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Man Size by William MacLeod Raine

Part 2 out of 5

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"Ask of the winds, 'Oh, where?'" Beresford dusted off his coat, his
trousers, and his cap. When he had removed the evidence of the battle
of the gulch, he set his cap at the proper angle and cocked an
inquiring eye at the other. "I suppose you know you're under arrest."

"Why, no! Am I? What for? Which of the statues, laws, and ordinances
of Queen Vic have I been bustin' without knowin' of them?"

"For aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner."

"Did I do all that? And when did I do it?"

"While you were doing that war-dance on what was left of my manhandled

"Can you arrest a fellow for slippin'?"

"Depends on how badly he slips. I'm going to take a chance on
arresting you, anyhow."

"Gonna take away my six-shooter and handcuff me?"

"I'll take your revolver. If necessary, I'll put on the cuffs."

Morse looked at him, not without admiration. The man in the scarlet
jacket wasted nothing. There was about him no superfluity of build,
of gesture, of voice. Beneath the close-fitting uniform the muscles
rippled and played when he moved. His shoulders and arms were those
of a college oarsman. Lean-flanked and clean-limbed, he was in the
hey-day of a splendid youth. It showed in the steady eyes set wide in
the tanned face, in the carriage of the close-cropped, curly head, in
the spring of the step. The Montanan recognized in him a kinship of
dynamic force.

"Just what would I be doing?" the whiskey-runner asked, smiling.

Beresford met his smile. "I fancy I'll find that out pretty soon. Your
revolver, please." He held out his hand, palm up.

"Let's get this straight. We're man to man. What'll you do if I find
I've got no time to go to Fort Macleod with you?"

"Take you with me."

"Dead or alive?"

"No, alive."

"And if I won't go?" asked Morse.

"Oh, you'll go." The officer's bearing radiated a quiet, imperturbable
confidence. His hand was still extended, "_If_ you please."

"No hurry. Do you know what you're up against? When I draw this gun I
can put a bullet through your head and ride away?"


"Unless, of course, you plug me first."

"Can't do that. Against the regulations."

"Much obliged for that information. You've got only a dead man's
chance then--if I show fight."

"Better not. Game hardly worth the candle. My pals would run you
down," the constable advised coolly.

"You still intend to arrest me?"

"Oh, yes."

As Morse looked at him, patient as an animal of prey, steady,
fearless, an undramatic Anglo-Saxon who meant to go through with the
day's work, he began to understand the power that was to make the
North-West Mounted Police such a force in the land. The only way he
could prevent this man from arresting him was to kill the constable;
and if he killed him, other jaunty red-coated youths would come to
kill or be killed. It came to him that he was up against a new order
which would wipe Bully West and his kind from the land.

He handed his revolver to Beresford. "I'll ride with you."

"Good. Have to borrow your horse till we reach Whoop-Up. You won't
mind walking?"

"Not at all. Some folks think that's what legs were made for,"
answered Morse, grinning.

As he strode across the prairie beside the horse, Morse was still
puzzling over the situation. He perceived that the strength of the
officer's position was wholly a moral one. A lawbreaker was confronted
with an ugly alternative. The only way to escape arrest was to commit
murder. Most men would not go that far, and of those who would the
great majority would be deterred because eventually punishment was
sure. The slightest hesitation, the least apparent doubt, a flicker of
fear on the officer's face, would be fatal to success. He won because
he serenely expected to win, and because there was back of him a
silent, impalpable force as irresistible as the movement of a glacier.

Beresford must have known that the men who lived at Whoop-Up were
unfriendly to the North-West Mounted. Some of them had been put out of
business. Their property had been destroyed and confiscated. Fines
had been imposed on them. The current whisper was that the
whiskey-smugglers would retaliate against the constables in person
whenever there was a chance to do so with impunity. Some day a
debonair wearer of the scarlet coat would ride out gayly from one
of the forts and a riderless horse would return at dusk. There were
outlaws who would ask nothing better than a chance to dry-gulch one of
these inquisitive riders of the plains.

But Beresford rode into the stockade and swung from the saddle with
smiling confidence. He nodded here and there casually to dark, sullen
men who watched his movements with implacably hostile eyes.

His words were addressed to Reddy Madden. "Can you let me have a horse
for a few days and charge it to the Force? I've lost mine."

Some one sniggered offensively. Barney had evidently reached Whoop-Up
and was in hiding.

"Your horse came in a while ago, constable," Madden said civilly.
"It's in the corral back of the store."

"Did it come in without a rider?" Beresford asked.

The question was unnecessary. The horse would have gone to Fort
Macleod and not have come to Whoop-Up unless a rider had guided it
here. But sometimes one found out things from unwilling witnesses if
one asked questions.

"Didn't notice. I was in the store myself."

"Thought perhaps you hadn't noticed," the officer said. "None of you
other gentlemen noticed either, did you?"

The "other gentlemen" held a dogged, sulky silence. A girl cantered
through the gate of the stockade and up to the store. At sight of
Morse her eyes passed swiftly to Beresford. His answered smilingly
what she had asked. It was all over in a flash, but it told the man
from Montana who the informer was that had betrayed to the police the
place of the whiskey cache.

To the best of her limited chance, Jessie McRae was paying an
installment on the debt she owed Bully West and Tom Morse.



Before a fire of buffalo chips Constable Beresford and his prisoner
smoked the pipe of peace. Morse sat on his heels, legs crossed, after
the manner of the camper. The officer lounged at full length, an elbow
dug into the sand as a support for his head. The Montanan was
on parole, so that for the moment at least their relations were

"After the buffalo--what?" asked the American. "The end of the
Indian--is that what it means? And desolation on the plains. Nobody
left but the Hudson's Bay Company trappers, d'you reckon?"

The Canadian answered in one word. "Cattle."

"Some, maybe," Morse assented. "But, holy Moses, think of the millions
it would take to stock this country."

"Bet you the country's stocked inside of five years of the time the
buffalo are cleared out. Look at what the big Texas drives are doing
in Colorado and Wyoming and Montana. Get over the idea that this land
up here is a desert. That's a fool notion our school geographies are
responsible for. Great American Desert? Great American fiddlesticks!
It's a man's country, if you like; but I've yet to see the beat of

Morse had ceased to pay attention. His head was tilted, and he was

"Some one ridin' this way," he said presently. "Hear the hoofs click
on the shale. Who is it? I wonder. An' what do they want? When folks'
intentions hasn't been declared it's a good notion to hold a hand you
can raise on."

Without haste and without delay Beresford got to his feet. "We'll step
back into the shadow," he announced.

"Looks reasonable to me," agreed the smuggler.

They waited in the semi-darkness back of the camp-fire.

Some one shouted. "Hello, the camp!" At the sound of that clear,
bell-like voice Morse lifted his head to listen better.

The constable answered the call.

Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the other a slim,
straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and trousers. The girl swung
from the saddle and came forward to the camp-fire. The companion of
her ride shadowed her.

Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness.

"Bully West's after you. He's sworn to kill you," the girl called to
the constable.

"How do you know?"

"Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of her hand the
lithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah was passing the stable--behind
it, back of the corral. This West was gathering a mob to follow
you--said he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey."

"He is, eh?" Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamed
hard and chill. He would see about that.

"They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at Sweet
Water Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in the
girl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd better

The constable swung toward the Montanan. His eyes bored into those of
the prisoner. Would this man keep his parole or not? He would find out
pretty soon.

"Saddle up, Morse. I'll pack my kit. We'll hit the trail."

"Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted. "What's that?"

Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment the firelight
flickered over the copper-colored face. Tom Morse made a discovery.
This man was the Blackfoot he had rescued from the Crees.

"Horses," the Indian said, and held up the fingers of both hands to
indicate the numbers. "Coming up creek. Here soon."

"We'll move back to the big rocks and I'll make a stand there,"
the officer told the whiskey-runner. "Slap the saddles on without
cinching. We've got no time to lose." His voice lost its curtness as
he turned to the girl. "Miss McRae, I'll not forget this. Very likely
you've saved my life. Now you and Onistah had better slip away
quietly. You mustn't be seen here."

"Why mustn't I?" she asked quickly. "I don't care who sees me."

She looked at Morse as she spoke, head up, with that little touch of
scornful defiance in the quivering nostrils that seemed to express a
spirit free and unafraid. The sense of superiority is generally not a
lovely manifestation in any human being, but there are moments when it
tells of something fine, a disdain of actions low and mean.

Morse strode away to the place where the horses were picketed. He
could hear voices farther down the creek, caught once a snatch of

"... must be somewheres near, I tell you."

Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the picket-pins, and
moved toward the big rocks.

The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages had played strange
tricks with the sandstone. The rocks rose like huge red toadstools or
like prehistoric animals of vast size. One of them was known as the
Three Bears, another as the Elephant.

Among these boulders Morse found the party he had just left. The
officer was still trying to persuade Jessie McRae to attempt escape.
She refused, stubbornly.

"There are three of us here. Onistah is a good shot. So am I. For that
matter, if anybody is going to escape, it had better be you," she

"Too late now," Morse said. "See, they've found the camp-fire."

Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and were approaching
the camping-ground. West was in the lead. Morse recognized Barney
and Brad Stearns. Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indian
trailer of the Piegan tribe.

"He must 'a' heard us comin' and pulled out," Barney said.

"Then he's back in the red rocks," boomed West triumphantly.

"Soon find out." Brad Stearns turned the head of his horse toward the
rocks and shouted. "Hello, Tom! You there?"

No answer came from the rocks.

"Don't prove a thing," West broke out impatiently. "This fellow's got
Tom buffaloed. Didn't he make him smash the barrels? Didn't he take
away his six-gun from him and bring him along like he hadn't any mind
of his own? Tom's yellow. Got a streak a foot wide."

"Nothin' of the kind," denied Stearns, indignation in his voice. "I
done brought up that boy by hand--learned him all he knows about
ridin' and ropin'. He'll do to take along."

"Hmp! He always fooled you, Brad. Different here. I'm aimin' to give
him the wallopin' of his life when I meet up with him. And that'll be
soon, if he's up there in the rocks. I'm goin' a-shootin'." Bully West
drew his revolver and rode forward.

The constable had disposed of his forces so that behind the cover of
the sandstone boulders they commanded the approach. He had tried to
persuade Jessie that this was not her fight, but a question from her
had silenced him.

"If that Bully West finds me here, after he's killed you, d' you think
I can get him to let me go because it wasn't my fight?"

She had asked it with flashing eyes, in which for an instant he had
seen the savagery of fear leap out. Beresford was troubled. The girl
was right enough. If West went the length of murder, he would be an
outlaw. Sleeping Dawn would not be safe with him after she had ridden
out to warn his enemy that he was coming. The fellow was a primeval
brute. His reputation had run over the whole border country of
Rupert's Land.

Now he appealed to Morse. "If they get me, will you try to save Miss
McRae? This fellow West is a devil, I hear."

The officer caught a gleam of hot red eyes. "I'll 'tend to that. We'll
mix first, him 'n' me. Question now is, do I get a gun?"

"What for?"

"Didn't you hear him make his brags about what he was gonna do to me?
If there's shootin' I'm in on it, ain't I?"

"No. You're a prisoner. I can't arm you unless your life is in

West pulled up his horse about sixty yards from the rocks. He shouted
a profane order. The purport of it was that Beresford had better come
out with his hands up if he didn't want to be dragged out by a rope
around his neck. The man's speech crackled with oaths and obscenity.

The constable stepped into the open a few yards. "What do you want?"
he asked.

"You." The whiskey-runner screamed it in a sudden gust of passion.
"Think you can make a fool of Bully West? Think you can bust up our
cargo an' get away with it? I'll show you where you head in at."

"Don't make any mistake, West," advised the officer, his voice cold as
the splash of ice-water. "Three of us are here, all with rifles, all
dead shots. If you attack us, some of you are going to get killed."

"Tha's a lie. You're alone--except for Tom Morse, an' he ain't fool
enough to fight to go to jail. I've got you where I want you." West
swung from the saddle and came straddling forward. In the uncertain
light he looked more like some misbegotten ogre than a human being.

"That's far enough," warned Beresford, not a trace of excitement in
manner or speech. His hands hung by his sides. He gave no sign of
knowing that he had a revolver strapped to his hip ready for action.

The liquor smuggler stopped to pour out abuse. He was working himself
up to a passion that would justify murder. The weapon in his hand
swept wildly back and forth. Presently it would focus down to a deadly
concentration in which all motion would cease.

The torrent of vilification died on the man's lips. He stared past the
constable with bulging eyes. From the rocks three figures had come.
Two of them carried rifles. All three of them he recognized. His
astonishment paralyzed the scurrilous tongue. What was McRae's girl
doing at the camp of the officer?

It was characteristic of him that he suspected the worst of her.
Either Tom Morse or this red-coat had beaten him to his prey. Jealousy
and outraged vanity flared up in him so that discretion vanished.

The barrel of his revolver came down and began to spit flame.

Beresford gave orders. "Back to the rocks." He retreated, backward,
firing as he moved.

The companions of West surged forward. Shots, shouts, the shifting
blur of moving figures, filled the night. Under cover of the darkness
the defenders reached again the big rocks.

The constable counted noses. "Everybody all right?" he asked. Then,
abruptly, he snapped out: "Who was responsible for that crazy business
of you coming out into the open?"

"Me," said the girl. "I wanted that West to know you weren't alone."

"Didn't you know better than to let her do it?" the officer demanded
of Morse.

"He couldn't help it. He tried to keep me back. What right has he to
interfere with me?" she wanted to know, stiffening.

"You'll do as I say now," the constable said crisply. "Get back of
that rock there, Miss McRae, and stay there. Don't move from cover
unless I tell you to."

Her dark, stormy eyes challenged his, but she moved sullenly to obey.
Rebel though she was, the code of the frontier claimed and held her
respect. She had learned of life that there were times when her will
must be subordinated for the general good.



The attackers drew back and gathered together for consultation. West's
anger had stirred their own smoldering resentment at the police, had
dominated them, and had brought them on a journey of vengeance. But
they had not come out with any intention of storming a defended
fortress. The enthusiasm of the small mob ebbed.

"I reckon we done bit off more'n we can chaw," Harvey Gosse murmured,
rubbing his bristly chin. "I ain't what you might call noways anxious
to have them fellows spill lead into me."

"Ten of us here. One man, an Injun, an' a breed girl over there. You
lookin' for better odds, Harv?" jeered the leader of the party.

"I never heard that a feller was any less dead because an Injun or a
girl shot him," the lank smuggler retorted.

"Be reasonable, Bully," urged Barney with his ingratiating whine. "We
come out to fix the red-coat. We figured he was alone except for Tom,
an' o' course Tom's with us. But this here's a different proposition.
Too many witnesses ag'in' us. I reckon you ain't tellin' us it's safe
to shoot up Angus McRae's daughter even if she is a metis."

"Forget her," the big whiskey-runner snarled. "She won't be a witness
against us."

"Why won't she?"

"Hell's hinges! Do I have to tell you all my plans? I'm sayin' she
won't. That goes." He flung out a gesture of scarcely restrained rage.
He was not one who could reason away opposition with any patience. It
was his temperament to override it.

Brad Stearns rubbed his bald head. He always did when he was working
out a mental problem. West's declaration could mean only one of two
things. Either the girl would not be alive to give witness or she
would be silent because she had thrown in her lot with the big trader.

The old-timer knew West's vanity and his weakness for women. From Tom
Morse he had heard of his offer to McRae for the girl. Now he had no
doubt what the man intended.

But what of her? What of the girl he had seen at her father's camp,
the heart's desire of the rugged old Scotchman? In the lightness
of her step, in the lift of her head, in speech and gesture and
expression of face, she was of the white race, an inheritor of its
civilization and of its traditions. Only her dusky color and a certain
wild shyness seemed born of the native blood in her. She was proud,
passionate, high-spirited. Would she tamely accept Bully West for her
master and go to his tent as his squaw? Brad didn't believe it. She
would fight--fight desperately, with barbaric savagery.

Her fight would avail her nothing. If driven to it, West would take
her with him into the fastnesses of the Lone Lands. They would
disappear from the sight of men for months. He would travel swiftly
with her to the great river. Every sweep of his canoe paddle would
carry them deeper into that virgin North where they could live on what
his rifle and rod won for the pot. A little salt, pemmican, and flour
would be all the supplies he needed to take with them.

Brad had no intention of being a cat's-paw for him. The older man had
come along to save Tom Morse from prison and for no other reason. He
did not intend to be swept into indiscriminate crime.

"Don't go with me, Bully," Stearns said. "Count me out. Right here's
where I head for Whoop-Up."

He turned his horse's head and rode into the darkness.

West looked after him, cursing. "We're better off without the
white-livered coyote," he said at last.

"Brad ain't so fur off at that. I'd like blame well to be moseyin' to
Whoop-Up my own self," Gosse said uneasily.

"You'll stay right here an' go through with this job, Harv," West
told him flatly. "All you boys'll do just that. If any of you's got
a different notion we'll settle that here an' now. How about it?" He
straddled up and down in front of his men, menacing them with knotted
fists and sulky eyes.

Nobody cared to argue the matter with him. He showed his broken teeth
in a sour grin.

"Tha's settled, then," he went on. "It's my say-so. My orders go--if
there's no objections."

His outthrust head, set low on the hunched shoulders, moved from right
to left threateningly as his gaze passed from one to another. If there
were any objections they were not mentioned aloud.

"Now we know where we're at," he continued. "It'll be thisaway. Most
of us will scatter out an' fire at the rocks from the front here; the
others'll sneak round an' come up from behind--get right into the
rocks before this bully-puss fellow knows it. If you get a chance,
plug him in the back, but don't hurt the Injun girl. Y' understand? I
want her alive an' not wounded. If she gets shot up, some one's liable
to get his head knocked off."

But it did not, after all, turn out quite the way West had planned it.
He left out of account one factor--a man among the rocks who had been
denied a weapon and any part in the fighting.

The feint from the front was animated enough. The attackers scattered
and from behind clumps of brush grass and bushes poured in a fire that
kept the defenders busy. Barney, with the half-breeds and the Indian
at heel, made a wide circle and crept up to the red sandstone
outcroppings. He did not relish the job any more than those behind
him did, but he was a creature of West and usually did as he was told
after a bit of grumbling. It was not safe for him to refuse.

To Tom Morse, used to Bully West and his ways, the frontal attack did
not seem quite genuine. It was desultory and ineffective. Why? What
trick did Bully have up his sleeve? Tom put himself in his place to
see what he would do.

And instantly he knew. The real attack would come from the rear. With
the firing of the first shot back there, Bully West would charge.
Taken on both sides the garrison would fall easy victims.

The constable and Onistah were busy answering the fire of the
smugglers. Sleeping Dawn was crouched down behind two rocks, the
barrel of her rifle gleaming through a slit of open space between
them. She was compromising between the orders given her and the
anxiety in her to fight back Bully West. As much as she could she kept
under cover, while at the same time firing into the darkness whenever
she thought she saw a movement.

Morse slipped rearward on a tour of investigation. The ground here
fell away rather sharply, so that one coming from behind would have to
climb over a boulder field rising to the big rocks. It took Tom only a
casual examination to see that a surprise would have to be launched by
way of a sort of rough natural stairway.

A flat shoulder of sandstone dominated the stairway from above. Upon
this Morse crouched, every sense alert to detect the presence of any
one stealing up the pass. He waited, eager and yet patient. What he
was going to attempt had its risk, but the danger whipped the blood in
his veins to a still excitement.

Occasionally, at intervals, the rifles cracked. Except for that no
other sound came to him. He could keep no count of time. It seemed to
him that hours slipped away. In reality it could have been only a few

Below, from the foot of the winding stairway, there was a sound, such
a one as might come from the grinding of loose rubble beneath the sole
of a boot. Presently the man on the ledge heard it again, this time
more distinctly. Some one was crawling up the rocks.

Tom peered into the darkness intently. He could see nothing except the
flat rocks disappearing vaguely in the gloom. Nor could he hear again
the crunch of a footstep on disintegrated sandstone. His nerves grew
taut. Could he have made a mistake? Was there another way up from

Then, at the turn of the stairway, a few feet below him, a figure rose
in silhouette. It appeared with extraordinary caution, first a head,
then the barrel of a rifle, finally a crouched body followed by bowed
legs. On hands and knees it crept forward, hitching the weapon along
beside it. Exactly opposite Morse, under the very shadow of the
sloping ledge on which he lay, the figure rose and straightened.

The man stood there for a second, making up his mind to move on. He
was one of the half-breeds West had brought with him. Almost into his
ear came a stern whisper.

"Hands up! I've got you covered. Don't move. Don't say a word."

Two arms shot skyward. In the fingers of one hand a rifle was

Morse leaned forward and caught hold of it. "I'll take this," he said.
The brown fingers relaxed. "Skirt round the edge of the rock there.
Lie face down in that hollow. Got a six-shooter."

He had. Morse took it from him.

"If you move or speak one word, I'll pump lead into you," the Montanan

The half-breed looked into his chill eyes and decided to take no
chances. He lay down on his face with hands stretched out exactly as

His captor returned to the shoulder of rock above the trail. Presently
another head projected itself out of the darkness. A man crept up, and
like the first stopped to take stock of his surroundings.

Against the back of his neck something cold pressed.

"Stick up your hands, Barney," a voice ordered.

The little man let out a yelp. "Mother o' Moses, don't shoot."

"How many more of you?" asked Morse sharply.

"One more."

The man behind the rifle collected his weapons and put Barney
alongside his companion. Within five minutes he had added a third man
to the collection.

With a sardonic grin he drove them before him to Beresford.

"I'm a prisoner an' not in this show, you was careful to explain to
me, Mr. Constable, but I busted the rules an' regulations to collect a
few specimens of my own," he drawled by way of explanation.

Beresford's eyes gleamed. The debonair impudence of the procedure
appealed mightily to him. He did not know how this young fellow had
done it, but he must have acted with cool nerve and superb daring.

"Where were they? And how did you get 'em without a six-shooter?"

"They was driftin' up the pass to say 'How-d'you-do?' from the back
stairway. I borrowed a gun from one o' them. I asked 'em to come along
with me and they reckoned they would."

The booming of a rifle echoed in the rocks to the left. From out of
them Jessie McRae came flying, something akin to terror in her face.

"I've shot that West. He tried to run in on me and--and--I shot him."
Her voice broke into an hysterical sob.

"Thought I told you to keep out of this," the constable said. "I seem
to have a lot of valuable volunteer help. What with you and friend
Morse here--" He broke off, touched at her distress. "Never mind about
that, Miss McRae. He had it coming to him. I'll go out and size up the
damage to him, if his friends have had enough--and chances are they

They had. Gosse advanced waving a red bandanna handkerchief as a flag
of truce.

"We got a plenty," he said frankly. "West's down, an' another of the
boys got winged. No use us goin' on with this darned foolishness.
We're ready to call it off if you'll turn Morse loose."

Beresford had walked out to meet him. He answered, curtly. "No."

The long, lank whiskey-runner rubbed his chin bristles awkwardly. "We
'lowed maybe--"

"I keep my prisoners, both Morse and Barney."

"Barney!" repeated Gosse, surprised.

"Yes, we've got him and two others. I don't want them. I'll turn 'em
over to you. But not Morse and Barney. They're going to the post with
me for whiskey-running."

Gosse went back to the camp-fire, where the Whoop-Up men had carried
their wounded leader. Except West, they were all glad to drop the
battle. The big smuggler, lying on the ground with a bullet in his
thigh, cursed them for a group of chicken-hearted quitters. His anger
could not shake their decision. They knew when they had had enough.

The armistice concluded, Beresford and Morse walked over to the
camp-fire to find out how badly West was hurt.

"Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you know," the
constable told him grimly.

The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a trap. "You didn't
hit me, you liar. It was that li'l' hell-cat of McRae. You tell her
for me I'll get her right for this, sure as my name's Bully West."

There was something horribly menacing in his rage. In the jumping
light of the flames the face was that of a demon, a countenance
twisted and tortured by the impotent lust to destroy.

Morse spoke, looking steadily at him in his quiet way. "I'm servin'
notice, West, that you're to let that girl alone."

There was a sound in the big whiskey-runner's throat like that of
an infuriated wild animal. He glared at Morse, a torrent of abuse
struggling for utterance. All that he could say was, "You damned

The eyes of the younger man did not waver. "It goes. I'll see you're
shot like a wolf if you harm her."

The wounded smuggler's fury outleaped prudence. In a surge of
momentary insanity he saw red. The barrel of his revolver rose
swiftly. A bullet sang past Morse's ear. Before he could fire again,
Harvey Gosse had flung himself on the man and wrested the weapon from
his hand.

Hard-eyed and motionless, Morse looked down at the madman without
saying a word. It was Beresford who said ironically, "Talking about
those who keep faith."

"You hadn't oughta of done that, Bully," Gosse expostulated. "We'd
done agreed this feud was off for to-night."

"Get your horses and clear out of here," the constable ordered. "If
this man's able to fight he's able to travel. You can make camp
farther down the creek."

A few minutes later the clatter of horse-hoofs died away. Beresford
was alone with his prisoners and his guests.

Those who were still among the big rocks came forward to the
camp-fire. Jessie arrived before the others. She had crept to the camp
on the heels of Beresford and Morse, driven by her great anxiety to
find out how badly West was hurt.

From the shadows of a buffalo wallow she had seen and heard what had
taken place.

One glance of troubled curiosity she flashed at Morse. What sort of
man was this quiet, brown-faced American who smuggled whiskey in to
ruin the tribes, who could ruthlessly hold a girl to a bargain that
included horsewhipping for her, who for some reason of his own fought
beside the man taking him to imprisonment, and who had flung defiance
at the terrible Bully West on her behalf? She hated him. She always
would. But with her dislike of him ran another feeling now, born of
the knowledge of new angles in him.

He was hard as nails, but he would do to ride the river with.



Another surprise was waiting for Jessie. As soon as Onistah came into
the circle of light, he walked straight to the whiskey-smuggler.

"You save my life from Crees. Thanks," he said in English.

Onistah offered his hand.

The white man took it. He was embarrassed. "Oh, well, I kinda took a

The Indian was not through. "Onistah never forget. He pay some day."

Tom waved this aside. "How's the leg? Seems to be all right now."

Swiftly Jessie turned to the Indian and asked him a question in the
native tongue. He answered. They exchanged another sentence or two.

The girl spoke to Morse. "Onistah is my brother. I too thank you," she
said stiffly.

"Your brother! He's not Angus McRae's son, is he?"

"No. And I'm not his daughter--really. I'll tell you about that," she
said with a touch of the defensive defiance that always came into her
manner when the subject of her birth was referred to.

She did, later, over the camp-fire.

It is fortunate that desire and opportunity do not always march
together. The constable and Morse had both been dead men if Bully West
could have killed with a wish. Sleeping Dawn would have been on the
road to an existence worse than death. Instead, they sat in front of
the coals of buffalo chips while the big smuggler and his companions
rode away from an ignominious field of battle.

When the constable and his prisoner had first struck camp, there had
been two of them. Now there were six. For in addition to Jessie McRae,
the Blackfoot, and Barney, another had come out of the night and
hailed them with a "Hello, the camp!" This last self-invited guest was
Brad Stearns, who had not ridden to Whoop-Up as he had announced, but
had watched events from a distance on the chance that he might be of
help to Tom Morse.

Jessie agreed with Beresford that she must stay in camp till morning.
There was nothing else for her to do. She could not very well ride the
night out with Onistah on the road back to the fort. But she stayed
with great reluctance.

Her modesty was in arms. Never before had she, a girl alone, been
forced to make camp with five men as companions, all but one of them
almost strangers to her. The experience was one that shocked her sense
of fitness.

She was troubled and distressed, and she showed it. Her impulsiveness
had swept her into an adventure that might have been tragic, that
still held potentialities of disaster. For she could not forget the
look on West's face when he had sworn to get even with her. This man
was a terrible enemy, because of his boldness, his evil mind, and his
lack of restraining conscience.

Yet even now she could not blame herself for what she had done. The
constable's life was at stake. It had been necessary to move swiftly
and decisively.

Sitting before the fire, Sleeping Dawn began to tell her story. She
told it to Beresford as an apology for having ridden forty miles with
Onistah to save his life. It was, if he chose so to accept it, an
explanation of how she came to do so unwomanly a thing.

"Onistah's mother is my mother," she said. "When I was a baby my own
mother died. Stokimatis is her sister. I do not know who my father
was, but I have heard he was an American. Stokimatis took me to her
tepee and I lived there with her and Onistah till I was five or six.
Then Angus McRae saw me one day. He liked me, so he bought me for
three yards of tobacco, a looking-glass, and five wolf pelts."

It may perhaps have been by chance that the girl's eyes met those of
Morse. The blood burned beneath the tan of her dusky cheeks, but her
proud eyes did not flinch while she told the damning facts about her
parentage and life. She was of the metis, the child of an unknown
father. So far as she knew her mother had never been married. She had
been bought and sold like a negro slave in the South. Let any one that
wanted to despise her make the most of all this.

So far as any expression went Tom Morse looked hard as pig iron. He
did not want to blunder, so he said nothing. But the girl would have
been amazed if she could have read his thoughts. She seemed to him a
rare flower that has blossomed in a foul swamp.

"If Angus McRae took you for his daughter, it was because he loved
you," Beresford said gently.

"Yes." The mobile face was suddenly tender with emotion. "What can any
father do more than he has done for me? I learned to read and write at
his knee. He taught me the old songs of Scotland that he's so fond of.
He tried to make me good and true. Afterward he sent me to Winnipeg to
school for two years."

"Good for Angus McRae," the young soldier said.

She smiled, a little wistfully. "He wants me to be Scotch, but of
course I can't be that even though I sing 'Should auld acquaintance'
to him. I'm what I am."

Ever since she had learned to think for herself, she had struggled
against the sense of racial inferiority. Even in the Lone Lands men
of education had crossed her path. There was Father Giguere, tall and
austere and filled with the wisdom of years, a scholar who had left
his dear France to serve on the outposts of civilization. And there
was the old priest's devoted friend Philip Muir, of whom the story ran
that he was heir to a vast estate across the seas. Others she had seen
at Winnipeg. And now this scarlet-coated soldier Beresford.

Instinctively she recognized the difference between them and the
trappers and traders who frequented the North woods. In her bed at
night she had more than once wept herself to sleep because life had
built an impassable barrier between what she was and what she wanted
to be.

"To the Scot nobody is quite like a Scot," Beresford admitted with
a smile. "When he wants to make you one, Mr. McRae pays you a great

The girl flashed a look of gratitude at him and went on with her
story. "Whenever we are near Stokimatis, I go to see her. She has
always been very fond of me. It wasn't really for money she sold me,
but because she knew Angus McRae could bring me up better than she
could. I was with her to-day when Onistah came in and told us what
this West was going to do. There wasn't time for me to reach Father. I
couldn't trust anybody at Whoop-Up, and I was afraid if Onistah came
alone, you wouldn't believe him. You know how people are about--about
Indians. So I saddled a horse and rode with him."

"That was fine of you. I'll never forget it, Miss McRae," the young
soldier said quietly, his eyes for an instant full on hers. "I don't
think I've ever met another girl who would have had the good sense and
the courage to do it."

Her eyes fell from his. She felt a queer delightful thrill run through
her blood. He still respected her, was even grateful to her for what
she had done. No experience in the ways of men and maids warned her
that there was another cause for the quickened pulse. Youth had looked
into the eyes of youth and made the world-old call of sex to sex.

In a little pocket opening from the draw Morse arranged blankets for
the girl's bed. He left Beresford to explain to her that she could
sleep there alone without fear, since a guard would keep watch against
any possible surprise attack.

When the soldier did tell her this, Jessie smiled back her
reassurance. "I'm not afraid--not the least littlest bit," she said
buoyantly. "I'll sleep right away."

But she did not. Jessie was awake to the finger-tips, her veins apulse
with the flow of rushing rivers of life. Her chaotic thoughts centered
about two men. One had followed crooked trails for his own profit.
There was something in him hard and unyielding as flint. He would
go to his chosen end, whatever that might be, over and through any
obstacles that might rise. But to-night, on her behalf, he had thrown
down the gauntlet to Bully West, the most dreaded desperado on the
border. Why had he done it? Was he sorry because he had forced her
father to horsewhip her? Or was his warning merely the snarl of one
wolf at another?

The other man was of a different stamp. He had brought with him from
the world whence he had come a debonair friendliness, an ease of
manner, a smile very boyish and charming. In his jaunty forage cap and
scarlet jacket he was one to catch and hold the eye by reason of his
engaging personality. He too had fought her battle. She had heard him,
in that casually careless way of his, try to take the blame of having
wounded West. Her happy thoughts went running out to him gratefully.

Not the least cause of her gratitude was that there had not been the
remotest hint in his manner that there was any difference between her
and any white girl he might meet.



The North-West Mounted Police had authority not only to arrest, but
to try and to sentence prisoners. The soldierly inspector who sat in
judgment on Morse at Fort Macleod heard the evidence and stroked an
iron-gray mustache reflectively. As he understood it, his business was
to stop whiskey-running rather than to send men to jail. Beresford's
report on this young man was in his favor. The inspector adventured
into psychology.

"Studied the Indians any--the effect of alcohol on them?" he asked

"Some," the prisoner answered.

"Don't you think it bad for them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Perhaps you've been here longer than I. Isn't this whiskey-smuggling
bad business all round?"

"Not for the smuggler. Speakin' as an outsider, I reckon he does it
because he makes money," Morse answered impersonally.

"For the country, I mean. For the trapper, for the breeds, for the

"No doubt about that."

"You're a nephew of C.N. Morse, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wish you'd take him a message from me. Tell him that it's bad
business for a big trading firm like his to be smuggling whiskey." The
officer raised a hand to stop the young man's protest. "Yes, I know
you're going to tell me that we haven't proved he's been smuggling.
We'll pass that point. Carry him my message. Just say it's bad
business. You can tell him if you want to that we're here to put an
end to it and we're going to do it. But stress the fact that it isn't
good business. Understand?"


"Very well, sir." A glint of a smile showed in the inspector's eyes.
"I'll give you a Scotch verdict, young man. Not guilty, but don't do
it again. You're discharged."

"Barney, too?"

"Hmp! He's a horse of another color. Think we'll send him over the

"Why make two bites of a cherry, sir? He can't be guilty if I'm not,"
the released prisoner said.

"Did I say you weren't?" Inspector MacLean countered.

"Not worth the powder, is he, sir?" Tom insinuated nonchalantly.
"Rather a fathead, Barney is. If he's guilty, it's not as a principal.
You'd much better send me up."

The officer laughed behind the hand that stroked the mustache. "Do you
want to be judge and jury as well as prisoner, my lad?"

"Thought perhaps my uncle would understand the spirit of your message
better if Barney went along with me, Inspector." The brown eyes were
open and guileless.

MacLean studied the Montanan deliberately. He began to recognize
unusual qualities in this youth.

"Can't say I care for your friend Barney. He's a bad egg, or I miss my

"Not much taken with him myself. Thought if I'd get him to travel
south with me it might save you some trouble."

"It might," the Inspector agreed. "It's his first offense so far as
I know." Under bristling eyebrows he shot a swift look at this
self-assured youngster. He had noticed that men matured at an early
age on the frontier. The school of emergency developed them fast.
But Morse struck him as more competent even than the other boyish
plainsmen he had met. "Will you be responsible for him?"

The Montanan came to scratch reluctantly. He had no desire to be bear
leader for such a doubtful specimen as Barney.

"Yes," he said, after a pause.

"Keep him in the States, will you?"


"Take him along, then. Wish you luck of him."

As soon as he reached Fort Benton, Tom reported to his uncle. He told
the story of the whiskey cargo and its fate, together with his own
adventures subsequent to that time.

The head of the trading firm was a long, loose-jointed Yankee who had
drifted West in his youth. Since then he had acquired gray hairs and
large business interests. At Inspector MacLean's message he grinned.

"Thinks it's bad business, does he?"

"Told me to tell you so," Tom answered.

"Didn't say why, I guess."


The old New Englander fished from a hip pocket a plug of tobacco, cut
off a liberal chew, and stowed this in his cheek. Then, lounging back
in the chair, he cocked a shrewd eye at his nephew.

"Wonder what he meant."

Tom volunteered no opinion. He recognized his uncle's canny habit of
fishing in other people's minds for confirmation of what was in his

"Got any idee what he was drivin' at?" the old pioneer went on.


C.N. Morse chuckled. "Got a notion myself. Let's hear yours."

"The trade with the North-West Mounted is gonna be big for a while.
The Force needs all kinds of supplies. It'll have to deal through some
firm in Benton as a clearin' house. He's servin' notice that unless
C.N. Morse & Company mends its ways, it can't do business with the

"That all?" asked the head of the firm.

"That's only half of it. The other half is that no firm of
whiskey-runners will be allowed to trade across the line."

C.N. gave another little chirrup of mirth. "Keep your brains whittled
up, don't you? Any advice you'd like to give?"

Tom was not to be drawn. "None, sir."

"No comments, son? Passin' it up to Uncle Newt, eh?"

"You're the head of the firm. I'm hired to do as I'm told."

"You figure on obeyin' orders and lettin' it go at that?"

"Not quite." The young fellow's square chin jutted out. "For instance,
I'm not gonna smuggle liquor through any more. I had my eyes opened
this trip. You haven't been on the ground like I have. If you want a
plain word for it, Uncle Newt--"

"Speak right out in meetin', Tom. Shouldn't wonder but what I can
stand it." The transplanted Yankee slanted at his nephew a quizzical
smile. "I been hearin' more or less plain language for quite a spell,

Tom gave it to him straight from the shoulder, quietly but without
apology. "Sellin' whiskey to the tribes results in wholesale murder,

"Strong talk, boy," his uncle drawled.

"Not too strong. You know I don't mean anything personal, Uncle Newt.
To understand this thing you've got to go up there an' see it. The
plains tribes up there go crazy over fire-water an' start killin' each
other. It's a crime to let 'em have it."

Young Morse began to tell stories of instances that had come under his
own observation, of others that he had heard from reliable sources.
Presently he found himself embarked on the tale of his adventures with
Sleeping Dawn.

The fur-trader heard him patiently. The dusty wrinkled boots of the
merchant rested on the desk. His chair was tilted back in such a way
that the weight of his body was distributed between the back of his
neck, the lower end of the spine, and his heels. He looked a picture
of sleepy, indolent ease, but Tom knew he was not missing the least

A shadow darkened the doorway of the office. Behind it straddled a
huge, ungainly figure.

"'Lo, West! How're tricks?" C.N. Morse asked in his lazy way. He did
not rise from the chair or offer to shake hands, but that might be
because it was not his custom to exert himself.

West stopped in his stride, choking with wrath. He had caught sight of
Tom and was glaring at him. "You're here, eh? Sneaked home to try to
square yourself with the old man, did ya?" The trail foreman turned to
the uncle. "I wanta tell you he double-crossed you for fair, C.N. He's
got a heluva nerve to come back here after playin' in with the police
the way he done up there."

"I've heard something about that," the fur-trader admitted cautiously.
"You told me Tom an' you didn't exactly gee."

"He'll never drive another bull-team for me again." West tacked to his
pronouncement a curdling oath.

"We'll call that settled, then. You're through bull-whackin', Tom."
There was a little twitch of whimsical mirth at the corners of the old
man's mouth.

"Now you're shoutin, C.N. Threw me down from start to finish, he did.
First off, when the breed girl busted the casks, he took her home
'stead of bringin' her to me. Then at old McRae's camp when I was
defendin' myself, he jumped me too. My notion is from the way he acted
that he let on to the red-coat where the cache was. Finally when I
rode out to rescue him, he sided in with the other fellow. Hadn't been
for him I'd never 'a' had this slug in my leg." The big smuggler
spoke with extraordinary vehemence, spicing his speech liberally with
sulphurous language.

The grizzled Yankee accepted the foreman's attitude with a wave of the
hand that dismissed any counterargument. But there was an ironic gleam
in his eye.

"'Nough said, West. If you're that sot on it, the boy quits the
company pay-roll as an employee right now. I won't have him annoyin'
you another hour. He becomes a member of the firm to-day."

The big bully's jaw sagged. He stared at his lean employer as though a
small bomb had exploded at his feet and numbed his brains. But he was
no more surprised than Tom, whose wooden face was expressionless.

"Goddlemighty! Ain't I jus' been tellin' you how he wrecked the whole
show--how he sold out to that bunch of spies the Canadian Gov'ment has
done sent up there?" exploded West.

"Oh, I don't guess he did that," Morse, Senior, said lightly. "We
got to remember that times are changin', West. Law's comin' into the
country an' we old-timers oughta meet it halfway with the glad hand.
You can't buck the Union Jack any more than you could Uncle Sam. I
figure I've sent my last shipment of liquor across the line."

"Scared, are you?" sneered the trail boss.

"Maybe I am. Reckon I'm too old to play the smuggler's game. And I've
got a hankerin' for respectability--want the firm to stand well with
the new settlers. Legitimate business from now on. That's our motto,

"What church you been j'inin', C.N.?"

"Well, maybe it'll come to that too. Think I'd make a good deacon?"
the merchant asked amiably, untwining his legs and rising to stretch.

West slammed a big fist on the table so that the inkwell and the pens
jumped. "All I got to say is that this new Sunday-school outfit you
aim to run won't have no use for a he-man. I'm quittin' you right

The foreman made the threat as a bluff. He was the most surprised man
in Montana when his employer called it quietly, speaking still in the
slow, nasal voice of perfect good-nature.

"Maybe you're right, West. That's for you to say, of course. You know
your own business best. Figure out your time an' I'll have Benson
write you a check. Hope you find a good job."

The sense of baffled anger in West foamed up. His head dropped down
and forward threateningly.

"You do, eh? Lemme tell you this, C.N. I don't ask no odds of you or
any other guy. Jes' because you're the head of a big outfit you can't
run on me. I won't stand for it a minute."

"Of course not. I'd know better'n to try that with you. No hard
feelings even if you quit us." It was a characteristic of the New
Englander that while he was a forceful figure in this man's country,
he rarely quarreled with any one.

"That so? Well, you listen here. I been layin' off that new pardner of
yours because he's yore kin. Not anymore. Different now. He's liable
to have a heluva time an' don't you forget it for a minute."

The fur-trader chewed his cud imperturbably. When he spoke it Was
still without a trace of acrimony.

"Guess you'll think better of that maybe, West. Guess you're a little
hot under the collar, ain't you? Don't hardly pay to hold grudges,
does it? There was Rhinegoldt now. Kept nursin' his wrongs an' finally
landed in the pen. Bad medicine, looks like to me."

West was no imbecile. He understood the threat underneath the suave
words of the storekeeper. Rhinegoldt had gone to the penitentiary
because C.N. Morse had willed it so. The inference was that another
lawbreaker might go for the same reason. The trail boss knew that this
was no idle threat. Morse could put him behind the bars any time he
chose. The evidence was in his hands.

The bully glared at him. "You try that, C.N. Jus' try it once.
There'll be a sudden death in the Morse family if you do. Mebbe two.
Me, I'd gun you both for a copper cent. Don't fool yourself a minute."

"Kinda foolish talk, West. Don't buy you anything. Guess you better
go home an' cool off, hadn't you? I'll have your time made up to-day,
unless you want your check right now."

The broken teeth of the desperado clicked as his jaw clamped. He
looked from the smiling, steady-eyed trader to the brown-faced youth
who watched the scene with such cool, alert attention. He fought with
a wild, furious impulse in himself to go through with his threat,
to clean up and head out into the wilds. But some saving sense of
prudence held his hand. C.N. Morse was too big game for him.

"To hell with the check," he snarled, and swinging on his heel jingled
out of the office.

The nephew spoke first. "You got rid of him on purpose."

"Looked that way to you, did it?" the uncle asked in his usual
indirect way.


"Guess you'd say it was because he won't fit into the new policy of
the firm. Guess you'd say he'd always be gettin' us into trouble with
his overbearin' and crooked ways."

"That's true. He would."

"Maybe it would be a good idee to watch him mighty close. They say
he's a bad hombre. Might be unlucky for any one he got the drop on."

Tom knew he was being warned. "I'll look out for him," he promised.

The older man changed the subject smilingly. "Here's where C.N. Morse
& Company turns over a leaf, son. No more business gambles. Legitimate
trade only. That the idee you're figurin' on makin' me live up to?"

"Suits me if it does you," Tom answered cheerfully, "But where do
I come in? What's my job in the firm? You'll notice I haven't said
'Thanks' yet."

"You?" C.N. gave him a sly, dry smile. "Oh, all you have to do is to
handle our business north of the line--buy, sell, trade, build up
friendly relations with the Indians and trappers, keep friendly with
the police, and a few little things like that."

Tom grinned.

"Won't have a thing to do, will I?"



To Tom Morse, sitting within the railed space that served for an
office in the company store at Faraway, came a light-stepping youth in
trim boots, scarlet jacket, and forage cap set at a jaunty angle.

"'Lo, Uncle Sam," he said, saluting gayly.

"'Lo, Johnnie Canuck. Where you been for a year and heaven knows how
many months?"

"Up Peace River, after Pierre Poulette, fellow who killed Buckskin

Tom took in Beresford's lean body, a gauntness of the boyish face,
hollows under the eyes that had not been there when first they had
met. There had come to him whispers of the long trek into the frozen
Lone Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He could guess
the dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books,
without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It must
have been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the
Canadian's blithe joy in living.

"Get him?" the Montanan asked.

The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always brought
back those they were sent for. Already the Force was building up the
tradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent.

"Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience that
had taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilized
existence. "Been back a week. Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a

"At what? He ain't suspectin' any one at Faraway of stretchin',
bendin', or bustin' the laws."

Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor. Rumor had it that Faraway was
a cesspool of iniquity. It was far from the border. When sheriffs of
Montana became too active, there was usually an influx of population
at the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushed
north to safety.

"Seems to be. You're not by any chance lookin' for trouble?"

"Duckin' it," answered Tom promptly.

The officer smiled genially. "It's knocking at your door." His
knuckles rapped on the desk.

"If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy--"

"Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured.

"--you certainly ain't him. Onload your grief."

"The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions,
animadversions, and propensities," explained the constable. "According
to the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis--"

Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never studied geology none.
Don't know this hypotenuse you're pow-wowin' about any more'n my paint
hawss does. Come again in one syllables."

"Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately--that is, any more than

The junior partner of C.N. Morse & Company considered. "Why, yes,
seems to me I have--heap much swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin'
and tomahawk swingin'."


"Whiskey, likely."

"Where do they get it?"

Tom looked at the soldier quizzically. "Your guess is good as mine,"
he drawled.

"I'm guessing West and Whaley."

Morse made no comment. Bully West had thrown in his fortune with Dug
Whaley, a gambler who had drifted from one mining camp to another and
been washed by the tide of circumstance into the Northwest. Ostensibly
they supplied blankets, guns, food, and other necessities to the
tribes, but there was a strong suspicion that they made their profit
in whiskey smuggled across the plains.

"But to guess it and to prove it are different propositions. How am
I going to hang it on them? I can't make a bally fool of myself
by prodding around in their bales and boxes. If I didn't find
anything--and it'd be a long shot against me--West and his gang would
stick their tongues in their cheeks and N.W.M.P. stock would shoot
down. No, I've got to make sure, jump 'em, and tie 'em up by finding
the goods on the wagons."

"Fat chance," speculated Tom.

"That's where you come in."

"Oh, I come in there, do I? I begin to hear Old Man Trouble knockin'
at my door like you promised. Break it kinda easy. Am I to go up an'
ask Bully West where he keeps his fire-water cached? Or what?"

"Yes. Only don't mention to him that you're asking. Your firm and his
trade back and forth, don't they?"

"Forth, but not back. When they've got to have some goods--if it's
neck or nothing with them--they buy from us. We don't buy from them.
You couldn't exactly call us neighborly."

Beresford explained. "West's just freighted in a cargo of goods. I can
guarantee that if he brought any liquor with him--and I've good reason
to think he did--it hasn't been unloaded yet. To-morrow the wagons
will scatter. I can't follow all of 'em. If I cinch Mr. West, it's got
to be to-night."

"I see. You want me to give you my blessin'. I'll come through with a
fine big large one. Go to it, constable. Hogtie West with proof.
Soak him good. Send him up for 'steen years. You got my sympathy an'
approval, one for the grief you're liable to bump into, the other for
your good intentions."

The officer's grin had a touch of the proverbial Cheshire cat's
malice. "Glad you approve. But you keep that sympathy for yourself.
I'm asking you to pull the chestnut out of the fire for me. You'd
better look out or you'll burn your paw."

"Just remember I ain't promisin' a thing. I'm a respectable business
man now, and, as I said, duckin' trouble."

"Find out for me in which wagon the liquor is. That's all I ask."

"How can I find out? I'm no mind reader."

"Drift over casually and offer to buy goods. Poke around a bit. Keep
cases on 'em. Notice the wagons they steer you away from."

Tom thought it over and shook his head. "No, I don't reckon I will."

"Any particular reason?"

"Don't look to me hardly like playin' the game. I'm ferninst West
every turn of the road. He's crooked as a dog's hind laig. But it
wouldn't be right square for me to spy on him. Different with you.
That's what you're paid for. You're out to run him down any way you
can. He knows that. It's a game of hide an' go seek between you an'
him. Best man wins."

The red-coat assented at once. "Right you are, I'll get some one
else." He rose to go. "See you later maybe."

Tom nodded. "Sorry I can't oblige, but you see how it is."

"Quite. I oughtn't to have asked you."

Beresford strode briskly out of the store.

Through the window Morse saw him a moment later in whispered
conversation with Onistah. They were standing back of an outlying
shed, in such a position that they could not be seen from the road.



The early Northern dusk was falling when Beresford dropped into the
store again. Except for two half-breeds and the clerk dickering at the
far end of the building over half a dozen silver fox furs Morse had
the place to himself.

Yet the officer took the precaution to lower his voice. "I want an
auger and a wooden plug the same size. Get 'em to me without anybody
knowing it."

The manager of the C.N. Morse & Company Northern Stores presently
shoved across the counter to him a gunny-sack with a feed of oats.
"Want it charged to the Force, I reckon?"


"Say, constable, I wancha to look at these moccasins I'm orderin' for
the Inspector. Is this what he wants? Or isn't it?"

Tom led the way into his office. He handed the shoe to Beresford.
"What's doin'?" he asked swiftly, between sentences.

The soldier inspected the footwear. "About right, I'd say. Thought
you'd find what you were looking for. A fellow usually does when he
goes at it real earnest."

The eyes in the brown face were twinkling merrily.

"Findin' the goods is one thing. Gettin' 'em's quite another," Tom

The voice of one of the trappers rose in protest. "By gar, it iss what
you call dirt cheap. I make you a present. V'la!"

"Got to bore through difficulties," Beresford said. "Then you're
liable to bump into disappointment. But you can't ever tell till you

His friend began to catch the drift of the officer's purpose. He was
looking for a liquor shipment, _and he had bought an auger to bore
through difficulties_.

Tom's eyes glowed. "Come over to the storeroom an' take a look at my
stock. Want you to see I'm gonna have these moccasins made from good

They kept step across the corral, gay, light-hearted sons of the
frontier, both hard as nails, packed muscles rippling like those of
forest panthers. Their years added would not total more than twoscore
and five, but life had taken hold of them young and trained them to
its purposes, had shot them through and through with hardihood and
endurance and the cool prevision that forestalls disaster.

"I'm in on this," the Montanan said.


"That I buy chips, take a hand, sit in, deal cards."

The level gaze of the police officer studied him speculatively. "Now
why this change of heart?"

"You get me wrong. I'm with you to a finish in puttin' West and Whaley
out of business. They're a hell-raisin' outfit, an' this country'll be
well rid of 'em. Only thing is I wanta play my cards above the table.
I couldn't spy on these men. Leastways, it didn't look quite square to
me. But this is a bronc of another color. Lead me to that trouble you
was promisin' a while ago."

Beresford led him to it, by way of a rain-washed gully, up which they
trod their devious path slowly and without noise. From the gully they
snaked through the dry grass to a small ditch that had been built to
drain the camping-ground during spring freshets. This wound into the
midst of the wagon train encampment.

The plainsmen crept along the dry ditch with laborious care. They
advanced no single inch without first taking care to move aside any
twig the snapping of which might betray them.

From the beginning of the adventure until its climax no word was
spoken. Beresford led, the trader followed at his heels.

The voices of men drifted to them from a camp-fire in the shelter of
the wagons. There were, Tom guessed, about four of them. Their words
came clear through the velvet night. They talked the casual elemental
topics common to their kind.

There was a moonlit open space to be crossed. The constable took it
swiftly with long strides, reached a wagon, and dodged under it. His
companion held to the cover of the ditch. He was not needed closer.

The officer lay flat on his back, set the point of the auger to the
woodwork of the bed, and began to turn. Circles and half-circles of
shavings flaked out and fell upon him. He worked steadily. Presently
the resistance of the wood ceased. The bit had eaten its way through.

Beresford withdrew the tool and tried again, this time a few inches
from the hole he had made. The pressure lessened as before, but in a
second or two the steel took a fresh hold. The handle moved slowly and

A few drops of moisture dripped down, then a small stream. The
constable held his hand under this and tasted the flow. It was rum.

Swiftly he withdrew the bit, fitted the plug into the hole, and pushed
it home.

He crawled from under the wagon, skirted along the far side of it, ran
to the next white-topped vehicle, and plumped out upon the campers
with a short, sharp word of command.

"Up with your hands! Quick!"

For a moment the surprised quartette were too amazed to obey.

"What in Halifax--?"

"Shove 'em up!" came the crisp, peremptory order.

Eight hands wavered skyward.

"Is this a hold-up--or what?" one of the teamsters wanted to know

"Call it whatever you like. You with the fur cap hitch up the mules to
the second wagon. Don't make a mistake and try for a getaway. You'll
be a dead smuggler."

The man hesitated. Was this red-coat alone?

Tom strolled out of the ditch, a sawed-off shotgun under his arm.
"I judge you bored through your difficulties, constable," he said

"Through the bed of the wagon and the end of a rum keg. Stir your
stumps, gentlemen of the whiskey-running brigade. We're on the way to
Fort Edmonton if it suits you."

If it did not suit them, they made no audible protest of disagreement.
Growls were their only comment when, under direction of Beresford,
the Montanan stripped them of their weapons and kept guard on the
fur-capped man--his name appeared to be Lemoine--while the latter
brought the mules to the wagon pointed out by the officer.

"Hook 'em," ordered Morse curtly.

The French-Indian trapper hitched the team to the wagon. Presently
it moved beyond the circle of firelight into the darkness. Morse sat
beside the driver, the short-barreled weapon across his knees.
Three men walked behind the wagon. A fourth, in the uniform of the
North-West Mounted, brought up the rear on horseback.



When Bully West discovered that such part of the cargo of wet goods
as was in wagon number two had disappeared and along with it the four
mule-skinners, his mind jumped to an instant conclusion. That it
happened to be the wrong one was natural enough to his sulky,
suspicious mind.

"Goddlemighty, they've double-crossed us," he swore to his partner,
with an explosion of accompanying profanity. "Figure on cleanin' up on
the goods an' cuttin' back to the States. Tha's what they aim to do.
Before I can head 'em off. Me, I'll show 'em they can't play monkey
tricks on Bully West."

This explanation did not satisfy Whaley. The straight black line of
the brows above the cold eyes met in frowning thought.

"I've got a hunch you're barkin' up the wrong tree," he lisped with a
shrug of shoulders.

Voice and gesture were surprising in that they were expressions of
this personality totally unexpected. Both were almost womanlike in
their delicacy. They suggested the purr and soft padding of a cat, an
odd contradiction to the white, bloodless face with the inky brows.
The eyes of "Poker" Whaley could throw fear into the most reckless
bull-whacker on the border. They held fascinating and sinister
possibilities of evil.

"Soon see. We'll hit the trail right away after them," Bully replied.

Whaley's thin lip curled. He looked at West as though he read to
the bottom of that shallow mind and meant to make the most of his

"Yes," he murmured, as though to himself. "Some one ought to stay with
the rest of the outfit, but I reckon I'd better go along. Likely you
couldn't handle all of 'em if they showed fight."

West's answer was a roar of outraged vanity. "Me! Not round up them
tame sheep. I'll drive 'em back with their tongues hangin' out.

At break of day he was in the saddle. An experienced trailer, West
found no difficulty in following the wagon tracks. No attempt had been
made to cover the flight. The whiskey-runner could trace at a road
gait the narrow tracks along the winding road.

The country through which he traveled was the border-land between the
plains and the great forests that rolled in unbroken stretch to the
frozen North. Sometimes he rode over undulating prairie. Again he
moved through strips of woodland or skirted beautiful lakes from the
reedy edges of which ducks or geese rose whirring at his approach. A
pair of coyotes took one long look at him and skulked into a ravine.
Once a great moose started from a thicket of willows and galloped over
a hill.

West heeded none of this. No joy touched him as he breasted summits
and looked down on wide sweeps of forest and rippling water. The
tracks of the wheel rims engaged entirely his sulky, lowering gaze. If
the brutish face reflected his thoughts, they must have been far from
pleasant ones.

The sun flooded the landscape, climbed the sky vault, slid toward the
horizon. Dusk found him at the edge of a wooded lake.

He looked across and gave a subdued whoop of triumph. From the timber
on the opposite shore came a tenuous smoke skein. A man came to the
water with a bucket, filled it, and disappeared in the woods. Bully
West knew he had caught up with those he was tracking.

The smuggler circled the lower end of the lake and rode through the
timber toward the smoke. At a safe distance he dismounted, tied
the horse to a young pine, and carefully examined his rifle. Very
cautiously he stalked the camp, moving toward it with the skill and
the stealth of a Sarcee scout.

Camp had been pitched in a small open space surrounded by bushes.
Through the thicket, on the south side, he picked a way, pushing away
each sapling and weed noiselessly to make room for the passage of his
huge body. For such a bulk of a figure he moved lightly. Twice he
stopped by reason of the crackle of a snapping twig, but no sign of
alarm came from his prey.

They sat hunched--the four of them--before a blazing log fire,
squatting on their heels in the comfortable fashion of the outdoors
man the world over. Their talk was fragmentary. None gave any sign of
alertness toward any possible approaching danger.

No longer wary, West broke through the last of the bushes and
straddled into the open.

"Well, boys, hope you got some grub left for yore boss," he jeered,
triumph riding voice and manner heavily.

He waited for the startled dismay he expected. None came. The drama of
the moment did not meet his expectation. The teamsters looked at him,
sullenly, without visible fear or amazement. None of them rose or

Sultry anger began to burn in West's eyes. "Thought you'd slip one
over on the old man, eh? Thought you could put over a raw steal an'
get away with it. Well, lemme tell you where you get off at. I'm gonna
whale every last one of you to a frazzle. With a big club. An'
I'm gonna drive you back to Faraway like a bunch of whipped curs.

Still they said nothing. It began to penetrate the thick skull of
the trader that there was something unnatural about their crouched
silence. Why didn't they try to explain? Or make a break for a

He could think of nothing better to say, after a volley of curses,
than to repeat his threat. "A thunderin' good wallopin', first off.
Then we hit the trail together, you-all an' me."

From out of the bushes behind him a voice came. "That last's a good
prophecy, Mr. West. It'll be just as you say."

The big fellow wheeled, the rifle jumping to his shoulder. Instantly
he knew he had been tricked, led into a trap. They must have heard him
coming, whoever they were, and left his own men for bait.

From the other side two streaks of scarlet launched themselves at him.
West turned to meet them. A third flash of red dived for his knees. He
went down as though hit by a battering-ram.

But not to stay down. The huge gorilla-shaped figure struggled to
its feet, fighting desperately to throw off the three red-coats long
enough to drag out a revolver. He was like a bear surrounded by
leaping dogs. No sooner had he buffeted one away than the others
were dragging him down. Try as he would, he could not get set. The
attackers always staggered him before he could quite free himself for
action. They swarmed all over him, fought close to avoid his sweeping
lunges, hauled him to his knees by sheer weight of the pack.

Lemoine flung one swift look around and saw that his captors were very
busy. Now if ever was the time to take a hand in the melee. Swiftly he
rose. He spoke a hurried word in French.

"One moment, s'il vous plait." From the bushes another man had
emerged, one not in uniform. Lemoine had forgotten him. "Not your
fight. Better keep out," he advised, and pointed the suggestion with a
short-barreled shotgun.

The trapper looked at him. "Is it that this iss your fight, Mistair
Morse?" he demanded.

"Fair enough. I'll keep out too."

The soldiers had West down by this time. They were struggling to
handcuff him. He fought furiously, his great arms and legs threshing
about like flails. Not till he had worn himself out could they pinion

Beresford rose at last, the job done. His coat was ripped almost from
one shoulder. "My word, he's a whale of an animal," he panted. "If I
hadn't chanced to meet you boys he'd have eaten me alive."

The big smuggler struggled for breath. When at last he found words, it
was for furious and horrible curses.

Not till hours later did he get as far as a plain question. "What does
this mean? Where are you taking me, you damned spies?" he roared.

Beresford politely gave him information. "To the penitentiary, I hope,
Mr. West, for breaking Her Majesty's revenue laws."



All week Jessie and her foster-mother Matapi-Koma had been busy
cooking and baking for the great occasion. Fergus had brought in a
sack full of cottontails and two skunks. To these his father had added
the smoked hindquarters of a young buffalo, half a barrel of dried
fish, and fifty pounds of pemmican. For Angus liked to dispense
hospitality in feudal fashion.

Ever since Jessie had opened her eyes at the sound of Matapi-Koma's
"Koos koos kwa" (Wake up!), in the pre-dawn darkness of the wintry
Northern morn, she had heard the crunch of snow beneath the webs of
the footmen and the runners of the sleds. For both full-blood Crees
and half-breeds were pouring into Faraway to take part in the
festivities of Ooche-me-gou-kesigow (Kissing Day).

The traders at the post and their families would join in the revels.
With the exception of Morse, they had all taken Indian wives, in
the loose marriage of the country, and for both business and family
reasons they maintained a close relationship with the natives. Most of
their children used the mother tongue, though they could make shift
to express themselves in English. In this respect as in others the
younger McRaes were superior. They talked English well. They could
read and write. Their father had instilled in them a reverence for the
Scriptures and some knowledge of both the Old and New Testaments. It
was his habit to hold family prayers every evening. Usually half
a dozen guests were present at these services in addition to his
immediate household.

With the Indians came their dogs, wolfish creatures, prick-eared and
sharp-muzzled, with straight, bristling hair. It was twenty below
zero, but the gaunt animals neither sought nor were given shelter.
They roamed about in front of the fort stockade, snapping at each
other or galloping off on rabbit hunts through the timber.

The custom was that on this day the braves of the tribe kissed every
woman they met in token of friendship and good-will. To fail of
saluting one, young or old, was a breach of good manners. Since
daybreak they had been marching in to Angus McRae's house and gravely
kissing his wife and daughter.

Jessie did not like it. She was a fastidious young person. But she
could not escape without mortally offending the solemn-eyed warriors
who offered this evidence of their esteem. As much as possible she
contrived to be busy upstairs, but at least a dozen times she was
fairly cornered and made the best of it.

At dinner she and the other women of the fort waited on their guests
and watched prodigious quantities of food disappear rapidly. When the
meal was ended, the dancing began. The Crees shuffled around in a
circle, hopping from one foot to the other in time to the beating of
a skin drum. The half-breeds and whites danced the jigs and reels the
former had brought with them from the Red River country. They took the
floor in couples. The men did double-shuffles and cut pigeon wings,
moving faster and faster as the fiddler quickened the tune till they
gave up at last exhausted. Their partners performed as vigorously, the
moccasined feet twinkling in and out so fast that the beads flashed.

Because it was the largest building in the place, the dance was held
in the C.N. Morse & Company store. From behind the counter Jessie
applauded the performers. She did not care to take part herself. The
years she had spent at school had given her a certain dignity.

A flash of scarlet caught her eye. Two troopers of the Mounted
Police had come into the room and one of them was taking off his fur
overcoat. The trim, lean-flanked figure and close-cropped, curly head
she recognized at once with quickened pulse. When Winthrop Beresford
came into her neighborhood, Jessie McRae's cheek always flew a flag of

A squaw came up to the young soldier and offered innocently her face
for a kiss.

Beresford knew the tribal custom. It was his business to help
establish friendly relations between the Mounted and the natives. He
kissed the wrinkled cheek gallantly. A second dusky lady shuffled
forward, and after her a third. The constable did his duty.

His roving eye caught Jessie's, and found an imp of mischief dancing
there. She was enjoying the predicament in which he found himself. Out
of the tail of that same eye he discovered that two more flat-footed
squaws were headed in his direction.

He moved briskly across the floor to the counter, vaulted it, and
stood beside Jessie. She was still laughing at him.

"You're afraid," she challenged. "You ran away."

A little devil of adventurous mirth was blown to flame in him. "I saw
another lady, lonely and unkissed. The Force answers every call of

Her chin tilted ever so little as she answered swiftly.

"He who will not when he may,
When he will he shall have nay."

Before she had more than time to guess that he would really dare, the
officer leaned forward and kissed the girl's dusky cheek.

The color flamed into it. Jessie flung a quick, startled look at him.

"Kissing Day, Sleeping Dawn," he said, smiling.

Instantly she followed his lead. "Sleeping Dawn hopes that the Great
Spirit will give to the soldier of the Great Mother across the seas
many happy kissing days in his life."

"And to you. Will you dance with me?"

"Not to-day, thank you. I don't jig in public."

"I was speaking to Miss McRae and not to Sleeping Dawn, and I was
asking her to waltz with me."

She accepted him as a partner and they took the floor. The other
dancers by tacit consent stepped back to watch this new step, so
rhythmic, light, and graceful. It shocked a little their sense of
fitness that the man's arm should enfold the maiden, but they were
full of lively curiosity to see how the dance was done.

A novel excitement pulsed through the girl's veins. It was not the
kiss alone, though that had something to do with the exhilaration that
flooded her. Formally his kiss had meant only a recognition of
the day. Actually it had held for both of them a more personal
significance, the swift outreach of youth to youth. But the dance was
an escape. She had learned at Winnipeg the waltz of the white race.
No other girl at Faraway knew the step. She chose to think that the
constable had asked her because this stressed the predominance of her
father's blood in her. It was a symbol to all present that the ways of
the Anglo-Saxon were her ways.

She had the light, straight figure, the sense of rhythm, the
instinctively instant response of the born waltzer. As she glided over
the floor in the arms of Beresford, the girl knew pure happiness. Not
till he was leading her back to the counter did she wake from the
spell the music and motion had woven over her.

A pair of cold eyes in a white, bloodless face watched her beneath
thin black brows. A shock ran through her, as though she had been
drenched with icy water. She shivered. There was a sinister menace in
that steady, level gaze. More than once she had felt it. Deep in her
heart she knew, from the world-old experience of her sex, that the man
desired her, that he was biding his time with the patience and the
ruthlessness of a panther. "Poker" Whaley had in him a power of
dangerous evil notable in a country where bad men were not scarce.

The officer whispered news to Jessie. "Bully West broke jail two weeks
ago. He killed a guard. We're here looking for him."

"He hasn't been here. At least I haven't heard it," she answered

For Whaley, in his slow, feline fashion, was moving toward them.

Bluntly the gambler claimed his right. "Ooche-me-gou-kesigow," he

The girl shook her head. "Are you a Cree, Mr. Whaley?"

For that he had an answer. "Is Beresford?"

"Mr. Beresford is a stranger. He didn't know the custom--that it
doesn't apply to me except with Indians. I was taken by surprise."

Whaley was a man of parts. He had been educated for a priest, but had
kicked over the traces. There was in him too much of the Lucifer for
the narrow trail the father of a parish must follow.

He bowed. "Then I must content myself with a dance."

Jessie hesitated. It was known that he was a libertine. The devotion
of his young Cree wife was repaid with sneers and the whiplash. But he
was an ill man to make an enemy of. For her family's sake rather than
her own she yielded reluctantly.

Though a heavy-set man, he was an excellent waltzer. He moved evenly
and powerfully. But in the girl's heart resentment flamed. She knew he
was holding her too close to him, taking advantage of her modesty in a
way she could not escape without public protest.

"I'm faint," she told him after they had danced a few minutes.

"Oh, you'll be all right," he said, still swinging her to the music.

She stopped. "No, I've had enough." Jessie had caught sight of her
brother Fergus at the other end of the room. She joined him. Tom Morse
was standing by his side.

Whaley nodded indifferently toward the men and smiled at Jessie, but
that cold lip smile showed neither warmth nor friendliness. "We'll
dance again--many times," he said.

The girl's eyes flashed. "We'll have to ask Mrs. Whaley about that. I
don't see her here to-night. I hope she's quite well."

It was impossible to tell from the chill, expressionless face of the
squaw-man whether her barb had stung or not. "She's where she belongs,
at home in the kitchen. It's her business to be well. I reckon she is.
I don't ask her."

"You're not a demonstrative husband, then?"

"Husband!" He shrugged his shoulders insolently. "Oh, well! What's in
a name?"

She knew the convenient code of his kind. They took to themselves
Indian wives, with or without some form of marriage ceremony, and
flung them aside when they grew tired of the tie or found it galling.
There was another kind of squaw-man, the type represented by her
father. He had joined his life to that of Matapi-Koma for better or
worse until such time as death should separate them.

In Jessie's bosom a generous indignation burned. There was a reason
why just now Whaley should give his wife much care and affection.
She turned her shoulder and began to talk with Fergus and Tom Morse,
definitely excluding the gambler from the conversation.

He was not one to be embarrassed by a snub. He held his ground,

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