," said Billy judicially.

"Would you get him, Billy, and bring him here?"

"Get him? S'pose I could. But as to bringin' him here, I'd prefer wild cats myself. The last I seen of him he was hikin' for the Rockies with a blue haze round his hair."

"But what in the world is wrong with him, Billy?" said Mandy anxiously. "I've never seen him this way."

"No, nor me," said Billy. "The Doc's a pretty level headed cuss. There's somethin' workin' on him, if you ask me."

"Billy, you get him and tell him we want to see him at breakfast, will you?"

Billy shook his head.

"Tell him, Billy, I want him to see my husband then."

"Sure thing! That'll catch him, I guess. He's dead stuck on his work."

And it did catch him, for, after breakfast was over, clean-shaven, calm and controlled, and in his very best professional style, Dr. Martin made his morning call on his patient. Rigidly he eliminated from his manner anything beyond a severe professional interest. Mandy, who for two years had served with him as nurse, and who thought she knew his every mood, was much perplexed. Do what she could, she was unable to break through the barrier of his professional reserve. He was kindly courteous and perfectly correct.

"I would suggest a quiet day for him, Mrs. Cameron," was his verdict after examining the patient. "He will be quite able to get up in the afternoon and go about, but not to set off on a hundred and fifty mile drive. A quiet day, sleep, cheerful company, such as you can furnish here, will fix him up."

"Doctor, we will secure the quiet day if you will furnish the cheerful company," said Mandy, beaming on him.

"I have a very busy day before me, and as for cheerful company, with you two ladies he will have all the company that is good for him."

"CHEERFUL company, you said, Doctor. If you desert us how can we be cheerful?"

"Exactly for that reason," replied the doctor.

"Say, Martin," interposed Cameron, "take them out for a drive this afternoon and leave me in peace."

"A drive!" cried Mandy, "with one hundred and fifty miles behind me and another hundred and fifty miles before me!"

"A ride then," said Cameron. "Moira, you used to be fond of riding."

"And am still," cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.

"A ride!" cried Mandy. "Great! This is the country for riding. But have you a habit?"

"My habit is in one of my boxes," replied Moira.

"I can get a habit," said the doctor, "and two of them."

"That's settled, then," cried Mandy. "I am not very keen. We shall do some shopping, Allan, you and I this afternoon and you two can go off to the hills. The hills! th—ink of that, Moira, for a highlander!" She glanced at Moira's face and read refusal there. "But I insist you must go. A whole week in an awful stuffy train. This is the very thing for you."

"Yes, the very thing, Moira," cried her brother. "We will have a long talk this morning then in the afternoon we will do some business here, Mandy and I, and you can go up the Bow."

"The Bow?"

"The Bow River. A glorious ride. Nothing like it even in Scotland, and that's saying a good deal," said her brother with emphasis.

This arrangement appeared to give complete satisfaction to all parties except those most immediately interested, but there seemed to be no very sufficient reason with either to decline, hence they agreed.



CHAPTER IX

THE RIDE UP THE BOW

Having once agreed to the proposal of a ride up the Bow, the doctor lost no time in making the necessary preparations. Half an hour later he found himself in the stable consulting with Billy. His mood was gloomy and his language reflected his mood. Gladly would he have escaped what to him, he felt, would be a trying and prolonged ordeal. But he could not do this without exciting the surprise of his friends and possibly wounding the sensitive girl whom he would gladly give his life to serve. He resolved that at all costs he would go through with the thing.

"I'll give her a good time, by Jingo! if I bust something," he muttered as he walked up and down the stable picking out his mounts. "But for a compound, double-opposed, self-adjusting jackass, I'm your choice. Lost my first chance. Threw it clean away and queered myself with her first shot. I say, Billy," he called, "come here."

"What's up, Doc?" said Billy.

"Kick me, Billy," said the doctor solemnly.

"Well now, Doc, I—"

"Kick me, Billy, good and swift."

"Don't believe I could give no satisfaction, Doc. But there's that Hiram mule, he's a high class artist. You might back up to him."

"No use being kicked, Billy, by something that wouldn't appreciate it," said Martin.

"Don't guess that way, Doc. He's an ornery cuss, he'd appreciate it all right, that old mule. But Doc, what's eatin' you?"

"Oh, nothing, Billy, except that I'm an ass, an infernal ass."

"An ass, eh? Then I guess I couldn't give you no satisfaction. You better try that mule."

"Well, Billy, the horses at two," said the doctor briskly, "the broncho and that dandy little pinto."

"All serene, Doc. Hope you'll have a good time. Brace up, Doc, it's comin' to you." Billy's wink conveyed infinitely more than his words.

"Look here, Billy, you cut that all out," said the doctor.

"All right, Doc, if that's the way you feel. You'll see no monkey-work on me. I'll make a preacher look like a sideshow."

And truly Billy's manner was irreproachable as he stood with the ponies at the hotel door and helped their riders to mount. There was an almost sad gravity in his demeanor that suggested a mind preoccupied with solemn and unworldly thoughts with which the doctor and his affairs had not even the remotest association.

As Cameron who, with his wife, watched their departure from the balcony above, waved them farewell, he cried, "Keep your eyes skinned for an Indian, Martin. Bring him in if you find him."

"I've got no gun on me," replied the doctor, "and if I get sight of him, you hear me, I'll make for the timber quick. No heroic captures for me this trip."

"What is all this about the Indian, Dr. Martin?" inquired the girl at his side as they cantered down the street.

"Didn't your brother tell you?"

"No."

"Well, I've done enough to you with that Indian already to-day."

"To me?"

"Didn't I like a fool frighten you nearly to death with him?"

"Well, I was startled. I was silly to show it. But an Indian to an Old Country person familiar with Fenimore Cooper, well—"

"Oh, I was a proper idiot all round this morning," grumbled the doctor. "I didn't know what I was doing."

The brown eyes were open wide upon him.

"You see," continued the doctor desperately, "I'd looked forward to meeting you for so long." The brown eyes grew wider. "And then to think that I actually didn't know you."

"You didn't look at me," cried Moira.

"No, I was looking for the girl I saw that day, almost three years ago, in the Glen. I have never forgotten that day."

"No, nor I," replied the girl softly. "That is how I knew you. It was a terrible day to us all in the Glen, my brother going to leave us and under that dreadful cloud, and you came with the letter that cleared it all away. Oh, it was like the coming of an angel from heaven, and I have often thought, Mr. Martin—Dr. Martin you are now, of course—that I never thanked you as I ought that day. I was thinking of Allan. I have often wished to do it. I should like to do it now."

"Get at it," cried the doctor with great emphasis, "I need it. It might help me a bit. I behaved so stupidly this morning. The truth is, I was completely knocked out, flabbergasted."

"Was that it?" cried Moira with a bright smile. "I thought—" A faint color tinged her pale cheek and she paused a moment. "But tell me about the Indian. My brother just made little of it. It is his way with me. He thinks me just a little girl not to be trusted with things."

"He doesn't know you, then," said the doctor.

She laughed gayly. "And do you?"

"I know you better than that, at least."

"What can you know about me?"

"I know you are to be trusted with that or with anything else that calls for nerve. Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian. Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it will be better going."

The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up. But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of the girl's hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned on her head the little brown curls were peeping in a way that quite shook the heart of Dr. Martin.

"Now you look a little more like yourself," he cried, his eyes fastened upon the curls with unmistakable admiration, "more like the girl I remember."

"Oh," she said, "it is my bonnet. I put on this old thing for the ride."

"No," said the doctor, "you wore no bonnet that day. It is your face, your hair, you are not quite—so—so proper."

"My hair!" Her hands went up to her head. "Oh, my silly curls, I suppose. They are my bane." ("My joy," the doctor nearly had said.) "But now for the Indian story."

Then the doctor grew grave.

"It is not a pleasant thing to greet a guest with," he said, "but you must know it and I may as well give it to you. And, mind you, this is altogether a new thing with us."

For the next half hour as they rode westward toward the big hills, steadily climbing as they went, the story of the disturbance in the north country, of the unrest among the Indians, of the part played in it by the Indian Copperhead, and of the appeal by the Superintendent to Cameron for assistance, furnished the topic for conversation. The girl listened with serious face, but there was no fear in the brown eyes, nor tremor in the quiet voice, as they talked it over.

"Now let us forget it for a while," cried the doctor. "The Police have rarely, if ever, failed to get their man. That is their boast. And they will get this chap, too. And as for the row on the Saskatchewan, I don't take much stock in that. Now we're coming to a view in a few minutes, one of the finest I have seen anywhere."

For half a mile farther they loped along the trail that led them to the top of a hill that stood a little higher than the others round about. Upon the hilltop they drew rein.

"What do you think of that for a view?" said the doctor.

Before them stretched the wide valley of the Bow for many miles, sweeping up toward the mountains, with rounded hills on either side, and far beyond the hills the majestic masses of the Rockies some fifty miles away, snow-capped, some of them, and here and there upon their faces the great glaciers that looked like patches of snow. Through this wide valley wound the swift flowing Bow, and up from it on either side the hills, rough with rocks and ragged masses of pine, climbed till they seemed to reach the very bases of the mountains beyond. Over all the blue arch of sky spanned the wide valley and seemed to rest upon the great ranges on either side, like the dome of a vast cathedral.