Silent, with lips parted and eyes alight with wonder, Moira sat and gazed upon the glory of that splendid scene.

"What do you think—" began the doctor.

She put out her hand and touched his arm.

"Please don't speak," she breathed, "this is not for words, but for worship."

Long she continued to gaze in rapt silence upon the picture spread out before her. It was, indeed, a place for worship. She pointed to a hill some distance in front of them.

"You have been beyond that?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"Yes, I have been all through this country. I know it well. From the top of that hill we get a magnificent sweep toward the south."

"Let us go!" she cried.

Down the hillside they scrambled, across a little valley and up the farther side, following the trail that wound along the hill but declined to make the top. As they rounded the shoulder of the little mountain Moira cried:

"It would be a great view from the top there beyond the trees. Can we reach it?"

"Are you good for a climb?" replied the doctor. "We could tie the horses."

For answer she flung herself from her pinto and, gathering up her habit, began eagerly to climb. By the time the doctor had tethered the ponies she was half way to the top. Putting forth all his energy he raced after her, and together they parted a screen of brushwood and stepped out on a clear rock that overhung the deep canyon that broadened into a great valley sweeping toward the south.

"Beats Scotland, eh?" cried the doctor, as they stepped out together.

She laid her hand upon his arm and drew him back into the bushes.

"Hush," she whispered. Surprised into silence, he stood gazing at her. Her face was white and her eyes gleaming. "An Indian down there," she whispered.

"An Indian? Where? Show me."

"He was looking up at us. Come this way. I think he heard us."

She led him by a little detour and on their hands and knees they crept through the brushwood. They reached the open rock and peered down through a screen of bushes into the canyon below.

"There he is," cried Moira.

Across the little stream that flowed at the bottom of the canyon, and not more than a hundred yards away, stood an Indian, tall, straight and rigidly attent, obviously listening and gazing steadily at the point where they had first stood. For many minutes he stood thus rigid while they watched him. Then his attitude relaxed. He sat down upon the rocky ledge that sloped up from the stream toward a great overhanging crag behind him, laid his rifle beside him and, calmly filling his pipe, began to smoke. Intently they followed his every movement.

"I do believe it is our Indian," whispered the doctor.

"Oh, if we could only get him!" replied the girl.

The doctor glanced swiftly at her. Her face was pale but firm set with resolve. Quickly he revolved in his mind the possibilities.

"If I only had a gun," he said to himself, "I'd risk it."

"What is he going to do?"

The Indian was breaking off some dead twigs from the standing pines about him.

"He's going to light a fire," replied the doctor, "perhaps camp for the night."

"Then," cried the girl in an excited whisper, "we could get him."

The doctor smiled at her. The Indian soon had his fire going and, unrolling his blanket pack, he took thence what looked like a lump of meat, cut some strips from it and hung them from pointed sticks over the fire. He proceeded to gather some poles from the dead wood lying about.

"What now is he going to do?" inquired Moira.

"Wait," replied the doctor.

The Indian proceeded to place the poles in order against the rock, keeping his eye on the toasting meat the while and now and again turning it before the fire. Then he began to cut branches of spruce and balsam.

"By the living Jingo!" cried the doctor, greatly excited, "I declare he's going to camp."

"To sleep?" said Moira.

"Yes," replied the doctor. "He had no sleep last night."

"Then," cried the girl, "we can get him."

The doctor gazed at her in admiration.

"You are a brick," he said. "How can we get him? He'd double me up like a jack-knife. Remember I only played quarter," he added.

"No, no," she cried quickly, "you stay here to watch him. Let me go back for the Police."

"I say," cried the doctor, "you are a wonder. There's something in that." He thought rapidly, then said, "No, it won't do. I can't allow you to risk it."

"Risk? Risk what?"

A year ago the doctor would not have hesitated a moment to allow her to go, but now he thought of the roving bands of Indians and the possibility of the girl falling into their hands.

"No, Miss Cameron, it will not do."

"But think," she cried, "we might get him and save Allan all the trouble and perhaps his life. You must not stop me. You cannot stop me. I am going. You wait and watch. Don't move. I can find my way."

He seized her by the arm.

"Wait," he said, "let me think."

"What danger can there be?" she pleaded. "It is broad daylight. The road is good. I cannot possibly lose my way. I am used to riding alone among the hills at home."

"Ah, yes, at home," said the doctor gloomily.

"But there is no danger," she persisted. "I am not afraid. Besides, you cannot keep me." She stood up among the bushes looking down at him with a face so fiercely resolved that he was constrained to say, "By Jove! I don't believe I could. But I can go with you."

"You would not do that," she cried, stamping her foot, "if I forbade you. It is your duty to stay here and watch that Indian. It is mine to go and get the Police. Good-by."

He rose to follow her.

"No," she said, "I forbid you to come. You are not doing right. You are to stay. We will save my brother."

She glided through the bushes from his sight and was gone.

"Am I a fool or what?" said the doctor to himself. "She is taking a chance, but after all it is worth while."

It was now the middle of the afternoon and it would take Moira an hour and a half over that rocky winding trail to make the ten miles that lay before her. Ten minutes more would see the Police started on their return. The doctor settled himself down to his three hours' wait, keeping his eye fixed upon the Indian. The latter was now busy with his meal, which he ate ravenously.

"The beggar has me tied up tight," muttered the doctor ruefully. "My grub is on my saddle, and I guess I dare not smoke till he lights up himself."

A hand touched his arm. Instantly he was on his feet. It was Moira.

"Great Caesar, you scared me! Thought it was the whole Blackfoot tribe."

"You will be the better for something to eat," she said simply, handing him the lunch basket. "Good-by."

"Hold up!" he cried. But she was gone.

"Say, she's a regular—" He paused and thought for a moment. "She's an angel, that's what—and a mighty sight better than most of them. She's a—" He turned back to his watch, leaving his thought unspoken. In the presence of the greater passions words are woefully inadequate.

The Indian was still eating as ravenously as ever.

"He's filling up, I guess. He ought to be full soon at that rate. Wish he'd get his pipe agoing."

In due time the Indian finished eating, rolled up the fragments carefully in a rag, and then proceeded to construct with the poles and brush which he had cut, a penthouse against the rock. At one end his little shelter thus constructed ran into a spruce tree whose thick branches reached right to the ground. When he had completed this shelter to his satisfaction he sat down again on the rock beside his smoldering fire and pulled out his pipe.

"Thanks be!" said the doctor to himself fervently. "Go on, old boy, hit her up."

A pipe and then another the Indian smoked, then, taking his gun, blanket and pack, he crawled into his brush wigwam out of sight.

"There, you old beggar!" said the doctor with a sigh of relief. "You are safe for an hour or two, thank goodness. You had no sleep last night and you've got to make up for it now. Sleep tight, old boy. We'll give you a call." The doctor hugged himself with supreme satisfaction and continued to smoke with his eye fixed upon the hole into which the Indian had disappeared.

Through the long hours he sat and smoked while he formulated the plan of attack which he proposed to develop when his reinforcements should arrive.

"We will work up behind him from away down the valley, a couple of us will cover him from the front and the others go right in."

He continued with great care to make and revise his plans, and while in the midst of his final revision a movement in the bushes behind him startled him to his feet. The bushes parted and the face of Moira appeared with that of her brother over her shoulder.

"Is he still there?" she whispered eagerly.

"Asleep, snug as a bug. Never moved," said the doctor exultantly, and proceeded to explain his plan of attack. "How many have you?" he asked Cameron.

"Crisp and a constable."

"Just two?" said the doctor.

"Two," replied Cameron briefly. "That's plenty. Here they are." He stepped back through the bushes and brought forward Crisp and the constable. "Now, then, here's our plan," he said. "You, Crisp, will go down the canyon, cross the stream and work up on the other side right to that rock. When you arrive at the rock the constable and I will go in. The doctor will cover him from this side."

"Fine!" said the doctor. "Fine, except that I propose to go in myself with you. He's a devil to fight. I could see that last night."

Cameron hesitated.

"There's really no use, you know, Doctor. The constable and I can handle him."

Moira stood looking eagerly from one to the other.

"All right," said the doctor, "'nuff said. Only I'm going in. If you want to come along, suit yourself."

"Oh, do be careful," said Moira, clasping her hands. "Oh, I'm afraid."

"Afraid?" said the doctor, looking at her quickly. "You? Not much fear in you, I guess."

"Come on, then," said Cameron. "Moira, you stay here and keep your eye on him. You are safe enough here."

She pressed her lips tight together till they made a thin red line in her white face.

"Can you let me have a gun?" she asked.

"A gun?" exclaimed the doctor.

"Oh, she can shoot—rabbits, at least," said her brother with a smile. "I shall bring you one, Moira, but remember, handle it carefully."

With a gun across her knees Moira sat and watched the development of the attack. For many minutes there was no sign or sound, till she began to wonder if a change had been made in the plan. At length some distance down the canyon and on the other side Sergeant Crisp was seen working his way with painful care step by step toward the rock of rendezvous. There was no sign of her brother or Dr. Martin. It was for them she watched with an intensity of anxiety which she could not explain to herself. At length Sergeant Crisp reached the crag against whose base the penthouse leaned in which the sleeping Indian lay. Immediately she saw her brother, quickly followed by Dr. Martin, leap the little stream, run lightly up the sloping rock and join Crisp at the crag. Still there was no sign from the Indian. She saw her brother motion the Sergeant round to the farther corner of the penthouse where it ran into the spruce tree, while he himself, with a revolver in each hand, dropped on one knee and peered under the leaning poles. With a loud exclamation he sprang to his feet.

"He's gone!" he shouted. "Stand where you are!" Like a hound on a scent he ran to the back of the spruce tree and on his knees examined the earth there. In a few moments his search was rewarded. He struck the trail and followed it round the rock and through the woods till he came to the hard beaten track. Then he came back, pale with rage and disappointment. "He's gone!" he said.

"I swear he never came out of that hole!" said Dr. Martin. "I kept my eye on it every minute of the last three hours."

"There's another hole," said Crisp, "under the tree here."

Cameron said not a word. His disappointment was too keen. Together they retraced their steps across the little stream. On the farther bank they found Moira, who had raced down to meet them.

"He's gone?" she cried.

"Gone!" echoed her brother. "Gone for this time—but—some day—some day," he added below his breath.

But many things were to happen before that day came.



CHAPTER X

RAVEN TO THE RESCUE

Overhead the stars were still twinkling far in the western sky. The crescent moon still shone serene, marshaling her attendant constellations. Eastward the prairie still lay in deep shadow, its long rolls outlined by the deeper shadows lying in the hollows between. Over the Bow and the Elbow mists hung like white veils swathing the faces of the rampart hills north and south. In the little town a stillness reigned as of death, for at length Calgary was asleep, and sound asleep would remain for hours to come.

Not so the world about. Through the dead stillness of the waning night the liquid note of the adventurous meadow lark fell like the dropping of a silver stream into the pool below. Brave little heart, roused from slumber perchance by domestic care, perchance by the first burdening presage of the long fall flight waiting her sturdy careless brood, perchance stirred by the first thrill of the Event approaching from the east. For already in the east the long round tops of the prairie undulations are shining gray above the dark hollows and faint bars of light are shooting to the zenith, fearless forerunners of the dawn, menacing the retreating stars still bravely shining their pale defiance to the oncoming of their ancient foe. Far toward the west dark masses still lie invincible upon the horizon, but high above in the clear heavens white shapes, indefinite and unattached, show where stand the snow-capped mountain peaks. Thus the swift and silent moments mark the fortunes of this age-long conflict. But sudden all heaven and all earth thrill tremulous in eager expectancy of the daily miracle when, all unaware, the gray light in the eastern horizon over the roll of the prairie has grown to silver, and through the silver a streamer of palest rose has flashed up into the sky, the gay and gallant 'avant courier' of an advancing host, then another and another, then by tens and hundreds, till, radiating from a center yet unseen, ten thousand times ten thousand flaming flaunting banners flash into orderly array and possess the utmost limits of the heavens, sweeping before them the ever paling stars, that indomitable rearguard of the flying night, proclaiming to all heaven and all earth the King is come, the Monarch of the Day. Flushed in the new radiance of the morning, the long flowing waves of the prairie, the tumbling hills, the mighty rocky peaks stand surprised, as if caught all unprepared by the swift advance, trembling and blushing in the presence of the triumphant King, waiting the royal proclamation that it is time to wake and work, for the day is come.

All oblivious of this wondrous miracle stands Billy, his powers of mind and body concentrated upon a single task, that namely of holding down to earth the game little bronchos, Mustard and Pepper, till the party should appear. Nearby another broncho, saddled and with the knotted reins hanging down from his bridle, stood viewing with all too obvious contempt the youthful frolics of the colts. Well he knew that life would cure them of all this foolish waste of spirit and of energy. Meantime on his part he was content to wait till his master—Dr. Martin, to wit—should give the order to move. His master meantime was busily engaged with clever sinewy fingers packing in the last parcels that represented the shopping activities of Cameron and his wife during the past two days. There was a whole living and sleeping outfit for the family to gather together. Already a heavily laden wagon had gone on before them. The building material for the new house was to follow, for it was near the end of September and a tent dwelling, while quite endurable, does not lend itself to comfort through a late fall in the foothill country. Besides, there was upon Cameron, and still more upon his wife, the ever deepening sense of a duty to be done that could not wait, and for the doing of that duty due preparation must be made. Hence the new house must be built and its simple appointments and furnishings set in order without delay, and hence the laden wagon gone before and the numerous packages in the democrat, covered with a new tent and roped securely into place.

This packing and roping the doctor made his peculiar care, for he was a true Canadian, born and bred in the atmosphere of pioneer days in old Ontario, and the packing and roping could be trusted to no amateur hands, for there were hills to go up and hills to go down, sleughs to cross and rivers to ford with all their perilous contingencies before they should arrive at the place where they would be.

"All secure, Martin?" said Cameron, coming out from the hotel with hand bags and valises.

"They'll stay, I think," replied the doctor, "unless those bronchos of yours get away from you."

"Aren't they dears, Billy?" cried Moira, coming out at the moment and dancing over to the bronchos' heads.

"Well, miss," said Billy with judicial care, "I don't know about that. They're ornery little cusses and mean-actin.' They'll go straight enough if everything is all right, but let anythin' go wrong, a trace or a line, and they'll put it to you good and hard."

"I do not think I would be afraid of them," replied the girl, reaching out her hand to stroke Pepper's nose, a movement which surprised that broncho so completely that he flew back violently upon the whiffle-tree, carrying Billy with him.

"Come up here, you beast!" said Billy, giving him a fierce yank.

"Oh, Billy!" expostulated Moira.

"Oh, he ain't no lady's maid, miss. You would, eh, you young devil,"—this to Pepper, whose intention to walk over Billy was only too obvious—"Get back there, will you! Now then, take that, and stand still!" Billy evidently did not rely solely upon the law of love in handling his broncho.

Moira abandoned him and climbed to her place in the democrat between Cameron and his wife.

By a most singular and fortunate coincidence Dr. Martin had learned that a patient of his at Big River was in urgent need of a call, so, to the open delight of the others and to the subdued delight of the doctor, he was to ride with them thus far on their journey.

"All set, Billy?" cried Cameron. "Let them go."

"Good-by, Billy," cried both ladies, to which Billy replied with a wave of his Stetson.

Away plunged the bronchos on a dead gallop, as if determined to end the journey during the next half hour at most, and away with them went the doctor upon his steady broncho, the latter much annoyed at being thus ignominiously outdistanced by these silly colts and so induced to strike a somewhat more rapid pace than he considered wise at the beginning of an all-day journey. Away down the street between the silent shacks and stores and out among the straggling residences that lined the trail. Away past the Indian encampment and the Police Barracks. Away across the echoing bridge, whose planks resounded like the rattle of rifles under the flying hoofs. Away up the long stony hill, scrambling and scrabbling, but never ceasing till they reached the level prairie at the top. Away upon the smooth resilient trail winding like a black ribbon over the green bed of the prairie. Away down long, long slopes to low, wide valleys, and up long, long slopes to the next higher prairie level. Away across the plain skirting sleughs where ducks of various kinds, and in hundreds, quacked and plunged and fought joyously and all unheeding. Away with the morning air, rare and wondrously exhilarating, rushing at them and past them and filling their hearts with the keen zest of living. Away beyond sight and sound of the great world, past little shacks, the brave vanguard of civilization, whose solitary loneliness only served to emphasize their remoteness from the civilization which they heralded. Away from the haunts of men and through the haunts of wild things where the shy coyote, his head thrown back over his shoulder, loped laughing at them and their futile noisy speed. Away through the wide rich pasture lands where feeding herds of cattle and bands of horses made up the wealth of the solitary rancher, whose low-built wandering ranch house proclaimed at once his faith and his courage. Away and ever away, the shining morning hours and the fleeting miles racing with them, till by noon-day, all wet but still unweary, the bronchos drew up at the Big River Stopping Place, forty miles from the point of their departure.

Close behind the democrat rode Dr. Martin, the steady pace of his wise old broncho making up upon the dashing but somewhat erratic gait of the colts.

While the ladies passed into the primitive Stopping Place, the men unhitched the ponies, stripped off their harness and proceeded to rub them down from head to heel, wash out their mouths and remove from them as far as they could by these attentions the travel marks of the last six hours.

Big River could hardly be called even by the generous estimate of the optimistic westerner a town. It consisted of a blacksmith's shop, with which was combined the Post Office, a little school, which did for church—the farthest outpost of civilization—and a manse, simple, neat and tiny, but with a wondrous air of comfort about it, and very like the little Nova Scotian woman inside, who made it a very vestibule of heaven for many a cowboy and rancher in the district, and last, the Stopping Place run by a man who had won the distinction of being well known to the Mounted Police and who bore the suggestive name of Hell Gleeson, which appeared, however, in the old English Registry as Hellmuth Raymond Gleeson. The Mounted Police thought it worth while often to run in upon Hell at unexpected times, and more than once they had found it necessary to invite him to contribute to Her Majesty's revenue as compensation for Hell's objectionable habit of having in possession and of retailing to his friends bad whisky without attending to the little formality of a permit.

The Stopping Place was a rambling shack, or rather a series of shacks, loosely joined together, whose ramifications were found by Hell and his friends to be useful in an emergency. The largest room in the building was the bar, as it was called. Behind the counter, however, instead of the array of bottles and glasses usually found in rooms bearing this name, the shelf was filled with patent medicines, chiefly various brands of pain-killer. Off the bar was the dining-room, and behind the dining-room another and smaller room, while the room most retired in the collection of shacks constituting the Stopping Place was known in the neighborhood as the "snake room," a room devoted to those unhappy wretches who, under the influence of prolonged indulgence in Hell's bad whisky, were reduced to such a mental and nervous condition that the landscape of their dreams became alive with snakes of various sizes, shapes and hues.

To Mandy familiarity had hardened her sensibilities to endurance of all the grimy uncleanness of the place, but to Moira the appearance of the house and especially of the dining-room filled her with loathing unspeakable.

"Oh, Mandy," she groaned, "can we not eat outside somewhere? This is terrible."

Mandy thought for a moment.

"No," she cried, "but we will do better. I know Mrs. Macintyre in the manse. I nursed her once last spring. We will go and see her."

"Oh, that would not do," said Moira, her Scotch shy independence shrinking from such an intrusion.

"And why not?"

"She doesn't know me—and there are four of us."

"Oh, nonsense, you don't know this country. You don't know what our visit will mean to the little woman, what a joy it will be to her to see a new face, and I declare when she hears you are new out from Scotland she will simply revel in you. We are about to confer a great favor upon Mrs. Macintyre."

If Moira had any lingering doubts as to the soundness of her sister-in-law's opinion they vanished before the welcome she had from the minister's wife.

"Mr. Cameron's sister?" she cried, with both hands extended, "and just out from Scotland? And where from? From near Braemar? And our folk came from near Inverness. Mhail Gaelic heaibh?"

"Go dearbh ha."

And on they went for some minutes in what Mrs. Macintyre called "the dear old speech," till Mrs. Macintyre, remembering herself, said to Mandy:

"But you do not understand the Gaelic? Well, well, you will forgive us. And to think that in this far land I should find a young lady like this to speak it to me! Do you know, I am forgetting it out here." All the while she was speaking she was laying the cloth and setting the table. "And you have come all the way from Calgary this morning? What a drive for the young lady! You must be tired out. Would you lie down upon the bed for an hour? Then come away in to the bedroom and fresh yourselves up a bit. Come away in. I'll get Mr. Cameron over."

"We are a big party," said Mandy, "for your wee house. We have a friend with us—Dr. Martin."

"Dr. Martin? Indeed I know him well, and a fine man he is and that kind and clever. I'll get him too."

"Let me go for them," said Mandy.

"Very well, go then. I'll just hurry the dinner."

"But are you quite sure," asked Mandy, "you can—you have everything handy? You know, Mrs. Macintyre, I know just how hard it is to keep a stock of everything on hand."

"Well, we have bread and molasses—our butter is run out, it is hard to get—and some bacon and potatoes and tea. Will that do?"

"Oh, that will do fine. And we have some things with us, if you don't mind."

"Mind? Not a bit, my dear. You can just suit yourself."

The dinner was a glorious success. The clean linen, the shining dishes, the silver—for Mrs. Macintyre brought out her wedding presents—gave the table a brilliantly festive appearance in the eyes of those who had lived for some years in the western country.

"You don't appreciate the true significance of a table napkin, I venture to say, Miss Cameron," said the doctor, "until you have lived a year in this country at least, or how much an unspotted table cloth means, or shining cutlery and crockery."

"Well, I have been two days at the Royal Hotel, whatever," replied Moira.

"The Royal Hotel!" exclaimed the doctor aghast. "Our most palatial Western hostelry—all the comforts and conveniences of civilization!"

"Anyway, I like this better," said Moira. "It is like home."

"Is it, indeed, my dear?" said the minister's wife greatly delighted. "You have paid me a very fine tribute."

The hour lengthened into two, for when a departure was suggested the doctor grew eloquent in urging delay. The horses would be all the better for the rest. It would be fine driving in the evening. They could easily make the Black Dog Ford before dark. After that the trail was good for twenty miles, where they would camp. But like all happy hours these hours fled past, and all too swiftly, and soon the travelers were ready to depart.

Before the Stopping Place door Hell was holding down the bronchos, while Cameron was packing in the valises and making all secure again. Near the wagon stood the doctor waiting their departure.

"You are going back from here, Dr. Martin?" said Moira.

"Yes," said the doctor, "I am going back."

"It has been good to see you," she said. "I hope next time you will know me."

"Ah, now, Miss Cameron, don't rub it in. You see—but what's the use?" continued the doctor. "You had changed. My picture of the girl I had seen in the Highlands that day never changed and never will change." The doctor's keen gray eyes burned into hers for a moment. A slight flush came to her cheek and she found herself embarrassed for want of words. Her embarrassment was relieved by the sound of hoofs pounding down the trail.

"Hello, who's this?" said the doctor, as they stood watching the horseman approaching at a rapid pace and accompanied by a cloud of dust. Nearer and nearer he came, still on the gallop till within a few yards of the group.

"My!" cried Moira. "Whoever he is he will run us down!" and she sprang into her place in the democrat.

Without slackening rein the rider came up to the Stopping Place door at a full gallop, then at a single word his horse planted his four feet solidly on the trail, and, plowing up the dirt, came to a standstill; then, throwing up his magnificent head, he gave a loud snort and stood, a perfect picture of equine beauty.

"Oh, what a horse!" breathed Moira. "How perfectly splendid! And what a rider!" she added. "Do you know him?"

"I do not," said the doctor, conscious of a feeling of hostility to the stranger, and all the more because he was forced to acknowledge to himself that the rider and his horse made a very striking picture. The man was tall and sinewy, with dark, clean-cut face, thin lips, firm chin and deep-set, brown-gray eyes that glittered like steel, and with that unmistakable something in his bearing that suggested the breeding of a gentleman. His horse was as distinguished as its rider. His coal black skin shone like silk, his flat legs, sloping hips, well-ribbed barrel, small head, large, flashing eyes, all proclaimed his high breeding.

"What a beauty! What a beauty!" breathed Moira again to the doctor.

As if in answer to her praise the stranger, raising his Stetson, swept her an elaborate bow, and, touching his horse, moved nearer to the door of the Stopping Place and swung himself to the ground.

"Ah, Cameron, it's you, sure enough. I can hardly believe my good fortune."

"Hello, Raven, that you?" said Cameron indifferently. "Hope you are fit?" But he made no motion to offer his hand nor did he introduce him to the company. At the sound of his name Dr. Martin started and swept his keen eyes over the stranger's face. He had heard that name before.

"Fit?" inquired the stranger whom Cameron had saluted as Raven. "Fit as ever," a hard smile curling his lips as he noted Cameron's omission. "Hello, Hell!" he continued, his eyes falling upon that individual, who was struggling with the restive ponies, "how goes it with your noble self?"

Hastily Hell, leaving the bronchos for the moment, responded, "Hello, Mr. Raven, mighty glad to see you!"

Meantime the bronchos, freed from Hell's supervision, and apparently interested in the strange horse who was viewing them with lordly disdain, turned their heads and took the liberty of sniffing at the newcomer. Instantly, with mouth wide open and ears flat on his head, the black horse rushed at the bronchos. With a single bound they were off, the lines trailing in the dust. Together Hell, Cameron and the doctor sprang for the wagon, but before they could touch it it was whisked from underneath their fingers as the bronchos dashed in a mad gallop down the trail, Moira meantime clinging desperately to the seat of the pitching wagon. After them darted Cameron and for some moments it seemed as if he could overtake the flying ponies, but gradually they drew away and he gave up the chase. After him followed the whole company, his wife, the doctor, Hell, all in a blind horror of helplessness.

"My God! My God!" cried Cameron, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. "The cut bank!"

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when Raven came up at an easy canter.

"Don't worry," he said quietly to Mandy, who was wringing her hands in despair, "I'll get them."

Like a swallow for swiftness and for grace, the black stallion sped away, flattening his body to the trail as he gathered speed. The bronchos had a hundred yards of a start, but they had not run another hundred until the agonized group of watchers could see that the stallion was gaining rapidly upon them.

"He'll get 'em," cried Hell, "he'll get 'em, by gum!"

"But can he turn them from the bank?" groaned Mandy.

"If anything in horse-flesh or man-flesh can do it," said Hell, "it'll be done."

But a tail-race is a long race and a hundred yards' start is a serious handicap in a quarter of a mile. Down the sloping trail the bronchos were running savagely, their noses close to earth, their feet on the hard ground like the roar of a kettledrum, their harness and trappings fluttering over their backs, the wagon pitching like a ship in a gale, the girl clinging to its high seat as a sailor to a swaying mast. Behind, and swiftly drawing level with the flying bronchos, sped the black horse, still with that smooth grace of a skimming swallow and with such ease of motion as made it seem as if he could readily have increased his speed had he so chosen.

"My God! why doesn't he send the brute along?" cried Dr. Martin, his stark face and staring eyes proclaiming his agony.

"He is up! He is up!" cried Cameron.

The agonized watchers saw the rider lean far over the bronchos and seize one line, then gradually begin to turn the flying ponies away from the cut bank and steer them in a wide circle across the prairie.

"Thank God! Thank God! Oh, thank God!" cried the doctor brokenly, wiping the sweat from his face.

"Let us go to head them off," said Cameron, setting off at a run, leaving the doctor and his wife to follow.

As they watched with staring eyes the racing horses they saw Raven bring back the line to the girl clinging to the wagon seat, then the black stallion, shooting in front of the ponies, began to slow down upon them, hampering their running till they were brought to an easy canter, and, under the more active discipline of teeth and hoofs, were forced to a trot and finally brought to a standstill, and so held till Cameron and the doctor came up to them.

"Raven," gasped Cameron, fighting for his breath and coming forward with hand outstretched, "you have—done—a great thing—to-day—for me. I shall not—forget it."

"Tut tut, Cameron, simple thing. I fancy you are still a few points ahead," said Raven, taking his hand in a strong grip. "After all, it was Night Hawk did it."

"You saved—my sister's life," continued Cameron, still struggling for breath.

"Perhaps, perhaps, but I don't forget," and here Raven leaned over his saddle and spoke in a lower voice, "I don't forget the day you saved mine, my boy."

"Come," said Cameron, "let me present you to my sister."

Instantly Raven swung himself from his horse.

"Stand, Night Hawk!" he commanded, and the horse stood like a soldier on guard.

"Moira," said Cameron, still panting hard, "this is—my friend—Mr. Raven."

Raven stood bowing before her with his hat in his hand, but the girl leaned far down from her seat with both hands outstretched.

"I thank you, Mr. Raven," she said in a quiet voice, but her brown eyes were shining like stars in her white face. "You are a wonderful rider."

"I could not have done it, Miss Cameron," said Raven, a wonderfully sweet smile lighting up his hard face, "I could not have done it had you ever lost your nerve."

"I had no fear after I saw your face," said the girl simply. "I knew you could do it."

"Ah, and how did you know that?" His gray-brown eyes searched her face more keenly.

"I cannot tell. I just knew."

"Let me introduce my friend, Dr. Martin," said Cameron as the doctor came up.

"I—too—want to thank you—Mr. Raven," said the doctor, seizing him with both hands. "I never can—we never can forget it—or repay you."

"Oh," said Raven, with a careless laugh, "what else could I do? After all it was Night Hawk did the trick." He lifted his hat again to Moira, bowed with a beautiful grace, threw himself on his horse and stood till the two men, after carefully examining the harness and securing the reins, had climbed to their places on the wagon seat.

Then he trotted on before toward the Stopping Place, where the minister's wife and indeed the whole company of villagers awaited them.

"Oh, isn't he wonderful!" cried Moira, with her eyes upon the rider in front of them. "And he did it so easily." But the men sat silent. "Who is he, Allan? You know him."

"Yes—he is—he is a chap I met when I was on the Force."

"A Policeman?"

"No, no," replied her brother hastily.

"What then? Does he live here?"

"He lives somewhere south. Don't know exactly where he lives."

"What is he? A rancher?"

"A rancher? Ah—yes, yes, he is a rancher I fancy. Don't know very well. That is—I have seen little of him—in fact—only a couple of times—or so."

"He seems to know you, Allan," said his sister a little reproachfully. "Anyway," she continued with a deep breath, "he is just splendid." Dr. Martin glanced at her face glowing with enthusiasm and was shamefully conscious of a jealous pang at his heart. "He is just splendid," continued Moira, with growing enthusiasm, "and I mean to know more of him."

"What?" said her brother sharply, as if waking from a dream. "Nonsense, Moira! You do not know what you are talking about. You must not speak like that."

"And why, pray?" asked his sister in surprise.

"Oh, never mind just now, Moira. In this country we don't take up with strangers."

"Strangers?" echoed the girl, pain mingling with her surprise. "And yet he saved my life!"

"Yes, thank God, he saved your life," cried her brother, "and we shall never cease to be grateful to him, but—but—oh, drop it just now please, Moira. You don't know and—here we are. How white Mandy is. What a terrible experience for us all!"

"Terrible indeed," echoed the doctor.

"Terrible?" said Moira. "It might have been worse."

To this neither made reply, but there came a day when both doubted such a possibility.



CHAPTER XI

SMITH'S WORK

The short September day was nearly gone. The sun still rode above the great peaks that outlined the western horizon. Already the shadows were beginning to creep up the eastern slope of the hills that clambered till they reached the bases of the great mountains. A purple haze hung over mountain, hill and rolling plain, softening the sharp outlines that ordinarily defined the features of the foothill landscape.

With the approach of evening the fierce sun heat had ceased and a fresh cooling western breeze from the mountain passes brought welcome refreshment alike to the travelers and their beasts, wearied with their three days' drive.

"That is the last hill, Moira," cried her sister-in-law, pointing to a long slope before them. "The very last, I promise you. From the top we can see our home. Our home, alas, I had forgotten! There is no home there, only a black spot on the prairie."

Her husband grunted savagely and cut sharply at the bronchos.

"But the tent will be fine, Mandy. I just long for the experience," said Moira.

"Yes, but just think of all my pretty things, and some of Allan's too, all gone."

"Were the pipes burned, Allan?" cried Moira with a sudden anxiety.

"Were they, Mandy? I never thought," said Cameron.

"The pipes? Let me see. No—no—you remember, Allan, young—what's his name?—that young Highlander at the Fort wanted them."

"Sure enough—Macgregor," said her husband in a tone of immense relief.

"Yes, young Mr. Macgregor."

"My, but that is fine, Allan," said his sister. "I should have grieved if we could not hear the pipes again among these hills. Oh, it is all so bonny; just look at the big Bens yonder."

It was, as she said, all bonny. Far toward their left the low hills rolled in soft swelling waves toward the level prairie, and far away to the right the hills climbed by sharper ascents, flecked here and there with dark patches of fir, and broken with jutting ledges of gray limestone, climbed till they reached the great Rockies, majestic in their massive serried ranges that pierced the western sky. And all that lay between, the hills, the hollows, the rolling prairie, was bathed in a multitudinous riot of color that made a scene of loveliness beyond power of speech to describe.

"Oh, Allan, Allan," cried his sister, "I never thought to see anything as lovely as the Cuagh Oir, but this is up to it I do believe."

"It must indeed be lovely, then," said her brother with a smile, "if you can say that. And I am glad you like it. I was afraid that you might not."

"Here we are, just at the top," cried Mandy. "In a minute beyond the shoulder there we shall see the Big Horn Valley and the place where our home used to be. There, wait Allan."

The ponies came to a stand. Exclamations of amazement burst from Cameron and his wife.

"Why, Allan? What? Is this the trail?"

"It is the trail all right," said her husband in a low voice, "but what in thunder does this mean?"

"It is a house, Allan, a new house."

"It looks like it—but—"

"And there are people all about!"

For some breathless moments they gazed upon the scene. A wide valley, flanked by hills and threaded by a gleaming river, lay before them and in a bend of the river against the gold and yellow of a poplar bluff stood a log house of comfortable size gleaming in all its newness fresh from the ax and saw.

"What does it all mean, Allan?" inquired his wife.

"Blest if I know!"

"Look at the people. I know now, Allan. It's a 'raising bee.' A raising bee!" she cried with growing enthusiasm. "You remember them in Ontario. It's a bee, sure enough. Oh, hurry, let's go!"

The bronchos seemed to catch her excitement, their weariness disappeared, and, pulling hard on the bit, they tore down the winding trail as if at the beginning rather than at the end of their hundred and fifty mile drive.

"What a size!" cried Mandy.

"And a cook house, too!"

"And a verandah!"

"And a shingled roof!"

"And all the people! Where in the world can they have come from?"

"There's the Inspector, anyway," said Cameron. "He is at the bottom of this, I'll bet you."

"And Mr. Cochrane! And that young Englishman, Mr. Newsome!"

"And old Thatcher!"

"And Mrs. Cochrane, and Mr. Dent, and, oh, there's my friend Smith! You remember he helped me put out the fire."

Soon they were at the gate of the corral where a group of men and women stood awaiting them. Inspector Dickson was first:

"Hello, Cameron! Got back, eh? Welcome home, Mrs. Cameron," he said as he helped her to alight.

Smith stood at the bronchos' heads.

"Now, Inspector," said Cameron, holding him by hand and collar, "now what does this business mean?"

"Mean?" cried the Inspector with a laugh. "Means just what you see. But won't you introduce us all?"

After all had been presented to his sister Cameron pursued his question. "What does it mean, Inspector?"

"Mean? Ask Cochrane."

"Mr. Cochrane, tell me," cried Mandy, "who began this?"

"Ask Mr. Thatcher there," replied Mr. Cochrane.

"Who is responsible for this, Mr. Thatcher?" cried Mandy.

"Don't rightly know how the thing started. First thing I knowed they was all at it."

"See here, Thatcher, you might as well own up. I am going to know anyway. Where did the logs come from, for instance?" said Cameron in a determined voice.

"Logs? Guess Bracken knows," replied Cochrane, turning to a tall, lanky rancher who was standing at a little distance.

"Bracken," cried Cameron, striding to him with hand outstretched, "what about the logs for the house? Where did they come from?"

"Well, I dunno. Smith was sayin' somethin' about a bee and gettin' green logs."

"Smith?" cried Cameron, glancing at that individual now busy unhitching the bronchos.

"And of course," continued Bracken, "green logs ain't any use for a real good house, so—and then—well, I happened to have a bunch of logs up the Big Horn. I guess the boys floated 'em down."

"Come away, Mrs. Cameron, and inspect your house," cried a stout, red-faced matron. "I said they ought to await your coming to get your plans, but Mr. Smith said he knew a little about building and that they might as well go on with it. It was getting late in the season, and so they went at it. Come away, we're having a great time over it. Indeed, I think we've enjoyed it more than ever you will."

"But you haven't told us yet who started it," cried Mandy.

"Where did you get the lumber?" said Cameron.

"Well, the lumber," replied Cochrane, "came from the Fort, I guess. Didn't it, Inspector?"

"Yes," replied the Inspector. "We had no immediate use for it, and Smith told us just how much it would take."

"Smith?" said Cameron again. "Hello, Smith!" But Smith was already leading the bronchos away to the stable.

"Yes," continued the Inspector, "and Smith was wondering how a notice could be sent up to the Spruce Creek boys and to Loon Lake, so I sent a man with the word and they brought down the lumber without any trouble. But," continued the Inspector, "come along, Cameron, let us follow the ladies."

"But this is growing more and more mysterious," protested Cameron. "Can no one tell me how the thing originated? The sash and doors now, where did they come from?"

"Oh, that's easy," said Cochrane. "I was at the Post Office, and, hearin' Smith talkin' 'bout this raisin' bee and how they were stuck for sash and door, so seein' I wasn't goin' to build this fall I told him he might as well have the use of these. My team was laid up and Smith got Jim Bracken to haul 'em down."

"Well, this gets me," said Cameron. "It appears no one started this thing. Everything just happened. Now the shingles, I suppose they just tumbled up into their place there."

"The shingles?" said Cochrane. "I dunno 'bout them. Didn't know there were any in the country."

"Oh, they just got up into place there of themselves I have no doubt," said Cameron.

"The shingles? Ah, bay Jove! Rawthah! Funny thing, don't-che-naow," chimed in a young fellow attired in rather emphasized cow-boy style, "funny thing! A Johnnie—quite a strangah to me, don't-che-naow, was riding pawst my place lawst week and mentioned about this—ah—raisin' bee he called it I think, and in fact abaout the blawsted Indian, and the fire, don't-che-naow, and all the rest of it, and how the chaps were all chipping in as he said, logs and lumbah and so fowth. And then, bay Jove, he happened to mention that they were rathah stumped for shingles, don't-che-naow, and, funny thing, there chawnced to be behind my stable a few bunches, and I was awfully glad to tu'n them ovah, and this—eh—pehson—most extraordinary chap I assuah you—got 'em down somehow."

"Who was it inquired?" asked Cameron.

"Don't naow him in the least. But it's the chap that seems to be bossing the job."

"Oh, that's Smith," said Cochrane.

"Smith!" said Cameron, in great surprise. "I don't even know the man. He was good enough to help my wife to beat back the fire. I don't believe I even spoke to him. Who is he anyway?"

"Oh, he's Thatcher's man."

"Yes, but—"

"Come away, Mr. Cameron," cried Mrs. Cochrane from the door of the new house. "Come away in and look at the result of our bee."

"This beats me," said Cameron, obeying the invitation, "but, say, Dickson, it is mighty good of all these men. I have no claim—"

"Claim?" said Mr. Cochrane. "It might have been any of us. We must stand together in this country, and especially these days, eh, Inspector? Things are gettin' serious."

The Inspector nodded his head gravely.

"Yes," he said. "But, Mr. Cochrane," he added in a low voice, "it is very necessary that as little as possible should be said about these things just now. No occasion for any excitement or fuss. The quieter things are kept the better."

"All right, Inspector, I understand, but—"

"What do you think of your new house, Mr. Cameron?" cried Mrs. Cochrane. "Come in. Now what do you think of this for three days' work?"

"Oh, Allan, I have been all through it and it's perfectly wonderful," said his wife.

"Oh nothing very wonderful, Mrs. Cameron," said Cochrane, "but it will do for a while."

"Perfectly wonderful in its whole plan, and beautifully complete," insisted Mandy. "See, a living-room, a lovely large one, two bedrooms off it, and, look here, cupboards and closets, and a pantry, and—" here she opened the door in the corner—"a perfectly lovely up-stairs! Not to speak of the cook-house out at the back."

"Wonderful is the word," said Cameron, "for why in all the world should these people—?"

"And look, Allan, at Moira! She's just lost in rapture over that fireplace."

"And I don't wonder," said her husband. "It is really fine. Whose idea was it?" he continued, moving toward Moira's side, who was standing before a large fireplace of beautiful masonry set in between the two doors that led to the bedrooms at the far end of the living-room.

"It was Andy Hepburn from Loon Lake that built it," said Mr. Cochrane.

"I wish I could thank him," said Moira fervently.

"Well, there he is outside the window, Miss Moira," said a young fellow who was supposed to be busy putting up a molding round the wainscoting, but who was in reality devoting himself to the young lady at the present moment with open admiration. "Here, Andy," he cried through the window, "you're wanted. Hurry up."

"Oh, don't, Mr. Dent. What will he think?"

A hairy little man, with a face dour and unmistakably Scotch, came in.

"What's want-it, then?" he asked, with a deliberate sort of gruffness.

"It's yourself, Andy, me boy," said young Dent, who, though Canadian born, needed no announcement of his Irish ancestry. "It is yourself, Andy, and this young lady, Miss Moira Cameron—Mr. Hepburn—" Andy made reluctant acknowledgment of her smile and bow—"wants to thank you for this fireplace."

"It is very beautiful indeed, Mr. Hepburn, and very thankful I am to you for building it."

"Aw, it's no that bad," admitted Andy. "But ye need not thank me."

"But you built it?"

"Aye did I. But no o' ma ain wull. A fireplace is a feckless thing in this country an' I think little o't."

"Whose idea was it then?"

"It was yon Smith buddie. He juist keepit dingin' awa' till A promised if he got the lime—A kent o' nane in the country—A wud build the thing."

"And he got the lime, eh, Andy?" said Dent.

"Aye, he got it," said Andy sourly. "Diel kens whaur."

"But I am sure you did it beautifully, Mr. Hepburn," said Moira, moving closer to him, "and it will be making me think of home." Her soft Highland accent and the quaint Highland phrasing seemed to reach a soft spot in the little Scot.

"Hame? An' whaur's that?" he inquired, manifesting a grudging interest.

"Where? Where but in the best of all lands, in Scotland," said Moira. "Near Braemar."

"Braemar?"

"Aye, Braemar. I have only come four days ago."

"Aye, an' did ye say, lassie!" said Andy, with a faint accession of interest. "It's a bonny country ye've left behind, and far enough frae here."

"Far indeed," said Moira, letting her shining brown eyes rest upon his face. "And it is myself that knows it. But when the fire burns yonder," she added, pointing to the fireplace, "I will be seeing the hills and the glens and the moors."

"'Deed, then, lassie," said Andy in a low hurried voice, moving toward the door, "A'm gled that Smith buddie gar't me build it."

"Wait, Mr. Hepburn," said Moira, shyly holding out her hand, "don't you think that Scotties in this far land should be friends?"

"An' prood I'd be, Miss Cameron," replied Andy, and, seizing her hand, he gave it a violent shake, flung it from him and fled through the door.

"He's a cure, now, isn't he!" said Dent.

"I think he is fine," said Moira with enthusiasm. "It takes a Scot to understand a Scot, you see, and I am glad I know him. Do you know, he is a little like the fireplace himself," she said, "rugged, a wee bit rough, but fine."

"The real stuff, eh?" said Dent. "The pure quill."

"Yes, that is it. Solid and steadfast, with no pretense."

Meanwhile the work of inspecting the new house was going on. Everywhere appeared fresh cause for delighted wonder, but still the origin of the raising bee remained a mystery.

Balked by the men, Cameron turned in his search to the women and proceeded to the tent where preparations were being made for the supper.

"Tut tut, Mr. Cameron," said Mrs. Cochrane, her broad good-natured face beaming with health and good humor, "what difference does it make? Your neighbors are only too glad of a chance to show their goodwill for yourself, and more for your wife."

"I am sure you are right there," said Cameron.

"And it is the way of the country. We must stick together, John says. It's your turn to-day, it may be ours to-morrow and that's all there is to it. So clear out of this tent and make yourself busy. By the way, where's the pipes? The folk will soon be asking for a tune."

"But I want to know, Mrs. Cochrane," persisted Cameron.

"Where's the pipes, I'm saying. John," she cried, lifting her voice, to her husband, who was standing at the other side of the house. "Where's the pipes? They're not burned, I hope," she continued, turning to Cameron. "The whole settlement would feel that a loss."

"Fortunately no. Young Macgregor at the Fort has them."

"Then I wonder if they are here. John, find out from the Inspector yonder where the pipes are. We will be wanting them this evening."

To her husband's inquiry the Inspector replied that if Macgregor ever had the pipes it was a moral certainty that he had carried them with him to the raising, "for it is my firm belief," he added, "that he sleeps with them."

"Do go and see now, like a dear man," said Mrs. Cochrane to Cameron.

From group to group of the workers Cameron went, exchanging greetings, but persistently seeking to discover the originator of the raising bee. But all in vain, and in despair he came back to his wife with the question "Who is this Smith, anyway?"

"Mr. Smith," she said with deliberate emphasis, "is my friend, my particular friend. I found him a friend when I needed one badly."

"Yes, but who is he?" inquired Moira, who, with Mr. Dent in attendance, had sauntered up. "Who is he, Mr. Dent? Do you know?"

"No, not from Adam's mule. He's old Thatcher's man. That's all I know about him."

"He is Mr. Thatcher's man? Oh!" said Moira, "Mr. Thatcher's servant." A subtle note of disappointment sounded in her voice.

"Servant, Moira?" said Allan in a shocked tone. "Wipe out the thought. There is no such thing as servant west of the Great Lakes in this country. A man may help me with my work for a consideration, but he is no servant of mine as you understand the term, for he considers himself just as good as I am and he may be considerably better."

"Oh, Allan," protested his sister with flushing face, "I know. I know all that, but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know perfectly," said her brother, "for I had the same notion. For instance, for six months I was a 'servant' in Mandy's home, eh, Mandy?"

"Nonsense!" cried Mandy indignantly. "You were our hired man and just like the rest of us."

"Do you get that distinction, Moira? There is no such thing as servant in this country," continued Cameron. "We are all the same socially and stand to help each other. Rather a fine idea that."

"Yes, fine," cried Moira, "but—" and she paused, her face still flushed.

"Who's Smith? is the great question," interjected Dent. "Well, then, Miss Cameron, between you and me we don't ask that question in this country. Smith is Smith and Jones is Jones and that's the first and last of it. We all let it go at that."

But now the last row of shingles was in place, the last door hung, the last door-knob set. The whole house stood complete, inside and out, top and bottom, when a tattoo beat upon a dish pan gave the summons to the supper table. The table was spread in all its luxurious variety and abundance beneath the poplar trees. There the people gathered all upon the basis of pure democratic equality, "Duke's son and cook's son," each estimated at such worth as could be demonstrated was in him. Fictitious standards of values were ignored. Every man was given his fair opportunity to show his stuff and according to his showing was his place in the community. A generous good fellowship and friendly good-will toward the new-comer pervaded the company, but with all this a kind of reserve marked the intercourse of these men with each other. Men were taken on trial at face value and no questions asked.

This evening, however, the dominant note was one of generous and enthusiastic sympathy with the young rancher and his wife, who had come so lately among them and who had been made the unfortunate victim of a sinister and threatening foe, hitherto, it is true, regarded with indifference or with friendly pity but lately assuming an ominous importance. There was underneath the gay hilarity of the gathering an undertone of apprehension until the Inspector made his speech. It was short and went straight at the mark. There was danger, he acknowledged. It would be idle to ignore that there were ugly rumors flying. There was need for watchfulness, but there was no need for alarm. The Police Force was charged with the responsibility of protecting the lives and property of the people. They assumed to the full this responsibility, though they were very short-handed at present, but if they ever felt they needed assistance they knew they could rely upon the steady courage of the men of the district such as he saw before him.

There was need of no further words and the Inspector's speech passed with no response. It was not after the manner of these men to make demonstration either of their loyalty or of their courage.

Cameron's speech at the last came haltingly. On the one hand his Highland pride made it difficult for him to accept gifts from any source whatever. On the other hand his Highland courtesy forbade his giving offense to those who were at once his hosts and his guests, but none suspected the reason for the halting in his speech. As Western men they rather approved than otherwise the hesitation and reserve that marked his words.

Before they rose from the supper table, however, there were calls for Mrs. Cameron, calls so insistent and clamorous that, overcoming her embarrassment, she made reply. "We have not yet found out who was responsible for the originating of this great kindness. But no matter. We forgive him, for otherwise my husband and I would never have come to know how rich we are in true friends and kind neighbors, and now that you have built this house let me say that henceforth by day or by night you are welcome to it, for it is yours."

After the storm of applause had died down, a voice was heard gruffly and somewhat anxiously protesting, "But not all at one time."

"Who was that?" asked Mandy of young Dent as the supper party broke up.

"That's Smith," said Dent, "and he's a queer one."

"Smith?" said Cameron. "The chap meets us everywhere. I must look him up."

But there was a universal and insistent demand for "the pipes."

"You look him up, Mandy," cried her husband as he departed in response to the call.

"I shall find him, and all about him," said Mandy with determination.

The next two hours were spent in dancing to Cameron's reels, in which all, with more or less grace, took part till the piper declared he was clean done.

"Let Macgregor have the pipes, Cameron," cried the Inspector. "He is longing for a chance, I am sure, and you give us the Highland Fling."

"Come Moira," cried Cameron gaily, handing the pipes to Macgregor and, taking his sister by the hand, he led her out into the intricacies of the Highland Reel, while the sides of the living-room, the doors and the windows, were thronged with admiring onlookers. Even Andy Hepburn's rugged face lost something of its dourness; and as the brother and sister together did that most famous of all the ancient dances of Scotland, the Highland Fling, his face relaxed into a broad smile.

"There's Smith," said young Dent to Mandy in a low voice as the reel was drawing to a close.

"Where?" she cried. "I have been looking for him everywhere."

"There, at the window, outside."

Even in the dim light of the lanterns and candles hung here and there upon the walls and stuck on the window sills, Smith's face, pale, stern, sad, shone like a specter out of the darkness behind.

"What's the matter with the man?" cried Mandy. "I must find out."

Suddenly the reel came to an end and Cameron, taking the pipes from young Macgregor, cried, "Now, Moira, we will give them our way of it," and, tuning the pipes anew, he played over once and again their own Glen March, known only to the piper of the Cuagh Oir. Then with cunning skill making atmosphere, he dropped into a wild and weird lament, Moira standing the while like one seeing a vision. With a swift change the pipes shrilled into the true Highland version of the ancient reel, enriched with grace notes and variations all his own. For a few moments the girl stood as if unwilling to yield herself to the invitation of the pipes. Suddenly, as if moved by another spirit than her own, she stepped into the circle and whirled away into the mazes of the ancient style of the Highland Fling, such as is mastered by comparatively few even of the Highland folk. With wonderful grace and supple strength she passed from figure to figure and from step to step, responding to the wild mad music as to a master spirit.

In the midst of the dance Mandy made her way out of the house and round to the window where Smith stood gazing in upon the dancer. She quietly approached him from behind and for a few moments stood at his side. He was breathing heavily like a man in pain.

"What is it, Mr. Smith?" she said, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He sprang from her touch as from a stab and darted back from the crowd about the window.

"What is it, Mr. Smith?" she said again, following him. "You are not well. You are in pain."

He stood a moment or two gazing at her with staring eyes and parted lips, pain, grief and even rage distorting his pale face.

"It is wicked," at length he panted. "It is just terrible wicked—a young girl like that."

"Wicked? Who? What?"

"That—that girl—dancing like that."

"Dancing? That kind of dancing?" cried Mandy, astonished. "I was brought up a Methodist myself," she continued, "but that kind of dancing—why, I love it."

"It is of the devil. I am a Methodist—a preacher—but I could not preach, so I quit. But that is of the world, the flesh, and the devil and—and I have not the courage to denounce it. She is—God help me—so—so wonderful—so wonderful."

"But, Mr. Smith," said Mandy, laying her hand upon his arm, and seeking to sooth his passion, "surely this dancing is—"

Loud cheers and clapping of hands from the house interrupted her. The man put his hands over his eyes as if to shut out a horrid vision, shuddered violently, and with a weird sound broke from her touch and fled into the bluff behind the house just as the party came streaming from the house preparatory to departing. It seemed to Mandy as if she had caught a glimpse of the inner chambers of a soul and had seen things too sacred to be uttered.

Among the last to leave were young Dent and the Inspector.

"We have found out the culprit," cried Dent, as he was saying good-night.

"The culprit?" said Mandy. "What do you mean?"

"The fellow who has engineered this whole business."

"Who is it?" said Cameron.

"Why, listen," said Dent. "Who got the logs from Bracken? Smith. Who got the Inspector to send men through the settlement? Smith. Who got the lumber out of the same Inspector? Smith. And the sash and doors out of Cochrane? Smith. And wiggled the shingles out of Newsome? And euchred old Scotty Hepburn into building the fireplace? And planned and bossed the whole job? Who? Smith. This whole business is Smith's work."

"And where is Smith? Have you seen him, Mandy? We have not thanked him," said Cameron.

"He is gone, I think," said Mandy. "He left some time ago. We shall thank him later. But I am sure we owe a great deal to you, Inspector Dickson, to you, Mr. Dent, and indeed to all our friends," she added, as she bade them good-night.

For some moments they lingered in the moonlight.

"To think that this is Smith's work!" said Cameron, waving his hand toward the house. "That queer chap! One thing I have learned, never to judge a man by his legs again."

"He is a fine fellow," said Mandy indignantly, "and with a fine soul in spite of—"

"His wobbly legs," said her husband smiling.

"It's a shame, Allan. What difference does it make what kind of legs a man has?"

"Very true," replied her husband smiling, "and if you knew your Bible better, Mandy, you would have found excellent authority for your position in the words of the psalmist, 'The Lord taketh no pleasure in the legs of a man.' But, say, it is a joke," he added, "to think of this being Smith's work."



CHAPTER XII

IN THE SUN DANCE CANYON

But they were not yet done with Smith, for as they turned to pass into the house a series of shrill cries from the bluff behind pierced the stillness of the night.

"Help! Help! Murder! Help! I've got him! Help! I've got him!"

Shaking off the clutching hands of his wife and sister, Cameron darted into the bluff and found two figures frantically struggling upon the ground. The moonlight trickling through the branches revealed the man on top to be an Indian with a knife in his hand, but he was held in such close embrace that he could not strike.

"Hold up!" cried Cameron, seizing the Indian by the wrist. "Stop that! Let him go!" he cried to the man below. "I've got him safe enough. Let him go! Let him go, I tell you! Now, then, get up! Get up, both of you!"

The under man released his grip, allowed the Indian to rise and got himself to his feet.

"Come out into the light!" said Cameron sharply, leading the Indian out of the bluff, followed by the other, still panting. Here they were joined by the ladies. "Now, then, what the deuce is all this row?" inquired Cameron.

"Why, it's Mr. Smith!" cried Mandy.

"Smith again! More of Smith's work, eh? Well, this beats me," said her husband. For some moments Cameron stood surveying the group, the Indian silent and immobile as one of the poplar trees beside him, the ladies with faces white, Smith disheveled in garb, pale and panting and evidently under great excitement. Cameron burst into a loud laugh. Smith's pale face flushed a swift red, visible even in the moonlight, then grew pale again, his excited panting ceased as he became quiet.

"Now what is the row?" asked Cameron again. "What is it, Smith?"

"I found this Indian in the bush here and I seized him. I thought—he might—do something."

"Do something?"

"Yes—some mischief—to some of you."

"What? You found this Indian in the bluff here and you just jumped on him? You might better have jumped on a wild cat. Are you used to this sort of thing? Do you know the ways of these people?"

"I never saw an Indian before."

"Good Heavens, man! He might have killed you. And he would have in two minutes more."

"He might have killed—some of you," said Smith.

Cameron laughed again.

"Now what were you doing in the bluff?" he said sharply, turning to the Indian.

"Chief Trotting Wolf," said the Indian in the low undertone common to his people, "Chief Trotting Wolf want you' squaw—boy seeck bad—leg beeg beeg. Boy go die. Come." He turned to Mandy and repeated "Come—queeek—queeek."

"Why didn't you come earlier?" said Cameron sharply. "It is too late now. We are going to sleep."

"Me come dis." He lowered his hand toward the ground. "Too much mans—no like—Indian wait all go 'way—dis man much beeg fight—no good. Come queeek—boy go die."

Already Mandy had made up her mind.

"Let us hurry, Allan," she said.

"You can't go to-night," he replied. "You are dead tired. Wait till morning."

"No, no, we must go." She turned into the house, followed by her husband, and began to rummage in her bag. "Lucky thing I got these supplies in town," she said, hastily putting together her nurse's equipment and some simple remedies. "I wonder if that boy has fever. Bring that Indian in."

"Have you had the doctor?" she inquired, when he appeared.

"Huh! Doctor want cut off leg—dis," his action was sufficiently suggestive. "Boy say no."

"Has the boy any fever? Does he talk-talk-talk?" The Indian nodded his head vigorously.

"Talk much—all day—all night."

"He is evidently in a high fever," said Mandy to her husband. "We must try to check that. Now, my dear, you hurry and get the horses."

"But what shall we do with Moira?" said Cameron suddenly.

"Why," cried Moira, "let me go with you. I should love to go."

But this did not meet with Cameron's approval.

"I can stay here," suggested Smith hesitatingly, "or Miss Cameron can go over with me to the Thatchers'."

"That is better," said Cameron shortly. "We can drop her at the Thatchers' as we pass."

In half an hour Cameron returned with the horses and the party proceeded on their way.

At the Piegan Reserve they were met by Chief Trotting Wolf himself and, without more than a single word of greeting, were led to the tent in which the sick boy lay. Beside him sat the old squaw in a corner of the tent, crooning a weird song as she swayed to and fro. The sick boy lay on a couch of skins, his eyes shining with fever, his foot festering and in a state of indescribable filth and his whole condition one of unspeakable wretchedness. Cameron found his gorge rise at the sight of the gangrenous ankle.

"This is a horrid business, Mandy," he exclaimed. "This is not for you. Let us send for the doctor. That foot will surely have to come off. Don't mess with it. Let us have the doctor."

But his wife, from the moment of her first sight of the wounded foot, forgot all but her mission of help.

"We must have a clean tent, Allan," she said, "and plenty of hot water. Get the hot water first."

Cameron turned to the Chief and said, "Hot water, quick!"

"Huh—good," replied the Chief, and in a few moments returned with a small pail of luke-warm water.

"Oh," cried Mandy, "it must be hot and we must have lots of it."

"Hot," cried Cameron to the Chief. "Big pail—hot—hot."

"Huh," grunted the Chief a second time with growing intelligence, and in an incredibly short space returned with water sufficiently hot and in sufficient quantity.

All unconscious of the admiring eyes that followed the swift and skilled movements of her capable hands, Mandy worked over the festering and fevered wound till, cleansed, soothed, wrapped in a cooling lotion, the limb rested easily upon a sling of birch bark and skins suggested and prepared by the Chief. Then for the first time the boy made a sound.

"Huh," he grunted feebly. "Doctor—no good. Squaw—heap good. Me two foot—live—one foot—" he held up one finger—"die." His eyes were shining with something other than the fever that drove the blood racing through his veins. As a dog's eyes follow every movement of his master so the lad's eyes, eloquent with adoring gratitude, followed his nurse as she moved about the wigwam.

"Now we must get that clean tent, Allan."

"All right," said her husband. "It will be no easy job, but we shall do our best. Here, Chief," he cried, "get some of your young men to pitch another tent in a clean place."

The Chief, eager though he was to assist, hesitated.

"No young men," he said. "Get squaw," and departed abruptly.

"No young men, eh?" said Cameron to his wife. "Where are they, then? I notice there are no bucks around."

And so while the squaws were pitching a tent in a spot somewhat removed from the encampment, Cameron poked about among the tents and wigwams of which the Indian encampment consisted, but found for the most part only squaws and children and old men. He came back to his wife greatly disturbed.

"The young bucks are gone, Mandy. I must get after this thing quickly. I wish I had Jerry here. Let's see? You ask for a messenger to be sent to the fort for the doctor and medicine. I shall enclose a note to the Inspector. We want the doctor here as soon as possible and we want Jerry here at the earliest possible moment."

With a great show of urgency a messenger was requisitioned and dispatched, carrying a note from Cameron to the Commissioner requesting the presence of the doctor with his medicine bag, but also requesting that Jerry, the redoubtable half-breed interpreter and scout, with a couple of constables, should accompany the doctor, the constables, however, to wait outside the camp until summoned.

During the hours that must elapse before any answer could be had from the fort, Cameron prepared a couch in a corner of the sick boy's tent for his wife, and, rolling himself in his blanket, he laid himself down at the door outside where, wearied with the long day and its many exciting events, he slept without turning, till shortly after daybreak he was awakened by a chorus of yelping curs which heralded the arrival of the doctor from the fort with the interpreter Jerry in attendance.

After breakfast, prepared by Jerry with dispatch and skill, the product of long experience, there was a thorough examination of the sick boy's condition through the interpreter, upon the conclusion of which a long consultation followed between the doctor, Cameron and Mandy. It was finally decided that the doctor should remain with Mandy in the Indian camp until a change should become apparent in the condition of the boy, and that Cameron with the interpreter should pick up the two constables and follow in the trail of the young Piegan braves. In order to allay suspicion Cameron and his companion left the camp by the trail which led toward the fort. For four miles or so they rode smartly until the trail passed into a thick timber of spruce mixed with poplar. Here Cameron paused, and, making a slight sign in the direction from which they had come, he said:

"Drop back, Jerry, and see if any Indian is following."

"Good," grunted Jerry. "Go slow one mile," and, slipping from his pony, he handed the reins to Cameron and faded like a shadow into the brushwood.

For a mile Cameron rode, pausing now and then to listen for the sound of anyone following, then drew rein and waited for his companion. After a few minutes of eager listening he suddenly sat back in his saddle and felt for his pipe.

"All right, Jerry," he said softly, "come out."

Grinning somewhat shamefacedly Jerry parted a bunch of spruce boughs and stood at Cameron's side.

"Good ears," he said, glancing up into Cameron's face.

"No, Jerry," replied Cameron, "I saw the blue-jay."

"Huh," grunted Jerry, "dat fool bird tell everyt'ing."

"Any Indian following?"

Jerry held up two fingers.

"Two Indian run tree mile—find notting—go back."

"Good! Where are our men?"

"Down Coulee Swampy Creek."

"All right, Jerry. Any news at the fort last two or three days?"

"Beeg meetin' St. Laurent. Much half-breed. Some Indian too. Louis Riel mak beeg spik—beeg noise—blood! blood! blood! Much beeg fool." Jerry's tone indicated the completeness of his contempt for the whole proceedings at St. Laurent.

"Something doing, eh, Jerry?"

"Bah!" grunted Jerry contemptuously.

"Well, there's something doing here," continued Cameron. "Trotting Wolf's young men have left the reserve and Trotting Wolf is very anxious that we should not know it. I want you to go back, find out what direction they have taken, how far ahead they are, how many. We camp to-night at the Big Rock at the entrance to the Sun Dance Canyon. You remember?"

Jerry nodded.

"There's something doing, Jerry, or I am much mistaken. Got any grub?"

"Grub?" asked Jerry. "Me—here—t'ree day," tapping his rolled blanket at the back of his saddle. "Odder fellers—grub—Jakes—t'ree men—t'ree day. Come Beeg Rock to-night—mebbe to-morrow." So saying, Jerry climbed on to his pony and took the back trail, while Cameron went forward to meet his men at the Swampy Creek Coulee.

Making a somewhat wide detour to avoid the approaches to the Indian encampment, Cameron and his two men rode for the Big Rock at the entrance to the Sun Dance Canyon. They gave themselves no concern about Trotting Wolf's band of young men. They knew well that what Jerry could not discover would not be worth finding out. A year's close association with Jerry had taught Cameron something of the marvelous powers of observation, of the tenacity and courage possessed by the little half-breed that made him the keenest scout in the North West Mounted Police.

At the Big Rock they arrived late in the afternoon and there waited for Jerry's appearing; but night had fallen and had broken into morning before the scout came into camp with a single word of report:

"Notting."

"No Piegans?" exclaimed Cameron.

"No—not dis side Blood Reserve."

"Eat something, Jerry, then we will talk," said Cameron.

Jerry had already broken his fast, but was ready for more. After the meal was finished he made his report. His report was clear and concise. On leaving Cameron in the morning he had taken the most likely direction to discover traces of the Piegan band, namely that suggested by Cameron, and, fetching a wide circle, had ridden toward the mountains, but he had come upon no sign. Then he had penetrated into the canyon and ridden down toward the entrance, but still had found no trace. He had then ridden backward toward the Piegan Reserve and, picking up a trail of one or two ponies, had followed it till he found it broaden into that of a considerable band making eastward. Then he knew he had found the trail he wanted.

"How many, Jerry?" asked Cameron.

The half-breed held up both hands three times.

"Mebbe more."

"Thirty or forty?" exclaimed Cameron. "Any Squaws?

"No."

"Hunting-expedition?"

"No."

"Where were they going?"

"Blood Reserve t'ink—dunno."

Cameron sat smoking in silence. He was completely at a loss.

"Why go to the Bloods?" he asked of Jerry.

"Dunno."

Jerry was not strong in his constructive faculty. His powers were those of observation.

"There is no sense in them going to the Blood Reserve, Jerry," said Cameron impatiently. "The Bloods are a pack of thieves, we know, but our people are keeping a close watch on them."

Jerry grunted acquiescence.

"There is no big Indian camping ground on the Blood Reserve. You wouldn't get the Blackfeet to go to any pow-wow there."

Again Jerry grunted.

"How far did you follow their trail, Jerry?"

"Two—t'ree mile."

Cameron sat long and smoked. The thing was extremely puzzling. It seemed unlikely that if the Piegan band were going to a rendezvous of Indians they should select a district so closely under the inspection of the Police. Furthermore there was no great prestige attaching to the Bloods to make their reserve a place of meeting.

"Jerry," said Cameron at length, "I believe they are up this Sun Dance Canyon somewhere."

"No," said Jerry decisively. "No sign—come down mesef." His tone was that of finality.

"I believe, Jerry, they doubled back and came in from the north end after you had left. I feel sure they are up there now and we will go and find them."

Jerry sat silent, smoking thoughtfully. Finally he took his pipe from his mouth, pressed the tobacco hard down with his horny middle finger and stuck it in his pocket.

"Mebbe so," he said slowly, a slight grin distorting his wizened little face, "mebbe so, but t'ink not—me."

"Well, Jerry, where could they have gone? They might ride straight to Crowfoot's Reserve, but I think that is extremely unlikely. They certainly would not go to the Bloods, therefore they must be up this canyon. We will go up, Jerry, for ten miles or so and see what we can see."

"Good," said Jerry with a grunt, his tone conveying his conviction that where the chief scout of the North West Mounted Police had said it was useless to search, any other man searching would have nothing but his folly for his pains.

"Have a sleep first, Jerry. We need not start for a couple of hours."

Jerry grunted his usual reply, rolled himself in his blanket and, lying down at the back of a rock, was asleep in a minute's time.

In two hours to the minute he stood beside his pony waiting for Cameron, who had been explaining his plan to the two constables and giving them his final orders.

The orders were very brief and simple. They were to wait where they were till noon. If any of the band of Piegans appeared one of the men was to ride up the canyon with the information, the other was to follow the band till they camped and then ride back till he should meet his comrades. They divided up the grub into two parts and Cameron and the interpreter took their way up the canyon.

The canyon consisted of a deep cleft across a series of ranges of hills or low mountains. Through it ran a rough breakneck trail once used by the Indians and trappers but now abandoned since the building of the Canadian Pacific Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass and the opening of the Government trail through the Crow's Nest. From this which had once been the main trail other trails led westward into the Kootenays and eastward into the Foothill country. At times the canyon widened into a valley, rich in grazing and in streams of water, again it narrowed into a gorge, deep and black, with rugged sides above which only the blue sky was visible, and from which led cavernous passages that wound into the heart of the mountains, some of them large enough to hold a hundred men or more without crowding. These caverns had been and still were found to be most convenient and useful for the purpose of whisky-runners and of cattle-rustlers, affording safe hiding-places for themselves and their spoil. With this trail and all its ramifications Jerry was thoroughly familiar. The only other man in the Force who knew it better than Jerry was Cameron himself. For many months he had patroled the main trail and all its cross leaders, lived in its caves and explored its caverns in pursuit of those interesting gentlemen whose activities more than anything else had rendered necessary the existence of the North West Mounted Police. In ancient times the caves along the Sun Dance Trail had been used by the Indian Medicine-Men for their pagan rites, and hence in the eyes of the Indians to these caves attached a dreadful reverence that made them places to be avoided in recent years by the various tribes now gathered on the reserves. But during these last months of unrest it was suspected by the Police that the ancient uses of these caves had been revived and that the rites long since fallen into desuetude were once more being practised.

For the first few miles of the canyon the trail offered good footing and easy going, but as the gorge deepened and narrowed the difficulties increased until riding became impossible, and only by the most strenuous efforts on the part of both men and beasts could any advance be made. And so through the day and into the late evening they toiled on, ever alert for sight or sound of the Piegan band. At length Cameron broke the silence.

"We must camp, Jerry," he said. "We are making no time and we may spoil things. I know a good camp-ground near by."

"Me too," grunted Jerry, who was as tired as his wiry frame ever allowed him to become.

They took a trail leading eastward, which to all eyes but those familiar with it would have been invisible, for a hundred yards or so and came to the bed of a dry stream which issued from between two great rocks. Behind one of these rocks there opened out a grassy plot a few yards square, and beyond the grass a little lifted platform of rock against a sheer cliff. Here they camped, picketing their horses on the grass and cooking their supper upon the platform of rock over a tiny fire of dry twigs, for the wind was blowing down the canyon and they knew that they could cook their meal and have their smoke without fear of detection. For some time after supper they sat smoking in that absolute silence which is the characteristic of the true man of the woods. The gentle breeze blowing down the canyon brought to their ears the rustling of the dry poplar-leaves and the faint murmur of the stream which, tumbling down the canyon, accompanied the main trail a hundred yards away.

Suddenly Cameron's hand fell upon the knee of the half-breed with a swift grip.

"Listen!" he said, bending forward.

With mouths slightly open and with hands to their ears they both sat motionless, breathless, every nerve on strain. Gradually the dead silence seemed to resolve itself into rhythmic waves of motion rather than of sound—"TUM-ta-ta-TUM. TUM-ta-ta-TUM. TUM-ta-ta-TUM." It was the throb of the Indian medicine-drum, which once heard can never be forgotten or mistaken. Without a word to each other they rose, doused their fire, cached their saddles, blankets and grub, and, taking only their revolvers, set off up the canyon. Before they had gone many yards Cameron halted.

"What do you think, Jerry?" he said. "I take it they have come in the back way over the old Porcupine Trail."

Jerry grunted approval of the suggestion.

"Then we can go in from the canyon. It is hard going, but there is less fear of detection. They are sure to be in the Big Wigwam."

Jerry shook his head, with a puzzled look on his face.

"Dunno me."

"That is where they are," said Cameron. "Come on! Only two miles from here."

Steadily the throb of the medicine-drum grew more distinct as they moved slowly up the canyon, rising and falling upon the breeze that came down through the darkness to meet them. The trail, which was bad enough in the light, became exceedingly dangerous and difficult in the blackness of the night. On they struggled painfully, now clinging to the sides of the gorge, now mounting up over a hill and again descending to the level of the foaming stream.

"Will they have sentries out, I wonder?" whispered Cameron in Jerry's ear.

"No—beeg medicine going on—no sentry."

"All right, then, we will walk straight in on them."

"What you do?" inquired Jerry.

"We will see what they are doing and send them about their business," said Cameron shortly.

"No," said Jerry firmly. "S'pose Indian mak beeg medicine—bes' leave him go till morning."

"Well, Jerry, we will take a look at them at any rate," said Cameron. "But if they are fooling around with any rebellion nonsense I am going to step in and stop it."

"No," said Jerry again very gravely. "Beeg medicine mak' Indian man crazy—fool—dance—sing—mak' brave—then keel—queeck!"

"Come along, then, Jerry," said Cameron impatiently. And on they went. The throb of the drum grew clearer until it seemed that the next turn in the trail should reveal the camp, while with the drum throb they began to catch, at first faintly and then more clearly, the monotonous chant "Hai-yai-kai-yai, Hai-yai-kai-yai," that ever accompanies the Indian dance. Suddenly the drums ceased altogether and with it the chanting, and then there arose upon the night silence a low moaning cry that gradually rose into a long-drawn penetrating wail, almost a scream, made by a single voice.

Jerry's hand caught Cameron's arm with a convulsive grip.

"What the deuce is that?" asked Cameron.

"Sioux Indian—he mak' dat when he go keel."

Once more the long weird wailing scream pierced the night and, echoing down the canyon, was repeated a hundred times by the black rocky sides. Cameron could feel Jerry's hand still quivering on his arm.

"What's up with you, Jerry?" said Cameron impatiently.

"Me hear dat when A'm small boy—me."

Then Cameron remembered that it was Sioux blood that colored the life-stream in Jerry's veins.

"Oh, pshaw!" said Cameron with gruff impatience. "Come on!" But he was more shaken than he cared to acknowledge by that weird unearthly cry and by its all too obvious effect upon the iron nerves of that little half-breed at his side.

"Dey mak' dat cry when dey go meet Custer long 'go," said Jerry, making no motion to go forward.

"What are you waiting for?" said Cameron harshly. "Come along, unless you want to go back."

His words stung the half-breed into action. Cameron could feel him in the dark jerk his hand away and hear him grit his teeth.

"Bah! You go hell!" he muttered between his clenched teeth.

"That is better," said Cameron cheerfully. "Now we will look in upon these fire-eaters."

Sharp to the right they turned behind a cliff, and then back almost upon their trail, still to the right, through a screen of spruce and poplar, and found themselves in a hole of a rock that lengthened into a tunnel blacker than the night outside. Pursuing this tunnel some little distance they became aware of a light that grew as they moved toward it into a fire set in the middle of a wide cavern. The cavern was of irregular shape, with high-vaulted roof, open to the sky at the apex and hung with glistening stalactites. The floor of this cavern lay slightly below them, and from their position they could command a full view of its interior.

The sides of the cavern round about were crowded with tawny faces of Indians arranged rank upon rank, the first row seated upon the ground, those behind crouching upon their haunches, those still farther back standing. In the center of the cavern and with his face lit by the fire stood the Sioux Chief, Onawata.

"Copperhead! By all that's holy!" cried Cameron.

"Onawata!" exclaimed the half-breed. "What he mak' here?"

"What is he saying, Jerry? Tell me everything—quick!" commanded Cameron sharply.

Jerry was listening with eager face.

"He mak' beeg spik," he said.

"Go on!"

"He say Indian long tam' 'go have all country when his fadder small boy. Dem day good hunting—plenty beaver, mink, moose, buffalo like leaf on tree, plenty hit (eat), warm wigwam, Indian no seeck, notting wrong. Dem day Indian lak' deer go every place. Dem day Indian man lak' bear 'fraid notting. Good tam', happy, hunt deer, keel buffalo, hit all day. Ah-h-h! ah-h-h!" The half-breed's voice faded in two long gasps.

The Sioux's chanting voice rose and fell through the vaulted cavern like a mighty instrument of music. His audience of crowding Indians gazed in solemn rapt awe upon him. A spell held them fixed. The whole circle swayed in unison with his swaying form as he chanted the departed glories of those happy days when the red man roamed free those plains and woods, lord of his destiny and subject only to his own will. The mystic magic power of that rich resonant voice, its rhythmic cadence emphasized by the soft throbbing of the drum, the uplifted face glowing as with prophetic fire, the tall swaying form instinct with exalted emotion, swept the souls of his hearers with surging tides of passion. Cameron, though he caught but little of its meaning, felt himself irresistibly borne along upon the torrent of the flowing words. He glanced at Jerry beside him and was startled by the intense emotion showing upon his little wizened face.

Suddenly there was a swift change of motif, and with it a change of tone and movement and color. The marching, vibrant, triumphant chant of freedom and of conquest subsided again into the long-drawn wail of defeat, gloom and despair. Cameron needed no interpreter. He knew the singer was telling the pathetic story of the passing of the day of the Indian's glory and the advent of the day of his humiliation. With sharp rising inflections, with staccato phrasing and with fierce passionate intonation, the Sioux wrung the hearts of his hearers. Again Cameron glanced at the half-breed at his side and again he was startled to note the transformation in his face. Where there had been glowing pride there was now bitter savage hate. For that hour at least the half-breed was all Sioux. His father's blood was the water in his veins, the red was only his Indian mother's. With face drawn tense and lips bared into a snarl, with eyes gleaming, he gazed fascinated upon the face of the singer. In imagination, in instinct, in the deepest emotions of his soul Jerry was harking back again to the savage in him, and the savage in him thirsting for revenge upon the white man who had wrought this ruin upon him and his Indian race. With a fine dramatic instinct the Sioux reached his climax and abruptly ceased. A low moaning murmur ran round the circle and swelled into a sobbing cry, then ceased as suddenly as there stepped into the circle a stranger, evidently a half-breed, who began to speak. He was a French Cree, he announced, and delivered his message in the speech, half Cree, half French, affected by his race.

He had come fresh from the North country, from the disturbed district, and bore, as it appeared, news of the very first importance from those who were the leaders of his people in the unrest. At his very first word Jerry drew a long deep breath and by his face appeared to drop from heaven to earth. As the half-breed proceeded with his tale his speech increased in rapidity.

"What is he saying, Jerry?" said Cameron after they had listened for some minutes.

"Oh he beeg damfool!" said Jerry, whose vocabulary had been learned mostly by association with freighters and the Police. "He tell 'bout beeg meeting, beeg man Louis Riel mak' beeg noise. Bah! Beeg damfool!" The whole scene had lost for Jerry its mystic impressiveness and had become contemptibly commonplace. But not so to Cameron. This was the part that held meaning for him. So he pulled up the half-breed with a quick, sharp command.

"Listen close," he said, "and let me know what he says."

And as Jerry interpreted in his broken English the half-breed's speech it appeared that there was something worth learning. At this big meeting held in Batoche it seemed a petition of rights, to the Dominion Parliament no less, had been drawn up, and besides this many plans had been formed and many promises made of reward for all those who dared to stand for their rights under the leadership of the great Riel, while for the Indians very special arrangements had been made and the most alluring prospects held out. For they were assured that, when in the far North country the new Government was set up, the old free independent life of which they had been hearing was to be restored, all hampering restrictions imposed by the white man were to be removed, and the good old days were to be brought back. The effect upon the Indians was plainly evident. With solemn faces they listened, nodding now and then grave approval, and Cameron felt that the whole situation held possibilities of horror unspeakable in the revival of that ancient savage spirit which had been so very materially softened and tamed by years of kindly, patient and firm control on the part of those who represented among them British law and civilization. His original intention had been to stride in among these Indians, to put a stop to their savage nonsense and order them back to their reserves with never a thought of anything but obedience on their part. But as he glanced about upon the circle of faces he hesitated. This was no petty outbreak of ill temper on the part of a number of Indians dissatisfied with their rations or chafing under some new Police regulation. As his eye traveled round the circle he noted that for the most part they were young men. A few of the councilors of the various tribes represented were present. Many of them he knew, but many others he could not distinguish in the dim light of the fire.

"Who are those Indians, Jerry?" he asked.

And as Jerry ran over the names he began to realize how widely representative of the various tribes in the western country the gathering was. Practically every reserve in the West was represented: Bloods, Piegans and Blackfeet from the foothill country, Plain Crees and Wood Crees from the North. Even a few of the Stonies, who were supposed to have done with all pagan rites and to have become largely civilized, were present. Nor were these rank and file men only. They were the picked braves of the tribes, and with them a large number of the younger chiefs.

At length the half-breed Cree finished his tale, and in a few brief fierce sentences he called the Indians of the West to join their half-breed and Indian brothers of the North in one great effort to regain their lost rights and to establish themselves for all time in independence and freedom.

Then followed grave discussion carried on with deliberation and courtesy by those sitting about the fire, and though gravity and courtesy marked every utterance there thrilled through every speech an ever deepening intensity of feeling. The fiery spirit of the red man, long subdued by those powers that represented the civilization of the white man, was burning fiercely within them. The insatiable lust for glory formerly won in war or in the chase, but now no longer possible to them, burned in their hearts like a consuming fire. The life of monotonous struggle for a mere existence to which they were condemned had from the first been intolerable to them. The prowess of their fathers, whether in the slaughter of foes or in the excitement of the chase, was the theme of song and story round every Indian camp-fire and at every sun dance. For the young braves, life, once vivid with color and thrilling with tingling emotions, had faded into the somber-hued monotony of a dull and spiritless existence, eked out by the charity of the race who had robbed them of their hunting-grounds and deprived them of their rights as free men. The lust for revenge, the fury of hate, the yearning for the return of the days of the red man's independence raged through their speeches like fire in an open forest; and, ever fanning yet ever controlling the flame, old Copperhead presided till the moment should be ripe for such action as he desired. Back and forward the question was deliberated. Should they there and then pledge themselves to their Northern brothers and commit themselves to this great approaching adventure?