Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police: A Tale of the Macleod Trail

Over and over again, with strange wild cadences of their own invention, the worshippers wailed forth the refrain,

Then, all kneeling, they went to prayer. Over all, the misty moon struggling through the broken clouds cast a pale and ghostly light. It was, to Cameron with his old-world religious conventions and traditions, a weirdly fascinating but intensely impressive scene. Afar beyond the valley, appeared in dim outline the great mountains, with their heads thrust up into the sky. Nearer at their bases gathered the pines, at first in solid gloomy masses, then, as they approached, in straggling groups, and at last singly, like tall sentinels on guard. On the grassy glade, surrounded by the sentinel pines, the circle of dusky worshippers, kneeling about their camp fire, lifted their faces heavenward and their hearts God-ward in prayer, and as upon those dusky faces the firelight fell in fitful gleams, so upon their hearts, dark with the superstitions of a hundred generations, there fell the gleams of the torch held high by the hands of their dauntless ambassador of the blessed Gospel of the Grace of God.

With mingled feelings of reverence and of pity Cameron stood gazing down upon this scene, resolved more than ever to attach himself to this camp whose days closed with evening prayer.

“Impressive scene!” said a mocking voice in his ear.

Cameron started. A sudden feeling of repulsion seized him.

“Yes,” he said gravely, “an impressive scene, in my eyes at least, and I should not wonder if in the eyes of God as well.”

“Who knows?” said Raven gruffly, as they both turned back to the fire.

CHAPTER IV

THE DULL RED STAIN

The minutes passed slowly. The scene in the camp of the Stonies that he had just witnessed drove all sleep from Cameron. He was firmly resolved that at the first opportunity he would make his break for liberty; for he was now fully aware that though not confessedly he was none the less really a prisoner.

As he lay intently thinking, forming and discarding plans of escape, two Indians, followed by Little Thunder, walked quietly within the circle of the firelight and with a nod and a grunt towards Raven sat down by the fire. Raven passed his tobacco bag, which, without a word, they accepted; and, filling their pipes, they gravely began to smoke.

“White Cloud,” grunted Little Thunder, waving his hand to the first Indian. “Big Chief. Him,” pointing to the second Indian, “White Cloud brother.”

“My brothers had good hunting this year,” said Raven.

The Indians grunted for reply.

“Your packs are heavy?”

Another grunt made answer.

“We have much goods,” continued Raven. “But the time is short. Come and see.”

Raven led them out into the dark towards the pack horse, Little Thunder remaining by the fire. From the darkness Cameron could hear Raven's voice in low tones and the Indians' guttural replies mingled with unusual laughter.

When they returned the change in their appearance was plainly visible. Their eyes were gleaming with an unnatural excitement, their grave and dignified demeanour had given place to an eager, almost childish excitement. Cameron did not need the whiff that came to him from their breath to explain the cause of this sudden change. The signs were to him only too familiar.

“My brothers will need to hurry,” said Raven. “We move when the moon is high.”

“Good!” replied White Cloud. “Go, quick.” He waved his hand toward the dark. “Come.” He brought it back again. “Heap quick.” Without further word they vanished, silent as the shadows that swallowed them up.

“Now, then, Cameron, we have big business on foot. Up and give us a hand. Little Thunder, take the bunch down the trail a couple of miles and come back.”

Selecting one of the pack ponies, he tied it to a pine tree and the others he hurried off with Little Thunder down the trail.

“Going to do some trading, are you?” enquired Cameron.

“Yes, if the price is right, though I'm not too keen,” replied Raven, throwing himself down beside the fire.

“What are you after? Furs?”

“Yes, furs mostly. Anything they have to offer.”

“What do you give in exchange?”

Raven threw him a sharp glance, but Cameron's face was turned toward the fire.

“Oh, various articles. Wearing apparel, tobacco, finery. Molasses too. They are very fond of molasses.”

“Molasses?” echoed Cameron, with a touch of scorn. “It was not molasses they had to-night. Why did you give them whiskey?” he asked boldly.

Raven started. His eyes narrowed to two piercing points.

“Why? That's my business, my friend. I keep a flask to treat my guests occasionally. Have you any objection?”

“It is against the law, I understand, and mighty bad for the Indians.”

“Against the law?” echoed Raven in childlike surprise. “You don't tell me!”

“So the Mounted Police declare,” said Cameron, turning his eyes upon Raven's face.

“The Mounted Police!” exclaimed Raven, pouring forth a flood of oaths. “That! for the Mounted Police!” he said, snapping his fingers.

“But,” replied Cameron, “I understood you very especially to object to the operations of the whiskey runners?”

“Whiskey runners? Who's speaking of whiskey runners? I'm talking of the approved method of treating our friends in this country, and if the police should interfere between me and my friends they would be carrying things a little too far. But all the same,” he continued, hastily checking himself, “the police are all right. They put down a lot of lawlessness in this country. But I may as well say to you here, Mr. Cameron,” he continued, “that there are certain things it is best not to see, or, having seen, to speedily forget.” As he spoke these words his eyes narrowed again to two grey points that seemed to bore right through to Cameron's brain.

“This man is a very devil,” thought Cameron to himself. “I was a fool not to see it before.” But to the trader he said, “There are some things I would rather not see and some things I cannot forget.”

Before another hour had passed the Stonies reappeared, this time on ponies. The trader made no move to meet them. He sat quietly smoking by the fire. Silently the Indians approached the fire and threw down a pack of furs.

“Huh!” said White Cloud. “Good! Ver good!” He opened his pack and spread out upon the rock with impressive deliberation its contents. And good they were, even to Cameron's uncultured eye. Wolf skins and bear, cinnamon and black, beaver, fox, and mink, as well as some magnificent specimens of mountain goat and sheep. “Good! Good! Big—fine—heap good!” White Cloud continued to exclaim as he displayed his collection.

Raven turned them over carelessly, feeling the furs, examining and weighing the pelts. Then going to the pack horse he returned and spread out upon the rock beside the furs the goods which he proposed to offer in exchange. And a pitiful display it was, gaudy calicoes and flimsy flannels, the brilliance of whose colour was only equalled by the shoddiness of the material, cheap domestic blankets, half wool half cotton, prepared especially for the Indian trade. These, with beads and buttons, trinkets, whole strings of brass rings, rolls of tobacco, bags of shot and powder, pot metal knives, and other articles, all bearing the stamp of glittering fraud, constituted his stock for barter. The Indians made strenuous efforts to maintain an air of dignified indifference, but the glitter in their eyes betrayed their eagerness. White Cloud picked up a goat skin, heavy with its deep silky fur and with its rich splendour covered over the glittering mass of Raven's cheap and tawdry stuff.

“Good trade,” said White Cloud. “Him,” pointing to the skin, “and,” turning it back, “him,” laying his hand upon the goods beneath.

Raven smiled carelessly, pulled out a flask from his pocket, took a drink and passed it to the others. Desperately struggling to suppress his eagerness and to maintain his dignified bearing, White Cloud seized the flask and, drinking long and deep, passed it to his brother.

“Have a drink, Cameron,” said Raven, as he received his flask again.

“No!” said Cameron shortly. “And I would suggest to your friends that they complete the trade before they drink much more.”

“My friend here says this is no good,” said Raven to the Indians, tapping the flask with his finger. “He says no more drink.”

White Cloud shot a keen enquiring glance at Cameron, but he made no reply other than to stretch out his hand for Raven's flask again. Before many minutes the efficacy of Raven's methods of barter began to be apparent. The Indians lost their grave and dignified demeanour. They became curious, eager, garrulous, and demonstrative. With childish glee they began examining more closely Raven's supply of goods, trying on the rings, draping themselves in the gaudy calicoes and flannels. At length Raven rolled up his articles of barter and set them upon one side.

“How much?” he said.

White Cloud selected the goat skin, laid upon it some half dozen beaver and mink, and a couple of foxes, and rolling them up in a pile laid them beside Raven's bundle.

The trader smiled and shook his head. “No good. No good.” So saying he took from his pack another flask and laid it upon his pile.

Instantly the Indian increased his pile by a bear skin, a grey wolf, and a mountain goat. Then, without waiting for Raven's words, he reached for the flask.

“No, not yet,” said Raven quietly, laying his hand down upon the flask.

The Indian with gleaming eyes threw on the pile some additional skins.

“Good!” said Raven, surrendering the flask. Swiftly the Indian caught it up and, seizing the cork in his teeth, bit it off close to the neck of the flask. Snatching his knife from his pocket with almost frantic energy, he proceeded to dig out the imbedded cork.

“Here,” said Raven, taking the flask from him. “Let me have it.” From his pocket he took a knife containing a corkscrew and with this he drew the cork and handed the flask back to the Indian.

With shameless, bestial haste the Indian placed the bottle to his lips and after a long pull passed it to his waiting brother.

At this point Raven rose as if to close the negotiations and took out his own flask for a final drink, but found it empty.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, turning the empty flask upside down. At once the Indian passed him his flask. Raven, however, waved him aside and, going to his pack, drew out a tin oil can which would contain about a gallon. From this with great deliberation he filled his flask.

“Huh!” exclaimed the Indian, pointing to the can. “How much?”

Raven shook his head. “No sell. For me,” he answered, tapping himself on the breast.

“How much?” said the Indian fiercely.

Still Raven declined to sell.

Swiftly the Indian gathered up the remaining half of his pack of furs and, throwing them savagely at Raven's feet, seized the can.

Still Raven refused to let it go.

At this point the soft padding of a loping pony was heard coming up the trail and in a few minutes Little Thunder silently took his place in the circle about the fire. Cameron's heart sank within him, for now it seemed as if his chance of escape had slipped from him.

Raven spoke a few rapid words to Little Thunder, who entered into conversation with the Stonies. At length White Cloud drew from his coat a black fox skin. In spite of himself Raven uttered a slight exclamation. It was indeed a superb pelt. With savage hate in every line of his face and in every movement of his body, the Indian flung the skin upon the pile of furs and without a “By your leave” seized the can and passed it to his brother.

At this point Raven, with a sudden display of reckless generosity, placed his own flask upon the Indian's pile of goods.

“Ask them if they want molasses,” said Raven to Little Thunder.

“No,” grunted the Indian contemptuously, preparing to depart.

“Ask them, Little Thunder.”

Immediately as Little Thunder began to speak the contemptuous attitude of the Stonies gave place to one of keen interest and desire. After some further talk Little Thunder went to the pack-pony, returned bearing a small keg and set it on the rock beside Raven's pile of furs. Hastily the Stonies consulted together, White Cloud apparently reluctant, the brother recklessly eager to close the deal. Finally with a gesture White Cloud put an end to the conversation, stepped out hastily into the dark and returned leading his pony into the light. Cutting asunder the lashings with his knife, he released a bundle of furs and threw it down at Raven's feet.

“Same ting. Good!” he said.

But Raven would not look at the bundle and proceeded to pack up the spoils of his barter. Earnestly the Stonies appealed to Little Thunder, but in vain. Angrily they remonstrated, but still without result. At length Little Thunder pointed to the pony and without hesitation White Cloud placed the bridle rein in his hands.

Cameron could contain himself no longer. Suddenly rising from his place he strode to the side of the Indians and cried, “Don't do it! Don't be such fools! This no good,” he said, kicking the keg. “What would Mr. Macdougall say? Come! I go with you. Take back these furs.”

He stepped forward to seize the second pack. Swiftly Little Thunder leaped before him, knife in hand, and crouched to spring. The Stonies had no doubt as to his meaning. Their hearts were filled with black rage against the unscrupulous trader, but their insane thirst for the “fire-water” swept from their minds every other consideration but that of determination to gratify this mad lust. Unconsciously they ranged themselves beside Cameron, their hands going to their belts. Quietly Raven spoke a few rapid words to Little Thunder, who, slowly putting up his knife, made a brief but vigourous harangue to the Stonies, the result of which was seen in the doubtful glances which they cast upon Cameron from time to time.

“Come on!” cried Cameron again, laying his hand upon the nearest Indian. “Let's go to your camp. Take your furs. He is a thief, a robber, a bad man. All that,” sweeping his hand towards Raven's goods, “no good. This,” kicking the keg, “bad. Kill you.”

These words they could not entirely understand, but his gestures were sufficiently eloquent and significant. There was an ugly gleam in Raven's eyes and an ugly curl to his thin lips, but he only smiled.

“Come,” he said, waving his hand toward the furs, “take them away. Tell them we don't want to trade, Little Thunder.” He pulled out his flask, slowly took a drink, and passed it to Little Thunder, who greedily followed his example. “Tell them we don't want to trade at all,” insisted Raven.

Little Thunder volubly explained the trader's wishes.

“Good-bye,” said Raven, offering his hand to White Cloud. “Good friends,” he added, once more passing him his flask.

“Don't!” said Cameron, laying his hand again upon the Indian's arm. For a single instant White Cloud paused.

“Huh!” grunted Little Thunder in contempt. “Big chief scared.”

Quickly the Stony shook off Cameron's hand, seized the flask and, putting it to his lips, drained it dry.

“Come,” said Cameron to the other Stony. “Come with me.”

Raven uttered a warning word to Little Thunder. The Indians stood for some moments uncertain, their heads bowed upon their breasts. Then White Cloud, throwing back his head and looking Cameron full in the face, said—“Good man. Good man. Me no go.”

“Then I go alone,” cried Cameron, springing off into the darkness.

As he turned his foot caught the pile of wood brought for the fire. He tripped and stumbled almost to the ground. Before he could recover himself Little Thunder, swift as a wildcat, leaped upon his back with his ever-ready knife in his upraised hand, but before he could strike, Cameron had turned himself and throwing the Indian off had struggled to his feet.

“Hold there!” cried Raven with a terrible oath, flinging himself upon the struggling pair.

A moment or two the Stonies hesitated, then they too seized Cameron and between them all they bore him fighting to the ground.

“Keep back! Keep back!” cried Raven in a terrible voice to Little Thunder, who, knife in hand, was dancing round, seeking an opportunity to strike. “Will you lie still, or shall I knock your head in?” said Raven to Cameron through his clenched teeth, with one hand on his throat and the other poising a revolver over his head. Cameron gave up the struggle.

“Speak and quick!” cried Raven, his face working with passion, his voice thick and husky, his breath coming in quick gasps from the fury that possessed him.

“All right,” said Cameron. “Let me up. You have beaten me this time.”

Raven sprang to his feet.

“Let him up!” he said. “Now, then, Cameron, give me your word you won't try to escape.”

“No, I will not! I'll see you hanged first,” said Cameron.

Raven deliberately drew his pistol and said slowly:

“I have saved your life twice already, but the time is past for any more trifling. Now you've got to take it.”

At this Little Thunder spoke a word, pointing toward the camp of the Stonies. Raven hesitated, then with an oath he strode toward Cameron and thrusting his pistol in his face said in tones of cold and concentrated rage:

“Listen to me, you fool! Your life is hanging by a hair trigger that goes off with a feather touch. I give you one more chance. Move hand or foot and the bullet in this gun will pass neatly through your eye. So help me God Almighty!”

He spoke to Little Thunder, still keeping Cameron covered with his gun. The Indian slipped quietly behind Cameron and swiftly threw a line over his shoulders and, drawing it tight, bound his arms to his side. Again and again he repeated this operation till Cameron stood swathed in the coils of the rope like a mummy, inwardly raging, not so much at his captor, but at himself and his stupid bungling of his break for liberty. His helpless and absurd appearance seemed to restore Raven's good humour.

“Now, then,” he said, turning to the Stonies and resuming his careless air, “we will finish our little business. Sit down, Mr. Cameron,” he continued, with a pleasant smile. “It may be less dignified, but it is much more comfortable.”

Once more he took out his flask and passed it round, forgetting to take it back from his Indian visitors, who continued to drink from it in turn.

“Listen,” he said. “I give you all you see here for your furs and a pony to pack them. That is my last word. Quick, yes or no? Tell them no more trifling, Little Thunder. The moon is high. We start in ten minutes.”

There was no further haggling. The Indians seemed to recognise that the time for that was past. After a brief consultation they grunted their acceptance and proceeded to pack up their goods, but with no good will. More vividly than any in the company they realised the immensity of the fraud that was being perpetrated upon them. They were being robbed of their whole winter's kill and that of some of their friends as well, but they were helpless in the grip of their mad passion for the trader's fire-water. Disgusted with themselves and filled with black rage against the man who had so pitilessly stripped them bare of the profits of a year's toil and privation, how gladly would they have put their knives into his back, but they knew his sort by only too bitter experience and they knew that at his hands they need expect no pity.

“Here,” cried Raven, observing their black looks. “A present for my brothers.” He handed them each a roll of tobacco. “And a present for their squaws,” adding a scarlet blanket apiece to their pack.

Without a word of thanks they took the gifts and, loading their stuff upon their remaining pony, disappeared down the trail.

“Now, Little Thunder, let's get out of this, for once their old man finds out he will be hot foot on our trail.”

With furious haste they fell to their packing. Cameron stood aghast at the amazing swiftness and dexterity with which the packs were roped and loaded. When all was complete the trader turned to Cameron in gay good humour.

“Now, Mr. Cameron, will you go passenger or freight?” Cameron made no reply. “In other words, shall we pack you on your pony or will you ride like a gentleman, giving me your word not to attempt to escape? Time presses, so answer quick! Give me twenty-four hours. Give me your word for twenty-four hours, after which you can go when you like.”

“I agree,” said Cameron shortly.

“Cut him loose, Little Thunder.” Little Thunder hesitated. “Quick, you fool! Cut him loose. I know a gentleman when I see him. He is tied tighter than with ropes.”

“It is a great pity,” he continued, addressing Cameron in a pleasant conversational tone as they rode down the trail together, “that you should have made an ass of yourself for those brutes. Bah! What odds? Old Macdougall or some one else would get their stuff sooner or later. Why not I? Come, cheer up. You are jolly well out of it, for, God knows, you may live to look death in the face many a time, but never while you live will you be so near touching the old sport as you were a few minutes ago. Why I have interfered to save you these three times blessed if I know! Many a man's bones have been picked by the coyotes in these hills for a fraction of the provocation you have given me, not to speak of Little Thunder, who is properly thirsting for your blood. But take advice from me,” here he leaned over towards Cameron and touched him on the shoulder, while his voice took a sterner tone, “don't venture on any further liberties with him.”

Suddenly Cameron's rage blazed forth.

“Now perhaps you will listen to me,” he said in a voice thrilling with passion. “First of all, keep your hands off me. As for your comrade and partner in crime, I fear him no more than I would a dog and like a dog I shall treat him if he dares to attack me again. As for you, you are a coward and a cad. You have me at a disadvantage. But put down your guns and fight me on equal terms, and I will make you beg for your life!”

There was a gleam of amused admiration in Raven's eyes.

“By Jove! It would be a pretty fight, I do believe, and one I should greatly enjoy. At present, however, time is pressing and therefore that pleasure we must postpone. Meantime I promise you that when it comes it will be on equal terms.”

“I ask no more,” said Cameron.

There was no further conversation, for Raven appeared intent on putting as large a space as possible between himself and the camp of the Stonies. The discovery of the fraud he knew would be inevitable and he knew, too, that George Macdougall was not the man to allow his flock to be fleeced with impunity.

So before the grey light of morning began to steal over the mountaintops Raven, with his bunch of ponies and his loot, was many miles forward on his journey. But the endurance even of bronchos and cayuses has its limit, and their desperate condition from hunger and fatigue rendered food and rest imperative.

The sun was fully up when Raven ordered a halt, and in a sunny valley, deep with grass, unsaddling the wearied animals, he turned them loose to feed and rest. Apparently careless of danger and highly contented with their night's achievement, he and his Indian partner abandoned themselves to sleep. Cameron, too, though his indignation and chagrin prevented sleep for a time, was finally forced to yield to the genial influences of the warm sun and the languid airs of the spring day, and, firmly resolving to keep awake, he fell into dreamless slumber.

The sun was riding high noon when he was awakened by a hand upon his arm. It was Raven.

“Hush!” he said. “Not a word. Mount and quick!”

Looking about Cameron observed that the pack horses were ready loaded and Raven standing by his broncho ready to mount. Little Thunder was nowhere to be seen.

“What's up?” said Cameron.

For answer Raven pointed up the long sloping trail down which they had come. There three horsemen could be seen riding hard, but still distant more than half a mile.

“Saw them three miles away, luckily enough,” said Raven.

“Where's Little Thunder?” enquired Cameron.

“Oh, rounding up the bunch,” answered Raven carelessly, waving his hand toward the valley. “Those men are coming some,” he added, swinging into his saddle.

As he spoke a rifle shot shattered the stillness of the valley. The first of the riders threw up his hands, clutched wildly at the vacant air and pitched headlong out of the saddle. “Good God! What's that?” gasped Cameron. The other two wheeled in their course. Before they could turn a second shot rang out and another of the riders fell upon his horse's neck, clung there for a moment, then gently slid to the ground. The third, throwing himself over the side of his pony, rode back for dear life.

A third and a fourth shot were heard, but the fleeing rider escaped unhurt.

“What does that mean?” again asked Cameron, weak and sick with horror.

“Mount!” yelled Raven with a terrible oath and flourishing a revolver in his hand. “Mount quick!” His face was pale, his eyes burned with a fierce glare, while his voice rang with the blast of a bugle.

“Lead those pack horses down that trail!” he yelled, thrusting the line into Cameron's hand. “Quick, I tell you!”

“Crack-crack!” Twice a bullet sang savagely past Cameron's ears.

“Quicker!” shouted Raven, circling round the bunch of ponies with wild cries and oaths like a man gone mad. Again and again the revolver spat wickedly and here and there a pony plunged recklessly forward, nicked in the ear by one of those venomous singing pellets. Helpless to defend himself and expecting every moment to feel the sting of a bullet somewhere in his body, Cameron hurried his pony with all his might down the trail, dragging the pack animals after him. In huddled confusion the terrified brutes followed after him in a mad rush, for hard upon their rear, like a beast devil-possessed, Nighthawk pressed, biting, kicking, squealing, to the accompaniment of his rider's oaths and yells and pistol shots. Down the long sloping trail to the very end of the valley the mad rush continued. There the ascent checked the fury of the speed and forced a quieter pace. But through the afternoon there was no weakening of the pressure from the rear till the evening shadows and the frequent falling of the worn-out beasts forced a slackening of the pace and finally a halt.

Sick with horror and loathing, Cameron dismounted and unsaddled his broncho. He had hardly finished this operation when Little Thunder rode up upon a strange pony, leading a beautiful white broncho behind. Cameron could not repress an exclamation of disgust as the Indian drew near him.

“Beautiful beast that,” said Raven carelessly, pointing to the white pony.

Cameron turned his eyes upon the pony and stood transfixed with horror.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “Look at that!” Across the beautiful white shoulders and reaching down clear to the fetlock there ran a broad stain, dull red and horrible. Then through his teeth, hard clenched together, these words came forth: “Some day, by God's help, I shall wipe out that stain.”

The trader shrugged his shoulders carelessly, but made no reply.

CHAPTER V

SERGEANT CRISP

The horror of the day followed Cameron through the night and awoke with him next morning. Every time his eyes found the Indian his teeth came together in a grinding rage as he repeated his vow, “Some day I shall bring you to justice. So help me God!”

Against Raven somehow he could not maintain the same heat of rage. That he was a party to the murder of the Stonies there was little reason to doubt, but as all next day they lay in the sunny glade resting the ponies, or went loping easily along the winding trails making ever towards the Southwest, the trader's cheerful face, his endless tales, and his invincible good humour stole from Cameron's heart, in spite of his firm resolve, the fierceness of his wrath. But the resolve was none the less resolute that one day he would bring this man to justice.

As they journeyed on, the woods became more open and the trees larger. Mid-day found them resting by a little lake, from which a stream flowed into the upper reaches of the Columbia River.

“We shall make the Crow's Nest trail by to-morrow night,” said Raven, “where we shall part; not to your very great sorrow, I fancy, either.”

The evening before Cameron would have said, “No, but to my great joy,” and it vexed him that he could not bring himself to say so to-day with any great show of sincerity. There was a charm about this man that he could not resist.

“And yet,” continued Raven, allowing his eyes to rest dreamily upon the lake, “in other circumstances I might have found in you an excellent friend, and a most rare and valuable find that is.”

“That it is!” agreed Cameron, thinking of his old football captain, “but one cannot make friends with a—”

“It is an ugly word, I know,” said Raven. “But, after all, what is a bunch of furs more or less to those Indians?”

“Furs?” exclaimed Cameron in horror. “What are the lives of these men?”

“Oh,” replied Raven carelessly, “these Indians are always getting killed one way or another. It is all in the day's work with them. They pick each other off without query or qualm. Besides, Little Thunder has a grudge of very old standing against the Stonies, whom he heartily despises, and he doubtless enjoys considerable satisfaction from the thought that he has partially paid it. It will be his turn next, like as not, for they won't let this thing sleep. Or perhaps mine!” he added after a pause. “The man is doubtless on the trail at this present minute who will finally get me.”

“Then why expose yourself to such a fate?” said Cameron. “Surely in this country a man can live an honest life and prosper.”

“Honest life? I doubt it! What is an honest life? Does any Indian trader lead an honest life? Do the Hudson Bay traders, or I. G. Baker's people, or any of them do the honest thing by the Indian they trade with? In the long run it is a question of the police. What escapes the police is honest. The crime, after all, is in getting caught.”

“Oh, that is too old!” said Cameron. “You know you are talking rot.”

“Quite right! It is rot,” assented Raven. “The whole business is rot. 'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher.' Oh, I know the Book, you see. I was not born a—a—an outlaw.” The grey-brown eyes had in them a wistful look. “Bah!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet and shaking himself. “The sight of your Edinburgh face and the sound of your Edinburgh speech and your old country ways and manners have got on my recollection works, and I believe that accounts for you being alive to-day, old man.”

He whistled to his horse. Nighthawk came trotting and whinneying to him.

“I have one friend in the world, old boy,” he said, throwing his arm over the black, glossy neck and searching his pocket for a biscuit. “And even you,” he added bitterly, “I fear do not love me for naught.”

Saddling his horse, he mounted and calling Little Thunder to him said:

“Take the bunch on as far as the Big Canyon and wait there for me. I am going back a bit. It is better to be sure than sorry. Cameron, your best route lies with us. Your twenty-four hours' parole is already up. To-morrow, perhaps to-night, I shall put you on the Macleod trail. You are a free man, but don't try to make any breaks when I am gone. My friend here is extremely prompt with his weapons. Farewell! Get a move on, Little Thunder! Cameron will bring up the rear.”

He added some further words in the Indian tongue, his voice taking a stern tone. Little Thunder grunted a surly and unwilling acquiescence, and, waving his hand to Cameron, the trader wheeled his horse up the trail.

In spite of himself Cameron could not forbear a feeling of pity and admiration as he watched the lithe, upright figure swaying up the trail, his every movement in unison with that of the beautiful demon he bestrode. But with all his pity and admiration he was none the less resolved that he would do what in him lay to bring these two to justice.

“This ugly devil at least shall swing!” he said to himself as he turned his eyes upon Little Thunder getting his pack ponies out upon the trail. This accomplished, the Indian, pointing onward, said gruffly,

“You go in front—me back.”

“Not much!” cried Cameron. “You heard the orders from your chief. You go in front. I bring up the rear. I do not know the trail.”

“Huh! Trail good,” grunted Little Thunder, the red-rimmed eyes gleaming malevolently. “You go front—me back.” He waved his hand impatiently toward the trail. Following the direction of his hand, Cameron's eyes fell upon the stock of his own rifle protruding from a pack upon one of the ponies. For a moment the protruding stock held his eyes fascinated.

“Huh!” said the Indian, noting Cameron's glance, and slipping off his pony. In an instant both men were racing for the pack and approaching each other at a sharp angle. Arrived at striking distance, the Indian leaped at Cameron, with his knife, as was his wont, ready to strike.

The appearance of the Indian springing at him seemed to set some of the grey matter in Cameron's brain moving along old tracks. Like a flash he dropped to his knees in an old football tackle, caught the Indian by the legs and tossed him high over his shoulders, then, springing to his feet, he jerked the rifle free from the pack and stood waiting for Little Thunder's attack.

But the Indian lay without sound or motion. Cameron used his opportunity to look for his cartridge belt, which, after a few minutes' anxious search, he discovered in the pack. He buckled the belt about him, made sure his Winchester held a shell, and stood waiting.

That he should be waiting thus with the deliberate purpose of shooting down a fellow human being filled him with a sense of unreality. But the events of the last forty-eight hours had created an entirely new environment, and with extraordinary facility his mind had adjusted itself to this environment, and though two days before he would have shrunk in horror from the possibility of taking a human life, he knew as he stood there that at the first sign of attack he should shoot the Indian down like a wild beast.

Slowly Little Thunder raised himself to a sitting posture and looked about in dazed surprise. As his mind regained its normal condition there deepened in his eyes a look of cunning hatred. With difficulty he rose to his feet and stood facing Cameron. Cameron waited quietly, watching his every move.

“You go in front!” at length commanded Cameron. “And no nonsense, mind you,” he added, tapping his rifle, “or I shoot quick.”

The Indian might not have understood all Cameron's words, but he was in no doubt as to his meaning. It was characteristic of his race that he should know when he was beaten and stoically accept defeat for the time being. Without further word or look he led off his pack ponies, while Cameron took his place at the rear.

But progress was slow. Little Thunder was either incapable of rapid motion or sullenly indifferent to any necessity for it. Besides, there was no demoniacal dynamic forcing the beasts on from the rear. They had not been more than three hours on the trail when Cameron heard behind him the thundering of hoofs. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw coming down upon him Raven, riding as if pursued by a thousand demons. The condition of his horse showed that the race had been long and hard; his black satin skin was dripping as if he had come through a river, his eyes were bloodshot and starting from his head, his mouth was wide open and from it in large clots the foam had fallen upon his neck and chest.

Past Cameron and down upon Little Thunder Raven rushed like a whirlwind, yelling with wild oaths the while,

“Get on! Get on! What are you loafing about here for?”

A few vehement directions to the Indian and he came thundering back upon Cameron.

“What have you been doing?” he cried with an oath. “Why are you not miles on? Get on! Move! Move!! Move!!!” At every yell he hurled his frenzied broncho upon the ponies which brought up the rear, and in a few minutes had the whole cavalcade madly careering down the sloping trail. Wilder and wilder grew the pace. Turning a sharp corner round a jutting rock a pack pony stumbled and went crashing fifty feet to the rock below. “On! On!” yelled Raven, emptying his gun into the struggling animal as he passed. More and more difficult became the road until at length it was impossible to keep up the pace.

“We cannot make it! We cannot make it!” muttered Raven with bitter oaths. “Oh, the cursed fools! Another two miles would do it!”

At length they came to a spot where the trail touched a level bench.

“Halt!” yelled the trader, as he galloped to the head of the column. A few minutes he spent in rapid and fierce consultation with Little Thunder and then came raging back. “We are going to get this bunch down into the valley there,” he shouted, pointing to the thick timber at the bottom. “I do not expect your help, but I ask you to remain where you are for the present. And let me assure you this is no moment for trifling.”

With extraordinary skill and rapidity Little Thunder managed to lead first the pack ponies and then the others, one by one, at intervals, off the trail as they went onward, taking infinite pains to cover their tracks at the various points of departure. While this was being done the trader stood shouting directions and giving assistance with a fury of energy that seemed to communicate itself to the very beasts. But the work was one of great difficulty and took many minutes to accomplish.

“Half an hour more, just half an hour! Fifteen minutes!” he kept muttering. “Just a short fifteen minutes and all would be well.”

As the last pony disappeared into the woods Raven turned to Cameron and with a smile said quietly,

“There, that's done. Now you are free. Here we part. This is your trail. It will take you to Macleod. I am sorry, however, that owing to a change in circumstances for which I am not responsible I must ask you for that rifle.” With the swiftness of a flash of light he whipped his gun into Cameron's face. “Don't move!” he said, still smiling. “This gun of mine never fails. Quick, don't look round. Yes, those hoof beats are our friends the police. Quick! It is your life or mine. I'd hate to kill you, Cameron. I give you one chance more.”

There was no help for it, and Cameron, with his heart filled with futile fury, surrendered his rifle.

“Now ride in front of me a little way. They have just seen us, but they don't know that we are aware of their presence. Ride! Ride! A little faster!” Nighthawk rushed upon Cameron's lagging pony. “There, that's better.”

A shout fell upon their ears.

“Go right along!” said Raven quietly. “Only a few minutes longer, then we part. I have greatly enjoyed your company.”

Another shout.

“Aha!” said Raven, glancing round. “It is, I verily believe it is my old friend Sergeant Crisp. Only two of them, by Jove! If we had only known we need not have hurried.”

Another shout, followed by a bullet that sang over their heads.

“Ah, this is interesting—too interesting by half! Well, here goes for you, sergeant!” He wheeled as he spoke. Turning swiftly in his saddle, Cameron saw him raise his rifle.

“Hold up, you devil!” he shouted, throwing his pony across the black broncho's track.

The rifle rang out, the police horse staggered, swayed, and pitched to the earth, bringing his rider down with him.

“Ah, Cameron, that was awkward of you,” said Raven gently. “However, it is perhaps as well. Goodbye, old man. Tell the sergeant not to follow. Trails hereabout are dangerous and good police sergeants are scarce. Again farewell.” He swung his broncho off the trail and, waving his hand, with a smile, disappeared into the thick underbrush.

“Hold up your hands!” shouted the police officer, who had struggled upright and was now swaying on his feet and covering Cameron with his carbine.

“Hurry! Hurry!” cried Cameron, springing from his pony and waving his hands wildly in the air. “Come on. You'll get him yet.”

“Stand where you are and hold up your hands!” cried the sergeant.

Cameron obeyed, shouting meanwhile wrathfully, “Oh, come on, you bally fool! You are losing him. Come on, I tell you!”

“Keep your hands up or I shoot!” cried the sergeant sternly.

“All right,” said Cameron, holding his hands high, “but for God's sake hurry up!” He ran towards the sergeant as he spoke, with his hands still above his head.

“Halt!” shouted the sergeant, as Cameron came near. “Constable Burke, arrest that man!”

“Oh, come, get it over,” cried Cameron in a fury of passion. “Arrest me, of course, but if you want to catch that chap you'll have to hurry. He cannot be far away.”

“Ah, indeed, my man,” said the sergeant pleasantly. “He is not far away?”

“No, he's a murderer and a thief and you can catch him if you hurry.”

“Ah! Very good, very good! Constable Burke, tie this man up to your saddle and we'll take a look round. How many might there be in your gang?” enquired the sergeant. “Tell the truth now. It will be the better for you.”

“One,” said Cameron impatiently. “A chap calling himself Raven.”

“Raven, eh?” exclaimed Sergeant Crisp with a new interest. “Raven, by Jove!”

“Yes, and an Indian. Little Thunder he called him.”

“Little Thunder! Jove, what a find!” exclaimed the sergeant.

“Yes,” continued Cameron eagerly. “Raven is just ahead in the woods there alone and the Indian is further back with a bunch of ponies down in the river bottom.”

“Oh, indeed! Very interesting! And so Raven is all alone in the scrub there, waiting doubtless to give himself up,” said sergeant Crisp with fine sarcasm. “Well, we are not yet on to your game, young man, but we will not just play up to that lead yet a while.”

In vain Cameron raged and pleaded and stormed and swore, telling his story in incoherent snatches, to the intense amusement of Sergeant Crisp and his companion. At length Cameron desisted, swallowing his rage as best he could.

“Now then, we shall move on. The pass is not more than an hour away. We will put this young man in safe keeping and return for Mr. Raven and his interesting friend.” For a moment he stood looking down upon his horse. “Poor old chap!” he said. “We have gone many a mile together on Her Majesty's errands. If I have done my duty as faithfully as you have done yours I need not fear my record. Take his saddle and bridle off, Burke. We've got one of the gang. Some day we shall come up with Mr. Raven himself.”

“Yes,” said Cameron with passionate bitterness. “And that might be to-day if you had only listened to me. Why, man,” he shouted with reviving rage, “we three could take him even yet!”

“Ah!” said Sergeant Crisp, “so we could.”

“You had him in your hands to-day,” said Cameron, “but like a fool you let him go. But some day, so help me God, I shall bring these murderers to justice.”

“Ah!” said Sergeant Crisp again. “Good! Very good indeed! Now, my man, march!”