This etext was produced by Gardner Buchanan.






THE RISING OF THE RED MAN
A Romance of the Louis Riel Rebellion

by JOHN MACKIE


Author of "The Heart of the Prairie," "Tales of the Trenches,"
"The Cannibal Island," "Daring Deeds in Far Off Lands,"
"The Prodigal's Brother," "The Man Who Forgot," etc.


TO E.M. DAVY.




CONTENTS

PROLOGUE
I.      IN THE GREAT LONE LAND
II.     TIDINGS OF ILL
III.    THE STORM BREAKS
IV.     HARD PRESSED
V.      TO BATTLEFORD
VI.     THE GRIM BLOCKADE
VII.    DETECTED
VIII.   IN THE JUDGMENT HALL
IX.     THE DWARF AND THE BEAR
X.      THE UNEXPECTED
XI.     THE RETREAT
XII.    A MYSTERIOUS STAMPEDE
XIII.   ROOFED
XIV.    A THREE-CORNERED GAME
XV.     CHECKMATED
XVI.    THE FATE OF SERGEANT PASMORE
XVII.   A CLOSE CALL
XVIII.  ACROSS THE ICE
XIX.    CAPTURED BY POUNDMAKER
XX.     THE BATTLE OF CUT-KNIFE
XXI.    BACK TO CAPTIVITY
XXII.   ANTOINE IN TROUBLE
XXIII.  THE DEPARTURE OF PEPIN
xxiv.   THE INDIANS' AWAKENING
XXV.    A PROPOSAL FROM PEPIN
XXVI.   A BOLD BID FOR LIBERTY
XXVII.  AN ONLY WAY
XXVIII. THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW




PROLOGUE

The 16th of March, 1885, was a charming day, and Louis
David Riel, fanatic and rebellion-maker, was addressing
a great general meeting of the half-breeds and Indians
near Batoche on the Saskatchewan river in British North
America. There were representatives from nearly every
tribe; Poundmaker and his Stonies, who were always spoiling
for trouble, being particularly well represented. Round
the arch malcontent were a score of other harpies almost
as wicked if less dangerous than himself. Among them were
Gabriel Dumont, Jackson, Maxime, Garnot and Lepine. Riel's
emissaries had been at work for months, and as the time
was now ripe for a rising he had called them together to
decide upon some definite course of action.

The weather was comparatively mild, and the Indians sat
around on the snow that before many days was to disappear
before the sudden spring thaw. Their red, white, and grey
blankets against the dull-hued tepees [Footnote: Wigwams.]
and the white wintry landscape, gave colour and relief
to the scene. Two o'clock in the afternoon and the sun
shone brightly down as he always does in these latitudes.
Riel knew exactly how long it would continue to shine,
for had not the almanac told him and all the world--with
the exception of the ignorant half-breeds and Indians
whom he was addressing--that there was to be an eclipse
that day. The arch rebel knew how strongly dramatic effect
appealed to his audience, so he was prepared to indulge
them to the full in this respect, and turn the matter to
account. Being an educated man there was a good deal of
method in his madness.

The red-bearded, self-constituted prophet of the _metis_
[Footnote: Half-breeds.] stood on a Red River cart and
spun out his pleasant prognostications concerning that
happy coming era in which unlimited food, tobacco and
fire-water would make merry the hearts of all from the
Missouri in the south, to the Kissaskatchewan in the
north, if only they would do as he told them. As for Pere
Andre and his fulminations against him, what did they
want with the Church of Rome!--he, Louis David Riel, was
going to start a church of his own! Yes, St. Peter had
appeared to him in a vision, and told him that the Popes
had been on the wrong tack long enough, and that
he--Riel--was to be the new head of all things spiritual
and temporal. He promised them a good all-round time when
this came about, as it certainly would before long.

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and looked
anxiously at the sun. What if, after all, the compilers
of the almanac, or he himself, had made a mistake, and
he had called this his most vital meeting on the wrong
day? The bare idea was too terrible. But, no, his keen
eyes detected a dark line on the outer edge of the great
orb, and he knew that the modern astrologers had not
erred. His grand opportunity had come, and he must seize
it. He stretched out his hands and dramatically asked--

"But O, my people, tell me, how can I make manifest to
you that these things shall be as I say? Shall I beg of
the Manitou, the Great Spirit, to give to you a sign that
He approves of the words his servant speaketh, and that
these things shall come to pass?"

From the great crowd of half-breeds and Indians there
went up a hoarse, guttural cry for confirmation.

Yes, if the Manitou would give a sign then no one in the
land would doubt, and those who were feeble of heart
would take courage.

Riel bowed his head, lifted off his beaver-skin cap,
rolled his eyes about, and by his melodramatic movements
claimed the attention of all. He, however, found, time
to shoot a quick glance at the sun. Those almanac people
were wonderfully accurate, but he must hurry up, for in
another minute the eclipse would begin. In a loud voice
he cried--

"You have asked for a sign, and it shall be given unto
you; but woe unto those to whom a sign is given and who
shall pay no heed to the same. Their days shall be cut
short in the land, and their bodies shall burn for ever
in the pit of everlasting fire. The Great Spirit will
darken the face of the sun for a token, and a shadow,
that of the finger of the Manitou Himself, shall sweep
the land."

The knavish fanatic closed his eyes and raised his face
heavenwards. There was a rapturous look on it, and his
lips moved. He was calling upon the Almighty to give them
the sign which he obligingly indicated. The new head of
the church was already distinguishing himself. As for
the half-breeds and Indians, they sat around with
incredulity and awe alternately showing upon their faces.
It was something new in their experiences for the Manitou
to interest himself personally in their affairs. A great
silence fell upon them; the prophet mumbled inarticulately
and proceeded with his hanky-panky.

Then a great murmur and chorus of "Ough! Ough's!" and
"me-was-sins!" [Footnote: Meaning good or approval.]
arose from the Indians, while many of the half-breeds
crossed themselves. Incredulity changed to belief and
fear, and the simple ones raised their voices in wondering
accents to testify to the potency of the "big medicine"
that was being wrought before their eyes. The hand of
the Manitou was slowly but surely passing over the face
of the sun and darkening it. The shadow of that same hand
was already creeping up from the east. The rapt prophet
never once opened his eyes, but he knew from the great
hoarse roar of voices around him that the almanac had
not erred. And then the clamour subsided, as the face of
the sun was darkened, and the ominous shadow fell like
a chill over them ere passing westward. The Indians
shivered in their blankets and were thrilled by this
gratuitous and wonderful proof of their new leader's
intimacy with the Great Spirit. But what if the Great
Spirit should take it into His head to darken the face
of the light-giver for ever! It was a most alarming
prospect truly. Louis David Riel opened his eyes, glanced
at the sun, and said--

"The Manitou is pleased to remove His hand and to give
us light again."

Then, as it seemed more quickly than it had been darkened,
the blackness was removed from the sun's face, and the
shadow passed.

The murmur and the shout that went up from the wondering
throng must have been as music in the ears of the arrant
fraud. He looked down upon the deluded ones with triumph
and a new sense of power.

"The Great Spirit has spoken!" he said with commendable
dramatic brevity.

"Big is the Medicine of Riel!" cried the people. "We
are ready to do his bidding when the time comes."

"The time has come," said Riel.

Never perhaps in the history of impostors from Mahomet
to the Mahdi had an almanac proved so useful.




CHAPTER I

IN THE GREAT LONE LAND

It was the finest old log house on the banks of the mighty
Saskatchewan river, and the kitchen with its old-fashioned
furniture and ample space was the best room in it. On
the long winter nights when the ice cracked on the river,
when the stars twinkled coldly in the blue, and Nature
slept under the snows, it was the general meeting-place
of the Douglas household.

Henry Douglas, widower and rancher, was perhaps, one of
the best-to-do men between Battleford and Prince Albert.
The number of his cattle and horses ran into four figures,
and no one who knew him begrudged his success. He was an
upright, cheery man, who only aired his opinions round
his own fireside, and these were always charitable. But
to-night he did not speak much; he was gazing thoughtfully
into the flames that sprang in gusty jets from the logs,
dancing fantastically and making strange noises. At length
he lifted his head and looked at that great good-natured
French Canadian giant, Jacques St Arnaud, who sat opposite
him, and said--

"I tell you, Jacques, I don't like it. There's trouble
brewing oh the Saskatchewan, and if the half-breeds get
the Indians to rise, there'll be--" he glanced sideways
at his daughter, and hesitated--"well, considerable
unpleasantness."

"That's so," said Jacques, also looking at the fair girl
with the strangely dark eyes. "It is all so queer. You
warned the Government two, three months ago, did you not,
that there was likely to be trouble, but still they did
not heed? Is not that so?"

"I did, but I've heard no more about it. And now the
Police are beginning to get uneasy. They're a mighty fine
body of men, but if the half-breeds and Indians get on
the war-path, they'll swamp the lot, and--"

"Shoo!" interrupted the giant, again looking at the girl,
but this time with unmistakable alarm on his face. "Them
Injuns ain't going to eat us. You've been a good friend
to them and to the metis. So!"

Jacques St. Arnaud had been in the rancher's service
since before the latter's child had been born down in
Ontario, some eighteen years ago, and followed him into
the great North-West to help conquer the wilderness and
establish his new home. He had a big heart in a large
body, and his great ambition was to be considered a rather
terrible and knowing fellow, while, as a matter of fact,
he was the most inoffensive of mortals, and as simple in
some ways as a child.

"Bah!" he continued after a pause, "the metis are
ungrateful dogs, and the Indians, they are mad also. I
would like to take them one by one and wring their
necks--so!"

The rancher tried to conceal the concern he felt. His
fifty odd years sat lightly upon him, although his hair
was grey. His daughter had only been back from Ontario
for two years, but in that time she had bulked so largely
in his life that he wondered now how he could ever have
got along without her. She reminded him of that helpmate
and wife who had gone hence a few years after her daughter
was born, and whose name was now a sacred memory. He had
sent the girl down East to those whom he knew would look
after her properly, and there, amid congenial surroundings,
she grew and quickened into a new life. But the spell of
the vast, broad prairie lands was upon her, and the love
for her father was stronger still, so she went, back to
both, and there her mind broadened, and her spirit grew
in harmony with the lessons that an unconventional life
was for ever working out for itself in those great,
unfettered spaces where Nature was in the rough and the
world was still young. She grew and blossomed into a
beautiful womanhood, as blossoms the vigorous wild-flower
of the prairies. When she smiled there was the light and
the glamour of the morning star in her dark hazel eyes,
and when her soul communed with itself, it was as if one
gazed into the shadow of the stream. There was a gleam
of gold in her hair that was in keeping with the freshness
of her nature, and the hue of perfect health was upon
her cheeks. Her eighteen years had brought with them all
the promise of the May. That she had inherited the
adventure-loving spirit of the old pioneers, as well as
the keen appreciation of the humorous side of things,
was obvious from the amount of entertainment she seemed
to find in the company of Old Rory. He was an old-timer
of Irish descent, who had been everywhere from the Red
River in the east to the Fraser in the west, and from
Pah-ogh-kee Lake in the south to the Great Slave Lake in
the north. He had been _voyageur_, trapper, cowboy,
farm-hand in the Great North-West for years, and nothing
came amiss to him. Now he was the hired servant of her
father, doing what was required of him, and that well.
He was spare and wrinkled as an old Indian, and there
was hardly an unscarred inch in his body, having been
charged by buffaloes, clawed by bears and otherwise
resented by wild animals.

"Rory," said the girl after a pause, and the softness of
her voice was something to conjure with, "what do you
think? Are the half-breeds and Indians going to interfere
with us if they do rise?"

"Thar be good Injuns and bad Injuns," said Rory doggedly,"
but more bad nor good. The Injun's a queer animile when
he's on the war-path; he's like Pepin Quesnelle's tame
b'ar at Medicine Hat that one day chawed up Pepin, who
had been like a father to 'im, 'cos he wouldn't go stares
wid a dose of castor-oil he was a-swallerin' for the good
of his health. You see, the b'ar an' Pepin used allus
to go whacks like."

The girl laughed, but still she was uneasy in her mind.
She mechanically watched the tidy half-breed woman and
the elderly Scotchwoman who had been her mother's servant
in the old Ontario days, as the two silently went on, at
the far end of the long room, with the folding and putting
away of linen. Her eyes wandered with an unwonted
wistfulness over the picturesque brown slabs of pine that
constituted the walls, the heavy, rudely-dressed tie-beams
of the roof over which were stacked various trim bundles
of dried herbs, roots and furs, and from which hung
substantial hams of bacon and bear's meat. As she looked
over the heads of the little group on the broad benches
round the fire, she saw the firelight and lamplight glint
cheerfully on the old-fashioned muskets and flintlock
pistols that decorated the walls--relics of the old
romantic days when the two companies of French and English
adventurers traded into Hudson's Bay.

She had an idea. She would ask the sergeant of Mounted
Police in charge of the detachment of four men, whose
little post was within half-a-mile of the homestead, what
he thought of the situation, and he would have to tell
her. Sergeant Pasmore was one of those men of few words
who somehow seemed to know everything. A man of rare
courage she knew him to be, for had he not gained his
promotion by capturing the dangerous renegade Indian,
Thunder-child, single-handed? She knew that Thunderchild
had lately broken prison, and was somewhere in the
neighbourhood waiting to have his revenge upon the
sergeant. Sergeant Pasmore was a man both feared and
respected by all with whom he came in contact. He was
the embodiment of the law; he carried it, in fact, on
the horn of his saddle in the shape of his Winchester
rifle; a man who was supposed to be utterly devoid of
sentiment, but who had been known to perform more than
one kindly action. Her father liked him, and many a time
he had spent a long evening by the rancher's great
fireside.

As she thought of these things, she was suddenly startled
by three firm knocks at the door. Jacques rose from his
seat, and opening it a few inches, looked out into the
clear moonlight. He paused a moment, then asked--

"Who are you, and what you want?"

"How!" [Footnote: Form of salutation in common use among
the Indians and half-breeds.] responded a strange-voice.

"Aha! Child-of-Light!" exclaimed Jacques.

And into the room strode a splendid specimen of a red
man in all the glory of war paint and feathers.




CHAPTER II

TIDINGS OF ILL

   "Mislike me not for my complexion,
   The shadow'd livery of the burnished sun."
      _Merchant of Venice._

"How! How!" said the rancher, looking up at the tall
Indian. "You are welcome to my fireside, Child-of-Light.
Sit down."

He rose and gave him his hand. With a simple dignity the
fine-looking savage returned his salutation.

"The master is good," he said. "Child-of-Light still
remembers how in that bad winter so many years ago, when
the cotton-tails and rabbits had died from the disease
that takes them in the throat, and the wild animals that
live upon them died also because there was nought to eat,
and how when disease and famine tapped at the buffalo
robe that screens the doorways of the tepees, he who is
the brother of the white man and the red man had compassion
and filled the hungry mouths."

"Ah, well, that's all right, Child-of-Light," lightly
said Douglas, wondering what the chief had come to say.
He understood the red man's ways, and knew he would learn
all in good time.

But the chief would not eat or drink. He would, however,
smoke, and helped himself from the pouch that Douglas
offered. He let his blanket fall from his shoulders, and
underneath there showed a richly-wrought shirt of true
barbaric grandeur. On a groundwork of crimson flannel
was wrought a rare and striking mosaic in beads of blue
and yellow and red. The sun glowed from his breast,
countless showy ermine tails dangled from his shoulders,
his arms and his sides like a gorgeous fringe, and numerous
tiny bells tinkled all over him as he moved. His features
were large and marked, his forehead, high, and his nose
aquiline. His Mongolian set eyes were dark and full of
intellect, his expression a strange mixture of alertness,
conscious power, and dignity. He was a splendid specimen
of humanity.

He filled his pipe leisurely, then spoke as if he hardly
expected that what he had to say would interest his
hearers.

The half-breeds, led by Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont,
had risen, he said, and large numbers of the Indians had
joined them. Before twenty-four hours there would hardly
be a farmstead or ranche in Saskatchewan that would not
be pillaged and burnt to the ground. He, Child-of-Light,
had managed to keep his band in check, but there were
thousands of Indians in the country, Crees, Salteaus,
Chippeywans, Blackfoot, Bloods, Piegans, Sarcees, renegade
Siouxs, and Crows who would join the rebels. Colonel
Irvine, of the North-West Mounted Police at Fort Carlton,
had already destroyed all the stores, and, having set
fire to the buildings, was retreating on the main body.

Douglas the rancher had "sat quietly while the chief told
his alarming news. He hardly dared look at his daughter.

"I have been a fool!" he said bitterly. "I have tried to
hide the truth from myself, and now it may be too late.
Of course it's not the stock and place I'm thinking about,
Dorothy, but it's you--I had no right---"

"Oh, hush, dad!" cried the girl, who seemed the least
concerned of any. "I don't believe the rebels will
interfere with us. Besides, have we not our friend,
Child-of-Light?"

"The daughter of my brother Douglas is as my own child,"
said the chief simply, "and her life I will put before
mine. But Indians on the war-path are as the We'h-ti-koo,
[Footnote: Indians of unsound mind who become cannibals.]
who are possessed of devils, whose onward rush is as the
waters of the mighty Saskatchewan river when it has forced
the ice jam."

"And so, Child-of-Light, what would you have us do?"
asked Douglas. "Do you think if possible for my daughter
and the women to reach the Fort at Battleford?"

But a sharp tapping at the door stopped the answer of
the chief.

Rory shot back the bolt and threw open the door. A
fur-clad figure entered; the white frost glistened on
his buffalo-coat and bear-skin cap as if they were tipped
with ermine. He walked without a word into the light and
looked around--an admirable man, truly, about six feet
in height, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and without
a spare ounce of flesh--a typical Rider of the Plains,
and a soldier, every inch of him. In the thousands upon
thousands of square miles in which these dauntless military
police have to enforce law and order, the inhabitants
know that never yet has the arm of justice not proved
long enough to bring an offender to book. On one occasion
a policeman disappeared into the wilderness after some
one who was wanted. As in three months he neither came
back, nor was heard of, he was struck off the strength
of the force. But one day, as the men stood on parade in
the barrack square, he came back in rags and on foot,
more like a starved tramp than a soldier. But with him
he brought his prisoner. That was the man, Sergeant
Pasmore, who stood before them.

He inclined his head to Dorothy, and nodded to the men
around the fire, but when he saw Child-of-Light he extended
his left hand.

The Indian looked straight into the sergeant's eyes.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Ough! Ough! I see; you
have met Thunderchild?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Yes," he said, with apparent unconcern, "Thunderchild
managed to put a bullet through my arm. You may give me
a hand off with my coat, Jacques. Luckily, the wound's
not bad enough to prevent my firing a gun."

When they removed his overcoat they found that the sleeve
of the tunic had been cut away, and that his arm had been
roughly bandaged. The girl was gazing at it in a peculiarly
concentrated fashion.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Douglas," he said, hastily
turning away from her. "I had forgotten it looked like
that, but fortunately the look is the worst part of it.
It's only a flesh wound."

The girl had stepped forward to help him, as if resenting
the imputation that the sight of blood frightened her,
but Jacques had anticipated what was required. She wanted
to bring him something to eat and drink, but he thanked
her and declined. He had weightier matters on hand.

"Mr. Douglas," he said, quietly, "I've told my men to
move over here. You may require their services in the
course of the next twenty-four hours. What I apprehended
and told you about some time ago has occurred."

"Pasmore," said the rancher, earnestly, "is there any
immediate danger? If there is, my daughter and the women
had better go into Battleford right now."

"You cannot go now--you must wait till to-morrow morning,"
was the reply. "It's no use taking your household goods
into the Fort--there's no room there. Your best plan is
to leave things just as they are, and trust to the rebels
being engaged elsewhere. I believe your warriors,
Child-of-Light, are in the wood in the deep coulee just
above where the two creeks meet?"

"That is right, brother," said the Indian, "but what
about Thunderchild, the turncoat?"

And then Pasmore told them how he had gone to Thunderchild's
camp that day to arrest the outlaw, and warn his braves
against joining the rebels, and how he had been shot
through the arm, and only escaped with his life. He had
come straight on to warn them. In the meantime he would
advise the women to make preparations for an early start
on the morrow. Food and clothing would have to be taken,
as they might be away for weeks.

Then, while Dorothy Douglas and her two women-servants
were already making preparations for a move, a brief
council of war was held. Child-of-Light, when asked,
advised that the Mounted Police and those present should
next day escort the women into Fort Battleford, while he
and his braves ran off the rancher's fine herd of horses,
so as to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy.

Pasmore said that this was exactly the right thing to
do. He also intimated that there was a party of half-breeds,
the Racettes and the St. Croixs, coming by trail at that
very moment from Battleford to plunder and pillage; they
would probably arrive before many hours. He had, however,
taken the precaution of stationing men on the look-out
on the neighbouring ridges.

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Jacques, springing to his feet.
"It is the neck of that St. Croix I will want to wring.
It is two, three years ago now he say he will wring mine;
but very good care he will take to keep away. Ah, well,
we shall see, my friend, we shall see!"

Child-of-Light stole out to his men in the coulee, and
Jacques and Rory went to the stables and out-houses to
make certain preparations so that they might be able to
start at any moment. The windows were boarded up, so that
if the half-breeds came no signs of life might be observed
in the house. Douglas saw that certain loopholes in the
walls commanding the lines of approach, which he himself
had made by way of precaution when danger from the Indians
had threatened in the old days, were reopened and plugged
in case of emergency.

As for the sergeant, he had not slept for three days,
and was too utterly tired out to be of any assistance.
He had done what he could, and had now to await
developments. The fire was good, and he had dropped, at
the rancher's request, into a comfortable high-backed
chair in a corner, where he fell asleep.




CHAPTER III

THE STORM BREAKS

Midnight, and the rancher had left the house to assist
Rory and Jacques with the sleighs, which had to be packed
with certain necessaries such as tea, coffee, sugar,
bread and flour, frozen meat, pemmican, culinary articles,
snow-shoes, and ammunition.

Dorothy, having made all the preparations she could, had
re-entered the kitchen. The first thing that drew her
attention was the sleeping figure of the sergeant in the
chair. She was filled with self-reproach. Why had she
forgotten all about this wounded, tired-out man? Why did
she always seem to be holding him at arm's-length when
there was, surely, no earthly reason why she should do
so? His manner had always been perfectly courteous to
her, and even deferential. He had done her father many
acts of kindness, without as much as referring to them,
and still, with a spice of perversity, she had always
shrunk from appearing to notice him. She shrewdly suspected
that his present life was not the sort of one he had been
accustomed to, that, in fact, he belonged by birth and
upbringing to a state of things very different from hers.
He looked wretchedly uncomfortable and, doubtless, as
his limbs seemed cramped, they were cold. She would find
a rug to throw over him.

She picked up one, and, with a strange shyness that she
had never experienced before, placed it carefully over
him. If he awoke she would die with terror--now that he
was asleep and did not know that she was looking after
his comfort, she experienced a strange, undefinable
pleasure in so doing. It was quite a new feeling--something
that filled her with a vague wonder.

And then he suddenly opened his eyes, and looked at her
for a few moments without stirring.

"Thank you," he said simply, and closed his eyes again.

She could have cried with vexation. If he had been profuse
in his thanks she would have had an opportunity of cutting
him short with some commonplace comment.

"Hadn't you better lie on the couch, Mr. Pasmore?" she
said. "You don't look as if you fitted that chair, and
it makes you snore so."

She had hardly thought herself capable of such perfidy,
but she did not want him to think that she could be
altogether blind to his faults. He sat bolt upright in
an instant, and stammered out an apology.

But she cut it short. She resented the idea that he should
imagine she took sufficient interest in him to be put
out by a trifle.

At that very moment there rang out a rifle shot from the
ridge just above the wood hard by. It was followed by
another at a greater distance.

"There!" said the girl, with a finger pressed against
her lower lip, and a look as if of relief on her face.
"Now you will have some work to do. They have come sooner
than you expected."

He scanned her face for a moment as if to note how this
quick call to grim tragedy affected her. A man of courage
himself, he instantly read there possibilities of a very
high order and exceptional nerve. There was nothing
neurotic about her. Whatever the wayward imaginings of
her heart might be, she was a fresh, wholesome and healthy
daughter of the prairie, one whose nerves were in accord
with her mind and body, one for whom there were no physical
or imaginary bogeys.

"It won't frighten you, will it, if we have to turn this
kitchen into a sort of shooting gallery?" he asked.

She smiled at the very familiarity with which he handled
his subject.

"It will be unpleasant," she replied simply, "but you
know I'm accustomed to rifles."

"You don't seem to realise what a rising means amongst
savages," he continued. "You must never lose your head,
whatever happens, and you must never trust any one outside
your own family circle. You must never let yourself fall
into their hands; you understand me?"

"I understand," she said, facing him unflinchingly, "and
I have my rifle in case of emergencies."

"You are stronger than I thought," he said thankfully,
looking at her for the first time with unmistakable
admiration.

The rancher entered the room. He had always been noted
for his coolness in time of danger. He looked quickly at
his daughter, and was wonderfully relieved to see her
take the situation so quietly. He kissed her, and said--

"Now, my dear, you'd better get into the other room till
this affair is over. There's no need to be alarmed."

How he wished he could have believed what he said!'

"I'm not frightened, dad, a little bit, and I'm going to
stay right with" you and load the guns."

"Lower the lamp," cried Pasmore, suddenly.

In another minute each man was glancing along the barrel
of his rifle out into the clear moonlight. They faced
the entrance to the valley up which came the enemy. It
was a dimly-defined half-circle, with a deep-blue,
star-studded background. A fringe of trees ran up it,
bordering the frozen creek alongside the trail. Stealthily
stealing up, they could see a number of dark figures.
Every now and again, from the heights above on either
hand, they could see a little jet of fire spurt, and hear
the crack of a Winchester as the Mounted Police on the
look-out tried to pick off members of the attacking body
from their inaccessible point of vantage. But the
half-breeds and Indians contented themselves with firing
an odd shot in order to warn them off. They would deal
with them later. In the meantime they came nearer.

"Ah, St. Croix, old friend! It is my neck you will want
to wring, is it? Eh, bien!" And Jacques chuckled audibly.

"Now, hold hard, and wait until I give you the word,"
said Pasmore, quietly.

The rebels, of whom there might be some thirty or forty,
now came out into the open and approached the house until
they were abreast of the out-buildings. In the clear
moonlight they could be seen distinctly, clad in their
great buffalo coats, with collars up over their ears,
and bearskin and beaver-caps pulled well down.

At a signal from their leader they raised their rifles
to send a preparatory volley through the windows.

"_Now then!_" thundered Pasmore.

Four rifles cracked like one, and three rebels dropped
where they stood, while a fourth, clapping his hands to
the lower part of his body, spun round and round, stamping
his feet, reviling the comrades who had brought him there,
and blaspheming wildly, while the blood spurted out
between his fingers. At the same moment, several bullets
embedded themselves in the thick window shutters and in
the walls. One only found its way through the dried mud
between the logs, and this smashed a bowl that stood on
the dresser within two feet of Dorothy's head. She merely
glanced at it casually, and picking up the basket of
cartridges, prepared to hand them round. With fingers
keen and warming to their work, the defenders emptied
the contents of their magazines into the astonished
half-breeds and Indians. It was more than the latter had
bargained for. They made for an open shed that stood hard
by, leaving their dead and wounded in the snow.

"What ho! Johnnie Crapaud, you pig!" cried Rory, withdrawing
his rifle from the loophole, and applying his mouth to
it instead. "It's the Red River jig I've bin dyin' to
tache ye for many a long day."

At the same moment Jacques caught sight of his old _bete
noire_, Leopold St. Croix the elder, and, not to be
outdone by his friend Rory in the exchange of seasonable
civilities with the enemy--although, when he came to
think of it afterwards, he might as well have shot his
man--he was applying his mouth to, his loophole to shout
something in the same vein when the quick-eyed Leopold
fired a shot at the spot from which the gun-barrel had
just been withdrawn. So lucky or good was his aim that
he struck the mud in the immediate neighbourhood of the
hole, and sent the _debris_ flying into the
French-Canadian's mouth. Jacques spent the rest of his
time when in the house watching for a long-haired half-breed
with a red sash round his waist, who answered to the name
of St. Croix the elder.

_Ping, ping, ping, zip--phut--cr-runck!_ and the bullets
played a very devil's tattoo upon the walls and windows.
The enemy were still five to one, and if they could only
succeed in rushing in and breaking down the doors, victory
would be in their hands. But to do that meant death to
so many.

Another half-hour, and the firing still continued, though
in a more desultory fashion. It was a strange waiting
game, and a grim one, that was being played. The defenders
had shifted their positions to guard against surprise.
Douglas had in vain begged his daughter to leave the room
and join the women in an inner apartment, but she had
pleaded so hard with him that he allowed her to remain.

As for the sergeant, he was outwardly, at least, his old
self. He was silent and watchful, showing neither concern
nor elation. He moved from one position to another, and
never pulled the trigger of his Winchester without making
sure of something. With the help of Douglas he had pulled
on his fur coat again, as the fire was going out, and he
was beginning to feel the cold in his wound.

"I can't make out why Child-of-Light hasn't come up with
his men," he said at length, "but, anyhow, he is sure to
turn up--"

He paused, listening. Then all in the room heard the
_chip-chop_ of an axe as it steadily cut its way through
a post of considerable size. The rebels were evidently
busy. Suddenly the sound stopped.

"They're preparing for a rush," observed Rory. "What
I'm surprisit at is ther riskin' their ugly carcases as
they do."

"Sargain Pasmore--Sargean?" cried some-one from the shed.

"Aha! he has recognised your voice," said Jacques. "He
is as the fox, that St. Croix."

"Well, what is it?" shouted the sergeant.

What the half-breed had to say rather took the sergeant
aback. It was to the effect that unless they surrendered
within a few minutes, they would all most assuredly be
killed.

Then for the first time that night Sergeant Pasmore
betrayed in his voice any feeling that may have animated
him.

"Go home, Leopold St. Croix," he cried, "go home, and
those with you before it is too late! Go on to the Fort
and ask pardon from those in authority, and it may yet
be well with you; For as soon as the red-coated soldiers
of the Great Queen come--and, take my word for it, they
are in number more than the fishes in the Great Lake--you
will be shot like a coyote on the prairie, or hanged by
the neck, like a bad Indian, on the gallows-tree. That
is our answer, Leopold St Croix; you know me of old, and
you also know how I have always kept my word."

There was a dead silence for a minute or two, and whilst
it lasted one could hear the embers of the dying fire
fall into ashes. On a shelf, an eight-day clock ticked
ominously; the girl stood with one hand upon her father's
shoulder, motionless and impassive, like some beautiful
statue. There was no trace of fear of any impending
tragedy to mar the proud serenity of her face. At length
the sound of voices came to them from outside. It grew
in volume and rose like the angry murmur of the sea.
Pasmore was looking through a crack when the noise of
the chopping began again. In another minute there was a
crash of falling timber.

The sergeant turned to the girl.

"Miss Douglas," he said, "will you kindly go into the
other room for a minute! They have cut down one of the
large posts in the shed and are going to make a
battering-ram of it so as to smash in the door. Come
this way, all of you. Two on either side. That is right.
Fire into them as they charge!"




CHAPTER IV

HARD PRESSED

The half-breeds and Indians, keen and determined as they
were to effect an entrance to the house at any costs,
were not without considerable foresight and strategy.
But their feint failed, and when they did make a rush
with their ram two or three of them were picked off. The
survivors dropped the ram, and made a dash across the
open for the stable.

Pasmore telling the others to remain at their loopholes,
went to a room at the end of the long passage, Dorothy
following him.

The rebels must have applied a match to some of the
inflammable matter, for in another instant the growing,
hissing roar of fire was audible.

"It will spread to the house in a few minutes more,"
remarked the sergeant, quietly, "and I'm afraid that will
be the end of it."

But he had already seized an axe and was opening the
door.

"Shut the door after me and go to your father," he
exclaimed. "I'll cut down the slabs that connect it with
the house. Child-of-Light may come up yet. Good-bye--in
case of accidents."

She caught him by the arm and looked into his face.

"You can't do that--you must _not_ do that! You are sure
to be shot down."

"And I may be shot if I don't." Forcibly, but with what
gentleness the action permitted, he disengaged her firm
white hand.

"You can't use an axe with that arm," she pleaded, all
her old reserve vanishing.

"I can at a pinch," he replied. "It is good of you to
trouble about me."

He slipped out and pulled the door behind him. The look
he had seen in her eyes had come as a revelation and
given him courage.

She stood for a moment speechless and motionless, with
a strained, set expression on her face. It was old Rory
who aroused her to the gravity of the situation. He came
running along the passage.

"Come hyar, honey, and into the cellar wid ye," he cried.
"There's more of the inimy comin' along the trail, but
there's still a chanct. Nivir say die, sez I."

As if roused from some horrible dream her feverish energy
and readiness of resource returned to her.

"Come into the next room," she cried to Rory; "we can
see the oil-house from the window. He is out there pulling
down the stockade and we can keep them back from him.
Quick, Rory!"

Like one possessed she made for the first door on the
left of the passage.

Along the trail came the new lot of half-breeds and
Indians to the assistance of their fellows, or, perhaps
it would be more correct to say, to see to it that they
did not miss their full share of the plunder. Roused to
fresh efforts by the sight of the others, those on the
spot fairly riddled the doors and windows of the house.
The bullets were whizzing into the kitchen in every
direction, splintering the furniture and sending the
plaster flying from the walls until the room was filled
with a fine, blinding, choking dust. It was impossible
to hold out much longer. The final rush was sure to come
in a very few minutes--and all would be over.

Pasmore had cut off the house from the burning shed by
hewing down the connecting wall, while Dorothy Douglas
and Rory, by firing from a side window, had kept the
enemy from approaching; After what seemed an age, Pasmore
rejoined them.

There was a pause in the firing, then a hoarse murmur of
excited voices came from the sheds. It rose like a sudden
storm on the Lake of the Winds. There was a wild volley
and a rush of feet. A dark body smashed in the casement
and tried to follow it, but Rory's long knife gleamed in
the air, and the intruder fell back in his death agony.
Rory seldom wasted powder and shot at close quarters.
The sergeant looked at the girl strangely.

"Come with me to your father," he said hoarsely.

"Is it the end?" she asked.

"I fear it is," he replied; "but we'll fight to the
finish."

He opened the door and led the way out.

"I must go to the others," he continued. "Rory can guard
this end of the house. Will you come with me?"

"Yes, and remember your promise--I am not afraid."

"I am," he admitted, "but not of them."

They reached the kitchen, but he would not let her enter.

"Stay where you are for a moment," he commanded firmly.

He found Douglas and Jacques still holding the doorway,
though the door itself, and the table which had been
placed against it, were badly wrecked. A breed had actually
forced his body through a great rent when they had rushed,
but Jacques had tapped him over the head with the stock
of his rifle and cracked it as he would have done an
egg-shell. The lifeless body still filled the gap.

"Bravo, gentlemen," cried the sergeant, "we shall exact
our price. If we can only stand them off a little longer--"

The words died on his lips as a rattle of musketry awoke
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the surrounding ridges.
It grew in volume until it seemed all around them. Several
bullets struck the house that did not come from those
immediately attacking. A series of wild whoops could be
heard from among the pines on the hillside, and they came
nearer and nearer.

"It's Child-of-Light and his Crees!" cried Pasmore. "He
saw the new lot approaching and waited until they fell
into the trap. Now he has surrounded them."

"Thank God!" cried the rancher, and never had he breathed
a more sincere thanksgiving.

The breeds and Indians made back for the out-buildings;
then, realising that sooner or later these must prove
untenable, they scurried for the pine wood on the hillside.
But now Child-of-Light and his braves were on the ridges
and a desperate running fight ensued. Not more than a
dozen of the enemy managed to get safely away. For hours
afterwards they held their own from the vantage of the
rocks and pines.

When those in the house realised that all immediate danger
was over, they took the change of situations
characteristically. The rancher went quietly to find his
daughter. She showed no signs of any reaction, although
perhaps she had a hard struggle to conquer her feelings.
Jacques wanted to sally out and seek for Leopold St.
Croix, so that they might settle once and for all their
little differences, but Sergeant Pasmore vetoed this.
There was other work to do, he said. It was no use
remaining at the ranche; the women must go into the fort
at Battleford--if, indeed, it were possible to get
through to it. As for Rory, he had gone to the stables
and seen to the horses and the dogs that were to pull
the sleighs; these latter, by the way, were a remarkable
lot, and comprised as many varieties as there are different
breeds of pigeons. There were Chocolats, Muskymotes,
Cariboos, Brandies, Whiskies, Corbeaus, and a few others.
During the fight they had kept wonderfully quiet, but
now they seemed to know that it was over, and began,
after the playful manner of their kind, to indulge in a
spirited battle on their own account. Rory snatched up
a whip with the object of seeing fair play.

An hour later and a strange scene that kitchen presented,
with its wounded, smoke-stained men, Its shattered doors
and windows, and splintered tables and dresser. The four
Mounted Policemen had come down from the ridges where
they had so harassed the enemy and were now receiving
steaming pannikins of coffee.

Child-of-Light had just come in, and told how to the
north Big Bear and his Stonies were lurking somewhere,
not to speak of Thunderchild and one or two others, so
it would be as well to try Battleford first. His braves
at that moment were pursuing the fleeing breeds and
Indians, but he had ordered them to return soon in order
that they might remove the dead and wounded from the
ranche, and then see after the stock belonging to their
brother Douglas. It had been as Sergeant Pasmore had
said--they had seen the fresh enemy coming up and delayed
their attack until they could surround them.

But grey-eyed morn had come at last; the sleighs were
packed and brought round to the door. It was time to make
a start.




CHAPTER V

TO BATTLEFORD

It was quite a little procession of jumpers and sledges
that set out from the rancher's that morning after the
fight. First went the police, each man on his little
box-like jumper with its steel-shod runners drawn by a
hardy half-bred broncho. Next came Rory in a dog-sled
cariole, with his several pugnacious canine friends made
fast by moose-skin collars. They would have tried the
patience of Job. They fought with each other on the
slightest pretext from sheer love of fighting, and knew
not the rules of Queensberry. If one of them happened to
get down in one of their periodical little outbreaks,
the others promptly abandoned their more equal contests
to pile on to that unfortunate one.

The rancher and Dorothy came next in a comfortable sleigh,
with large buffalo robes all around them to keep out the
cold. Then came the two women servants in a light wagon-box
set on runners, and driven by Jacques. A Mounted Policeman
in a jumper formed the rear-guard at a distance of about
half-a-mile. The wagons were well stocked with all
necessaries for camping out.

It was a typical North-West morning, cold, bracing and
clear. The dry air stimulated one, and the winter sun
shone cheerfully down upon the great white land of virgin
snow.

There was a sense of utter solitude, of an immensity of
space. There was no sound save the soft, even swish of
the runners over the snow, and the regular muffled pounding
of the horses' hoofs.

Within the next hour so buoyant were Dorothy's spirits,
and so light-hearted and genuine her outlook on things
in general, that Douglas began to wonder if the events
of the previous evening were not, after all, the imaginings
of some horrible nightmare.

On, on, over the plains of frozen snow. The sun was so
strong now that Douglas was obliged to put great goggles
over his eyes, and Dorothy pulled a dark veil down over
hers, for fear of snow-blindness. They had left the flat
prairie behind, and were now in the bluff country which
was simply heights and hollows lightly timbered with
birch, poplar and saskatoon bushes, with beautiful meadows
and small lakes or "sloughs" scattered about everywhere.
They passed many pretty homesteads nestling cosily in
sheltered nooks; but no smoke rose from their chimneys;
they all seemed to have been deserted in a hurry. Their
occupants had doubtless fled into Battleford. What if
they had been too late to reach that haven of refuge!

At noon the travellers stopped in a little wooded valley
for dinner. It was more like a picnic party than that of
refugees fleeing for their lives. The Scotswoman actually
made a dish of pancakes for the troopers, because she
said there was one of them who reminded her of her own
son, whom she had not seen for many a long day. The
sincere thanks of the hungry ones were more than recompense
for the worthy dame.

They all sat down on buffalo robes spread on the snow,
and Dorothy was immensely taken with the gentlemanly,
unobtrusive way in which the troopers waited upon the
women of the party. But they were all mostly younger sons
of younger sons, and public school men, so after all it
was not to be wondered at. The high standard of honour
and duty, and the courage that was a religion animating
the force--the North-West Mounted Police--was easily
accounted for. She began to understand how it was that
some men preferred such a life to that of the mere quest
for gold.

Every one seemed in the best of spirits. Wounds were not
mentioned, so it went without saying that these, owing
to the healthy bodies of their owners, were giving no
trouble. The only interruption of a non-harmonic nature
was when a burly Muskymote dog of Rory's team took it
into its head that a little _tete-noire_ dog had received
a portion of frozen fish from its master out of all
proportion to its inconsiderable size, so, as soon as
Rory's back was turned, showed its disapproval of such
favouritism by knocking the favoured one down, and trying
to bite off the tips of its ears. As the other dogs, with
their peculiar new Queensberry instincts, at once piled
on to the one that was getting the worst of it, Rory had
to put down the chicken leg he was enjoying to arbitrate
with his whip in the usual way. He gave the jealous
Muskymote an extra smack or two for its ill-timed behaviour
as he thought of that chicken leg.

To Dorothy's no little surprise she found Pasmore unusually
communicative. Despite his seeming austerity, he possessed
a keen vein of humour of a dry, pungent order that was
eminently entertaining. To-day he gave vent to it, and
she found herself laughing and talking to him in a way
that, twenty-four hours before she would not have deemed
possible.

Dinner over, the horses were watered--they had now cooled
down--the culinary articles were stowed away, pipes lit,
and preparations made for a fresh start. It would be
necessary to move with extreme caution, as they were not
more than twelve miles from Battleford, and the enemy
were pretty sure to have their scouts out.

On again through the still air, and between the winding
avenues of birch, poplar and saskatoon bushes. Nothing
to be heard save the occasional call of the grouse in
the bracken, and the monotonous chafing of the harness.
At dusk they arrived within a mile or two of the little
town, and halted.

A fire was lit in a deserted farmhouse, and a good drink
of hot tea put fresh life into them. There was trying
and dangerous work to be done that night; they would
require to be well prepared.

An hour later, when the moon began to show over the
tree-tops, the entire party moved out silently by a
little-used by-path towards Battleford. A couple of
troopers went on some considerable distance in front,
and one on either flank, with strict instructions to
create no alarm if possible in meeting with an enemy,
but to at once warn the main body.

And now on the still air came a weird, monotonous sound,
rising and falling, as does that of the far-off rapids,
borne on the fitful breath of the Chinook winds. _Tap,
tap, tap_, it went, _tum, tum, tum_, in ever-recurring
monotones. As they stopped to listen to it, the girl
realised its nature only too well. It was the tuck of
the Indian drum, and the Indian was on the war-path. As
they walked on they could hear it more plainly, and soon
the sound of whooping, yelling human voices, and the
occasional discharge of fire-arms, fell upon their
apprehensive ears.

"They've bruk into the stores, an' are paintin' the town
red," explained Rory. "Guess they're hevin' a high ole
time."

And now they could see a red glare tingeing the heavens
above the tree-tops. They ascended a hill to the right,
and looking down on the valley of the Saskatchewan, a
truly magnificent but terrifying sight met their gaze.




CHAPTER VI

THE GRIM BLOCKADE

The great chief Poundmaker and his Stonies had broken
loose, and, after looting the Hudson Bay and other stores
in Battleford, were indulging in a wild orgie. Some of
the buildings were already burning, and the Indians, mad
with blood and fire-water, were dancing wildly around
the spouting flames that lit up that pine and snow-clad
winter scene for miles?

Some of the warriors, more particularly round the burning
buildings, had donned uncanny masks that took the shape
of buffalo and moose heads, with shaggy manes, horns and
antlers, and, horror of horrors, some of them, silhouetted
blackly against the fierce glare, showed themselves to
be possessed of tails that made them look like capering
demons.

_Pom, pom, pom_, went the hollow-sounding drums. Round
and round danced the wildly-gesticulating imp-like crowds.
They yelped and howled like dogs. They brandished
tomahawks and spears, all the time working themselves
into a frenzy. It more resembled an orgie of fiends than
of human beings.

"It is horrible," exclaimed Dorothy, shivering, despite
her resolve to face bravely whatever might come.

Within half-a-mile of the burning township, looming up
dimly over there among the trees, was the new village of
Battleford, and further back still, hardly discernible,
lay the Fort. Within several hundred yards of the latter,
under cover of hastily-improvised trenches of bluff and
scrub, was a cordon of half-breeds and Indians, by no
means too strong and not too well posted, for one of the
Police had already managed to elude the careless and
relaxed watch, and join the besieged ones. Under the
circumstances it was impossible for the defenders to make
a sortie, as this would leave the bulk of the refugees
unprotected. All they could do was to hold their position
and wait patiently until help came from Prince Albert
and the south.

What the rancher's party had to do was plain, _i.e._
separate, and endeavour, in ones and twos, to pass the
rebel lines and enter the Fort. Fortunately they could
all speak the curious patois of English, French, and Cree
that the enemy used, and therefore they had no need to
be at a loss. Moreover, with beaver-skin caps, and long
fur coats down to their heels, with the addition of a
sash round their waists, they were in no way different
from hundreds of others. Dorothy noticed that even the
Police had adopted means to conceal their identities so
far as appearances went.

Sergeant Pasmore did not take long to make his plans. He
did not ask for any advice now, but gave his orders
promptly and explicitly. It would be better that they
should all endeavour to pass through the enemy at the
same time, so that in the event of an alarm being given,
some of them at least might be able to push on into the
Fort.

Mrs. Macgregor and the half-breed woman were sent away
round by the right flank under the charge of Jacques,
who was to go ahead and try to pilot them into the Fort
in safety. The Police were to move round on the left
flank.

As for Douglas and his daughter, they were to go down
separately to the foot of the ridge, walk leisurely
through the scattered houses, evading as much as possible
the straggling groups of rebels, and make towards a
certain point where a series of old buffalo-wallows would
to a great extent prevent their being seen. He warned
Douglas against keeping too near his daughter. He, being
so well-known, would be easily recognised, and their
being close together might lead to the capture of both.

Douglas at first demurred, but presently saw the force
of this advice. It was a hard thing to be separated from
Dorothy, but he realised that otherwise he might only
compromise her safety, so he kissed her and went in the
direction the sergeant pointed out. Pasmore and his
charge were now left quite alone. There was a dead
silence for some moments.

"I think we'd better go," he said, at length. "Now, do
you feel as if you could keep your nerve? So much depends
on that."

"I'm going to rise to the occasion," she answered smilingly,
and with a look of determination on her face. "Let us
start."

"One moment--you mustn't show quite so much of your
face--it isn't exactly an everyday one. Let me fix you
up a little bit first."

She looked at him laughingly as he pressed her beaver-cap
well down over her smooth white forehead until it hid
her dark, arched eyebrows. He turned up her deep fur
collar, and buttoned it in front until only her pretty
hazel eyes and straight white nose were to be seen. Then
he regarded her with critical gravity.

"I wish I could hide those eyes of yours," he said, with
whimsical seriousness. "You mustn't let any young Johnny
Crapaud or Indian see them any more than you can help."

They descended the bluff and walked silently together
for some little distance through the thicket of birch
and saskatoon bushes. They were now close to the garden
of the first straggling house, and they could see dark
figures moving about everywhere. He pointed out to her
the way she would have to take.

"Now, au revoir," he said, "and good luck to you."

They shook hands, and she wished him an equal luck. "You
have been very good to us," she added, "and I hope you
will believe that we are grateful."

He took off his cap to her, and they went on their separate
ways.

Now that the girl had gone so far that there was no
turning back, she rose to the occasion as she said she
would. She faced the ghastly sights with much of her
father's old spirit.

She put her hands in her large side pockets and lounged
leisurely past the gable end of a house. A half-breed
woman, carrying a large armful of loot, met her on the
side-walk. In the moonlight the girl caught the glint of
the bold, black, almond-shaped eyes and the flushed face.
The woman was breathing hard, and her two arms encircled
the great bundle. She shot a quick glance at Dorothy.
She was more Indian than white.

Only that the rebels that night did not see with their
normal eyesight, the girl realised that she would have
been detected and undone.

Two drunken Indians came walking unsteadily towards her,
talking excitedly. Though quaking inwardly, she kept
straight on her way, imitating a man's gait as much as
she could, for with those long buffalo coats that reach
to the ground, it was impossible to tell a man from a
woman save by the walk. The moccasins made the difference
even less. But the Indians passed her, and she breathed
more freely. Several people crossed and recrossed her
path, but beyond a half-curious look of inquiry, they
did not trouble about her. She passed a store in flames,
and saw a number of breeds and Indians yelling and whooping
and encouraging an intoxicated metis to dash into it at
the imminent risk of his life to fetch out some article
of inconsiderable value as a proof of his prowess. As
she passed on she heard a dull thud; and, looking back,
realised by the vast shaft of sparks which rose into the
air that the roof had fallen in. Jean Ba'tiste had played
with Death once too often.

Sick with horror, the girl hurried on. A few hundred
yards more, and she would be clear of that awesome Bedlam.
She had to pass between some, huts, one of which she
could see was in flames. Hard by she could hear the
sound of a fiddle, and the excited whoops of dancers.
The Red River jig was evidently in full blast. She turned
the corner of a corral and came full on it. Several people
were standing apart round a bare spot of ground. A
capering half-breed, with great red stockings reaching
above his knees, with blanket suit, long crimson sash,
and red tuque on his head, was capering about like a
madman. His partner had just retired exhausted. He caught
sight of Dorothy, and peered into her face.

"My faith!" he exclaimed; "but we shall dance like
that--so? Bien!"

He made a grotesque bow, and seizing her by the arm,
pulled her into the clear space facing him.




CHAPTER VII

DETECTED

For the moment a horrible sickening fear took possession
of Dorothy when she found herself thrust into such a very
prominent position. It was quite bad enough to have to
pass through that scene of pillage and riot, but to pose
as the partner of an excitable half-breed in the execution
of the Red River jig was more than the girl had bargained
for. The fantastic shuffling and capering of the long-legged
metis were wonderful to behold. The tassel of his long
red tuque dangled and bobbed behind him like the pigtail
of a Chinaman trying to imitate a dancing Dervish. His
flushed face, long snaky black locks, and flashing eyes
all spoke of the wild fever in his blood and his Gallic
origin. Still, the girl noted he was not what might be
termed an ill-looking fellow; he did not look bad-natured,
nor was he in drink. He was merely an excited
irresponsible.

The barbaric, musical rhyme on the cat-gut took a fresh
lease of life; the delighted spectators clapped their
hands in time, and supplemented the music with the
regulation dog-like yelps. The Red River jig consists of
two persons of opposite sex standing facing each other,
each possessed with the laudable ambition of dancing his
or her partner down. As may readily be imagined, it is
a dance necessitating considerable powers of endurance.
When one of the dancers sinks exhausted and vanquished,
another steps into the breach. When Dorothy had made her
appearance, a slim and by no means bad-looking half-breed
girl had been unwillingly obliged to drop out of the
dance. The bright eyes of the new arrival had caught
Pierre La Chene's fancy, and, after the manner of his
kind, he had made haste to secure her as a partner. Pierre
was a philanderer and an inconstant swain. The dark eyes
of Katie the Belle flushed with anger as she saw this
strange girl take her place. She noticed with jealous
eyes the elegant fur coat which the other wore, the dainty
silk-sewn moccasins, the natty beaver cap, and felt that
she, herself a leader of fashion among her people, had
yet much to learn.

Dorothy stood stock still for a moment while her partner
and the spectators shouted to her to begin. A wrinkled
old dame remarked, in the flowery language of her people,
that, as the figure of the girl was slender as the willow,
and her feet small and light as those of the wood spirits
that return to the land in the spring, surely she could
out-dance Pierre La Chene, who had already out-worn the
light-footed Jeanette and the beautiful Katie. Pierre
shouted to his partner to make a start. Surely now she
must be discovered and undone!

Then something that, when one comes to think of it, was
not strange, happened--Dorothy rose to the occasion. She
had danced the very same fantasia many a time out of
sheer exuberance of spirits, and the love of dancing
itself. She must dance and gain the sympathy of that
rough crowd, in the event of her identity being discovered.
There was nothing so terrible about this particular group
after all. They were merely dancing while the others were
going in for riot and pillage. There was something so
incongruous and ludicrous in the whole affair that the
odd, wayward, fun-loving spirit of the girl, of late held
in abeyance, asserted itself, and she forgot all else
save the fact that she must do her best to dance her
partner down.

Her feet caught the rhythm of the "Arkansaw Traveller"
--that stirring, foot-catching melody without beginning
or ending--and in another minute Dorothy was dancing
opposite the delighted and capering half-breed, and almost
enjoying it. With hands on hips, with head thrown back,
and with feet tremulous with motion, she kept time to
the music. She was a good dancer, and realised what is
meant by the poetry of motion. The fiddler played fairly
well, and Pierre La Chene, if somewhat pronounced in his
movements, was at least a picturesque figure, whose soul
was in the dance. So amusing, were his antics that the
girl laughed heartily, despite the danger of her position.

It was evident that Pierre was vastly taken with his
partner. He rolled his eyes about in a languishing and
alarming fashion; he twisted and wriggled like a
contortionist, and occasionally varied the lightning-like
shuffle of his own feet by kicking a good deal higher
than his own head. He called upon his partner to "stay
with it" in almost inarticulate gasps. "Whoop her up!"
he yelled. "Git thar, Jean! Bravo, ma belle! Whoo-sh!"

It was a very nightmare of grotesqueness to Dorothy. The
moonlight night, the black houses and pines looming up
against the snowy landscape, the red glare in the immediate
foreground caused by the burning buildings, the
gesticulating figure of her half-breed partner, the
excited, picturesque onlookers, the vagaries of the
fiddler and the never-ceasing sound of the Indian drum,
all tinged with an air of unreality and a sense of the
danger that menaced, made up a situation that could not
easily be eclipsed. And she was dancing and trying to
make herself believe she was enjoying it, opposite a
crazy half-breed rebel! She recognised him now as the
dandy Pierre, the admiration of the fair sex in his own
particular world on the Saskatchewan. If only any of her
people could see her now, what would they think of her?

But was this wild dance to go on for ever? Already she
was becoming warm in her fur coat, despite the lowness
of the temperature. There was a limit to her powers of
endurance, albeit she was stronger than the average girl.
The onlookers, charmed with the grace of this unknown
dancer, were noisy in their applause. She must feign
fatigue and drop out, letting some one else take her
place.

With an inclination of her head to her partner she did
so, but he, doubtless captivated by the dark, laughing
eyes he saw gazing at him above the deep fur collar, did
not care to continue the dance with some one whose eyes
might not be so bewitching, and dropped out also. The
half-breed girl, his former partner, who up till now had
contented herself by gazing sulkily from lowering brows
upon this strange rival, was at last stirred by still
deeper feeling. She came close up to Dorothy, and gazed
searchingly into her face. At the same moment they
recognised each other, for often had Dorothy admired the
full, wildflower beauty, the delicate olive skin, and
the dark, soulful eyes of this part descendant of a noble
Gallic race and a barbaric people, and spoken kindly to
her. The half-savage Katie had looked upon her white
sister as a superior being from another world, and had
almost made up her mind that she loved her, but she loved
Pierre La Chene in a different way, and when that sort
of love comes into one's life, all else has to give place
to it With a quick movement she drew down Dorothy's fur
collar, exposing her face.

"_Voila!_" she cried; "_one of the enemy--the daughter
of Douglas!_"

It was as if the rebels had suddenly detected an embodied
spirit that had worked evil in their midst, for the music
stopped, and the excited crew rushed upon her. But Pierre
La Chene kept them back. Those proud, defiant eyes had
exercised a singular charm over him, and when he saw her
face he almost felt ready to fight the whole crowd--almost
ready, for, like a good many other lady-killers, Pierre
had a very tender regard for his own personal safety.
Still, he cried--

"_Prenez garde_--tek caar! _Ma foi_, but she can dance
it! Let us tek her to Louis Riel. He is at the chapel.
We may learn much."

With her keen instincts, Katie saw the ruse.

"She has the evil eye, and has bewitched Pierre!" she
cried, and made as if to lead her old lover away.

But Pierre's response was to thrust her violently from
him. Katie would have fallen but that Dorothy caught her.

"Oh, Katie, poor Katie!" was all she said.

And then the half-breed girl realised the evil she had
wrought, and shrunk from the kindly arms of the sister
she had betrayed.

"To Riel with her!--to Riel with her!" was the cry of
the fickle malcontents, and, with a yelling following at
her heels, Dorothy was led away.




CHAPTER VIII

IN THE JUDGMENT HALL

Now that Dorothy knew the worst was about to happen, she,
strangely enough, felt more self-possessed than she had
done before. These rebels might kill her, or not, just
as the mood swayed them, but she would let them see that
the daughter of a white man was not afraid.

In that short walk to the chapel she reviewed her position.
She hoped that by this time the others had managed to
reach the Fort. If they had, then she could face with
comparative equanimity what might happen to herself. Her
only fear was what her father, in his distress on hearing
of her capture, might do.

Fortunately it was not far to the chapel which Riel had
converted into his headquarters. Indeed, he was only
paying a hurried visit there to exhort the faithful and
long-suffering metis and Indians to prompt and decisive
action. He intended to go off again in a few hours to
Prince Albert to direct the siege against that town. Only
those who had witnessed the wantonness and the capture
of the "white witch" followed. Most of the rebels were
too busy improving the shining hour of unlimited loot.
A half-breed on one side and an Indian on the other, each
with a dirty mitt on Dorothy's shoulder, led her to the
Judgment Hall of the dusky prophet, Louis David Riel,
"stickit priest," and now malcontent and political agitator
by profession. This worthy gentleman had already cost
the Government a rebellion, but why he should have been
allowed to run to a second is one of those seeming
mysteries that can only be accounted for by the too
clement policy of a British Government.

Dorothy and her captors entered the small porch of the
chapel and passed into the sacred edifice. For one like
Riel, who had been educated for the priesthood in Lower
Canada, it was a strange use to put such a place to. The
scene when they entered almost defies description. It
was crowded with breeds and Indians armed to the teeth
with all manner of antiquated weapons. Most of them wore
blue copotes and kept on their unplucked beaver caps or
long red tuques. Haranguing them close to the altar was
the great Riel himself, the terror of the Saskatchewan.

He did not look the dangerous, religious fanatic that he
was in reality. He was about five feet seven in height,
with red hair and beard. His face was pale and flabby,
and his dark grey eyes, set close together, glowed when
he spoke and were very restless. His nose was slightly
aquiline, his neck long, and his lips thick. His voice,
though low and gentle in ordinary conversation, was loud
and abrupt now that he was excited.

He was so carried away by the exuberance of his own
eloquence when Dorothy and her captors entered, that he
still kept on in a state of rapt ecstasy. His semi-mystical
oration was a weird jumble of religion and lawlessness,
devout exhortation, riot, plunder, prayer, and pillage.
He extolled the virtues of the murderous Poundmaker and
Big Bear. He said that Mistawasis and Chicastafasin, the
chiefs, and some others, were feeble of heart and
backsliders, for they had left their reserves to escape
being drawn into the trouble. Crowfoot, head chief of
the Blackfoot nation, was protesting his loyalty to the
Lieutenant-Governor, and his squaws would one day stone
him to death as a judgment. Fort Pitt, Battleford and
Prince Albert must shortly capitulate to them, and then
the squaws would receive the white women of those places
as their private prisoners to do with as their sweet
wills suggested. Already many of the accursed whites had
been slaughtered, as at Duck Lake, for instance, but many
more had yet to die. They must be utterly exterminated,
so that the elect might possess the land undisturbed.

At this point he caught sight of the newcomers. At a
sign from him they approached.

"Ha!" he said, with an unctuous accent in his voice, and
rubbing his hands like a miserable old Fagin, "Truly the
Lord is delivering them into our hands. What are you,
woman?"

But beyond her name Dorothy would at first tell him
nothing. Her captors briefly stated the little they knew
concerning her presence in the town. The self-constituted
dictator tried bombast, threats and flattery to gain
information from her, but they were of no avail. His
authority being thus disputed by a woman, and his absurd
self-esteem ruffled, he gave way to a torrent of abuse,
but Dorothy was as if she heard it not. It was only when
Riel was about to give instructions to his "General,"
Gabriel Dumont, and more of the members of his staff and
"government" to instantly cause a search to be made in
the camp for those who might have been with the girl,
that she said he might do so if he chose, but it would
be useless, as her friends must have entered the Fort an
hour ago.

"Hear to her, hear to this shameless woman!" cried the
fanatical and self-constituted saviour of the metis,
gesticulating and trying, as he always did, to work upon
the easily-roused feelings of his semi-savage following.
"She convicts herself out of her own mouth; she must
suffer. She is young and fair to look upon, but she is
the daughter of Douglas, the great friend of the English,
and therefore evil of heart. Moreover, she defies me,
even me, to whom St Peter himself appeared in the Church
of St. James at Washington, Columbia! Take her hence and
keep her as a prisoner until we decide what fate shall
be hers. In the days of the old prophets the dogs licked
the blood of a woman from the stones--of a woman who
deserved better than she."

With a wave of his hand the arch rebel, who was yet to
pay the penalty of his inordinate vanity and scheming
with his life, dismissed the prisoner and her captors.
He instructed an Irish renegade and member of his cabinet,
called Nolin, to see to it that the prisoner was kept
under close arrest until her fate was decided upon--which
would probably be before morning. Nolin told some of
Katie's relatives to take charge of Dorothy. He himself,
to tell the truth, did not particularly care what became
of her one way or the other. Already this gentleman was
trying to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare.

Dorothy looked around the improvised court-house in the
vague hope of finding some one whom she might have known
in the days of peace, and whose intervention would count
for something. But alas! the vision of dark, cruel and
uncompromising faces that met her gaze, gave her no hope.
They had all been wrought up to such a high pitch of
excitement that murder itself was but an item in their
programme. Her heart sank within her, but still her mind
was active. She was not one of the sort who submit tamely
to what appears to be the inevitable. She came of a
fighting stock--of a race that had struggled much, and
prevailed.

Katie's male kinsman, the huge half-breed and the officious
redskin, again seized Dorothy and hurried her away,
followed by the curious, straggling mob. Arrived, at
length, at a long, low log-house on the outskirts of the
town, they hammered on the closed door for admittance.



CHAPTER IX

THE DWARF AND THE BEAR

Dorothy noticed that there was a light in the windows of
this house, and wondered how it was that the occupants
seemed to be quietly staying at home while evidently all
the half-breed inhabitants of the town were making a
night of it. She also noticed that when her guides had
knocked they drew somewhat back from the doorway, and
that the motley crowd which had been pressing close behind
followed their example. They also ceased their noisy talk
and laughter while they waited for the door to be opened.
Only Katie, the flouted belle who had been following them
up, did not seem to possess the same diffidence as the
others, but stood with one hand on the door, listening.
Dorothy became strangely curious as to the inmates of
this isolated house.

A strange shuffling and peculiar deep breathing were
heard in the passage; a bolt was withdrawn, Katie drew
quickly back, and next moment the door was thrown open.
A flood of light streamed out, and two weird and startling
figures were outlined sharply against it. Instinctively
Dorothy shrank backwards with a sense of wonder and fear.
Standing on its hind legs in the doorway was a bear, and
by its side a dwarf with an immense head covered with a
great crop of hair, and with long arms and a broad chest
which indicated great strength.

"Whur-r! What you want here and at this hour of night,
you cut-throats, you?" asked the outspoken manikin in a
voice of sufficient volume to have equipped half-a-dozen
men.

"A sweetheart for you, Pepin. A sweetheart, _mon ami_"
answered the big breed, in a conciliatory voice.

Dorothy nearly sank to the ground in horror when she
heard this rude jest.

"Bah!" cried the manikin, "it is another female you will
want to foist off upon me, is it? Eh? What? But no,
_coquin_, Pepin has not been the catch of the Saskatchewan
all these years without learning wisdom. Who is she--a
prisoner? Eh? Is not that so?"

"That is so, Pepin, she is preesonar, and Riel has ordered
her to be detained here. Your house is the only quiet
one in the town this night, and that is why we came. Tell
Antoine to be so good as to stand back."

Antoine was the bear, which still stood swaying gently
from one side to the other with a comical expression of
inquiry and gravity on its old-fashioned face.

Pepin surveyed the mob with no friendly scrutiny.

"What you want here, you _canaille, sans-culottes?_" he
demanded. And then in no complimentary terms he bade them
begone.

The crowd, however, still lingered, with that spirit of
curiosity peculiar to most crowds; so the dwarf brought
them to their senses. Suddenly poking Antoine in the
ribs, he brought him down on all fours, and then, brushing
past Dorothy and her captors, and still leading the bear,
he charged the mob with surprising agility, scattering
it right and left. It was evident that they stood in
wholesome dread of Pepin and his methods. Then, coming
back with the bear, he put one hand on his heart, and
with a bow of grotesque gallantry, bade Dorothy enter
the house. The Indian he promptly sent about his business
with a sudden blow over the chest that would probably
have injured a white man's bones. The red man looked
for a moment as if he meditated reprisals, but Pepin
merely blinked at the cudgel, and Man-of-might, with a
disgusted "Ough! ough!" changed his mind and incontinently
fled. Dorothy's captor, Pierre La Chene, and Katie, alone
entered the dwarf's abode.

It suddenly occurred to Dorothy that this was the Pepin
Quesnelle of whom and of whose tame bear Rory was wont
to tell tales. Dorothy noticed that Katie had a brief
whispered conference with the truculent Pepin before
entering. The result of it was somewhat unexpected; the
half-breed girl took Dorothy by the arm and led her into
a low room, which was scrupulously clean, at the end of
the passage. There was no one in it. Katie seemed strangely
nervous as she shut the door, and the girl wondered what
was about to happen. Then the half-breed turned suddenly
and looked into her eyes, at the same time placing one
hand upon her wrist.

"Listen," she said, "I thought I loved you, but you have
made me mad--so mad this night! Now tell me true--_verite
sans peur_--you shall--you must tell me--do you love
Pierre?"

If it had not been for the tragic light in the poor girl's
eyes, Dorothy would have laughed in her face at the bare
idea. As it was, she answered in such an emphatic way
that Katie had no more doubts on that point. Then Dorothy
asked the latter to send Pierre to her and to be herself
present at the interview.

Katie at first demurred. She was afraid that the interview
might prove too much for the susceptible frail one. But
she brought him in, and when Dorothy had spoken a few
words to him, the fickle swain was only too anxious to
make it up with his real love. This satisfactory part
of the programme completed, Katie packed him off into
the next room, and then, with the emotional and
demonstrative nature of her people, literally grovelled
in the dust before Dorothy. She stooped and kissed her
moccasined feet, and called on the girl to forgive her
for her treacherous conduct But Dorothy raised her from
the ground and comforted her as best she could. To her
she was as a child, although perhaps her passion was a
revelation that as yet she but imperfectly comprehended.
But Katie was to prove the sincerity of her regret in a
practical fashion.

"Where are your friends?" she asked. "Tell me
everything--yes, you can trust me. By the Blessed Virgin,
I swear I will serve you faithfully!" She raised her
great dark tear-stained eyes to Dorothy's.

The girl instinctively felt that Katie was to be trusted.
The only question was, could she count upon her discretion?
She felt that she could do that also; she knew that in
a matter of intrigue the dusky metis have no equals. The
chances were that the others had reached the Fort; if
so, no more harm could be done. Briefly she told Katie
about those who had started out with her to steal through
the rebel lines to the English garrison.

"If Jacques and the women went in the direction you say,"
said Katie, "the chances are they have got to the Fort.
It matters not about the Police and Rory--they can look
after themselves. I doubt, however, if your father and
the sergeant have got through. You will stay in this
house while I go and see. I have many friends among our
people; the hearts of some of them not being entirely
with Riel, they will help me. I shall take Pierre. Pepin
and his mother you need not fear--they are not of the
rebels; they have lived too long at Medicine Hat with
the whites."

And then she went on briefly to explain how Pepin was a
man renowned for his great wisdom and his cunning, as
well as for the bodily strength which had once enabled
him to strangle a bear. Still, his one great weakness
was conceit of his personal appearance, and his belief
that every woman was making a dead set at him. He also
prided himself upon his manners, which were either absurdly
elaborate or rough to a startling degree, as the mood
seized him, and as Dorothy had seen for herself. His
mother, whom she would see in the next room, was rather
an amiable old soul, whose one providentially overpowering
delusion was that Pepin was all that he considered himself
to be. She regarded most young unengaged women with
suspicion, as she fancied they looked upon her son with
matrimonial designs. Katie knew that the old lady was
at heart a match-maker, but, with the exception of herself,
who, however, was engaged, she had found no one good or
beautiful enough to aspire to an alliance with the
Quesnelle family.

Dorothy felt vastly relieved at hearing all this. Then
Katie took her by the hand, and, telling her to be of
good courage, as she had nothing to fear led her into
the next room.

"A good daughter for you, mother," she said smilingly to
the dame who sat by the fire.

The old white-haired woman, who was refreshingly clean
and tidy, turned her dark eyes sharply upon the new
arrival. Whether it was that Dorothy was prepossessed in
her favour and showed it, and that the old lady took it
as a personal compliment, or that the physical beauty of
the girl appealed to her, is immaterial; but the fact
remained that she in her turn was favourably impressed.
She motioned to a seat beside herself.

"Sit hyar, honey," she said. "I will put the kettle on
the fire and give you to eat and drink."

But the girl smilingly thanked her, and said that she
had not long since finished supper. In no way loth to do
so, she then went and sat down next the old dame, who
regarded her with considerable curiosity and undisguised
favour. Katie, seeing that she could safely leave her
charge there, spoke a few words in a strange patois of
Cree and French to Pepin, and, calling Pierre, left the
house.

Dorothy glanced in wonder round the common sitting-room
of this singular family. It was a picturesque interior,
decorated with all kinds of odds and ends. There were
curios in the way of Indian war weapons, scalping knives,
gorgeously beaded moccasins and tobacco pouches, barbaric
plumed head-dresses, stuffed birds and rattlesnakes,
butterflies, strings of birds' eggs, and grinning and
truly hideous Indian masks for use in devil and give-away
dances. At the far end of the room was a rude cobbler's
bench and all the paraphernalia of one who works in boots,
moccasins, and harness. Thus was betrayed the calling
of Pepin Quesnelle.

But it was the man himself, with his extraordinary
personality, who fascinated Dorothy. He was standing with
his hands behind his back and his legs apart, talking to
the sulky, uncompromising half-breed who had brought her
there. He was not more than three feet in height, and he
seemed all head and body. His arms were abnormally long
and muscular. He had a dark shock head of hair, and his
little black moustache was carefully waxed. His forehead
was low and broad, and his aquiline nose, like his
jet-black, almond-shaped eyes, betrayed an Indian ancestor.
His face betokened intelligence, conceit, and a keen
sense of sardonic humour; still, there was nothing in it
positively forbidding. To those whom he took a fancy to,
he was doubtless loyal and kind, albeit his temperament
was of a fiery and volatile nature. In this he showed
the Gallic side of his origin. It was very evident that,
despite his inconsiderable size, his hulking and sulky
neighbour stood in considerable awe of him.

"Pshaw! Idiot! Pudding-head!" he was saying. "But it is
like to as many Muskymote dogs you are--let one get down
and all the others attack him. What, I ask, did your
Riel do for you in '70? Did he not show the soles of the
moccasins he had not paid for as soon as he heard that
the red-coats were close to Fort Garry, and make for the
States? Bah, you fools, and he will do so again--if he
gets the chance! But he will not, mark my words, Bastien
Lagrange; this time the red-coats will catch him, and he
and you--yes, you, you chuckle-head--will hang all in a
row at the end of long ropes in the square at Regina
until you are dead, dead, dead! Think of it, Lagrange,
what a great big ugly bloated corpse you'll make hanging
by the neck after your toes have stopped twitching,
twitching, and your face is a beautiful blue. Eh? _Bien!_
is not that so, blockhead?"

And the dwarf grinned and chuckled in such a bloodthirsty
and anticipating fashion that the girl shuddered.

Bastien Lagrange did not seem to relish the prospect,
and his shifty eyes roamed round the walls.

"But the red-coats, how can they come?" he weakly asked.
"Where are they, the soldiers of the Great Mother? Riel
has said that those stories of the cities over seas and
the many red-coats are all lies, and that the Lord will
smite the Police and those that are in the country with
the anthrax that kills the cattle in the spring. Riel
swears to that, for St. Peter appeared to him and told
him so. He said so himself!"

"Bah, idiot!" retorted Pepin, "if it is that Riel is on
such friendly terms with St. Peter, and the Lord is going
to do such wonderful things for him, why does not the
Saint give his messengers enough in advance for them to
pay the poor men who make for them the moccasins they
wear? Why does he suffer them to steal from their own
people? Pshaw, it is the same old tale, the same old game
from all time, from Mahomet to the present down-at-heel!
But courage, _mon cher_ Bastien! I will come and see you
ch-chk, ch-chk!"--he elongated and twisted his neck, at
the same time turning his eyes upwards in a horrible
fashion--"while your feet go so ... so,"--he described
a species of _pas-seul_ with his toes. "Is that not so,
Antoine? Eh?--you beauty, you?" and here he gave the
great bear, that had been gravely sitting on its haunches
watching him like an attendant spirit, a sudden and
affectionate kick.

To Dorothy's horror the great brute made a quick snap at
him, which, however, only served to intensely amuse Pepin,
for he skilfully evaded it, and, seizing his stick, at
once began to dance up and down. The cunning little black
eyes of the beast watched him apprehensively and
resentfully.

"Aha, Antoine!" he cried. "Git up, you lazy one, and
dance! Houp-la!"--the huge brute stood up on its hind
legs--"Now, then, Bastien, pick up that fiddle and play.
That's it, piff-poum--piff-poum! Houp-la! piff-poum!"
and in another minute the man and the bear were dancing
opposite each other. It was a weird and uncanny sight,
the grotesque dwarf, with his face flushed and his hair
on end, capering about and kicking with his pigmy legs,
and the bear with uncouth waddles waltzing round and
round, its movements every now and again being accelerated
by a judicious dig in the ribs from Pepin's stick.
Bastien Lagrange fiddled away as if for dear life, and
the old dame, her face beaming with pride and admiration,
clapped her hands in time to the music. Every minute or
two she would glance from her son to Dorothy's face to
note what impression such a gallant sight had made.

"Is it not _magnifique?_ Is he not splendid?" she asked
the girl.

"He is indeed wonderful," replied Dorothy, truthfully
enough.

Despite the suggestion of weirdness the goblin-like scene
created in her mind, the grimaces and antics of the
manikin, and the sulkily responsive movements of the
bear, were too absurd for anything. She thought of Rory's
story of how the "b'ar" resented being left out of its
share in Pepin's castor-oil; and was so tickled by the
contrast of their present occupation that, despite herself,
she broke out into a fit of laughter. Fearful of betraying
the reason of it, she began to clap her hands like the
old lady, which action, being attributed by the others
to her undisguised admiration, at once found favour in
their eyes. Dorothy began to imagine she was getting on
famously.

"Honey," cried the old lady, raising her voice and stooping
towards the girl, "I like yer face. Barrin' Katie, you're
the only gal I'd like for Pepin. I reckon we'll just stow
you away quietly like, and then afterwards you kin be
his wife."

But the prospect so alarmed Dorothy that her heart seemed
to stop beating again. At the same moment Pepin showed
signs of fatigue, and the music stopped abruptly. Antoine,
however, in a fit of absent-mindedness, kept on waltzing
around on his own account, until Pepin gave him a crack
over the head and brought him to his senses.

"Come hyar, Pepin," cried the old dame. "Mam'selle is
took wid you. I think she'd make you a good wife, my
sweet one."

Dorothy grew hot and cold at the very thought of it. She
really did not know what these people were capable of.

Pepin approached her with what he evidently intended to
be dignified strides. For the first time he honoured her
with a searching scrutiny. Poor Dorothy felt as if the
black eyes of this self-important dwarf were reading her
inmost thoughts. She became sick with apprehension, and
her eyes fell before his, In another minute the oracle
spoke.

"No, _ma mere_, <no," he said. "She is a nice girl upon
the whole; her hair, her figure, and her skin are good,
but her nose stops short too soon, and is inclined to be
saucy. Though her ways are sleek like a cotton-tail's,
I see devilry lurking away back in her eyes. Moreover,
her ways are those of a _grande dame_, and not our
ways--she would expect too much of us. She is a good girl
enough, but she will not do. _Voila tout!_" And with a
not unkindly bow the _petit maitre_ turned his attention
to Antoine, who, during the examination, had taken the
opportunity of seizing its master's cudgel and breaking
it into innumerable little bits.

Dorothy breathed again, but, true to the nature of her
sex, she resented the disparaging allusions to her nose
and eyes--even from Pepin. What a conceited little freak
he was, to be sure! And to tell her that she _would not
do!_ At the same time she felt vastly relieved to think
that the dwarf had resolved not to annex her. The only
danger was that he might change his mind. His mother had
taken his decision with praiseworthy resignation, and
tried in a kindly fashion to lighten what she considered
must be the girl's disappointment. Meanwhile Lagrange,
judging by his lugubrious countenance, was evidently
pondering over the pleasant prospect Pepin had predicted
for him. The dwarf himself was engaged in trying to
force the fragments of the stick down Antoine's throat,
and the latter was angrily resenting the liberty.

Dorothy was becoming sleepy, what with the fatigue she
had undergone during the day and the heat of the fire,
when suddenly there came three distinct taps at one of
the windows.




CHAPTER X

THE UNEXPECTED

It was fortunate for Antoine the bear that the taps at
the window came when they did, for Pepin with his great
arms had got it into such an extraordinary position
--doubtless the result of many experiments--that it would
most assuredly have had its digestion ruined by the sticks
which its irate master was administering in small sections.
To facilitate matters, he had drawn its tongue to one
side as a veterinary-surgeon does when he is administering
medicine to an animal. On hearing the taps the dwarf
relinquished his efforts and went to the door. The bear
sat up on its haunches, coughing and making wry faces,
at the same time looking around for moccasins or boots
or something that would enable it to pay its master out
with interest, and not be so difficult to swallow when
it came to the reckoning.

The dwarf went to the door, and, putting one hand on it,
and his head to one side, cried--

"Hello, there! _Qui vive?_ Who are you, and what do you
want?"

"All right, Pepin, it's me--Katie."

The door was thrown open, and the half-breed woman entered.
At her heels came a man who was so muffled up as to be
almost unrecognisable. But Dorothy knew him, and the next
moment was in her father's arms. The dwarf hastened to
close the door, but before doing so he gazed out
apprehensively.

"You are quite sure no one followed you?" he asked Katie,
on re-entering the room.

"No one suspected," she replied shortly. "Jean Lagrange
has gone to look out for the others. I fear it will go
hard with the shermoganish unless you can do something,
Pepin."

Dorothy had been talking to her father, but heard the
Indian word referring to the Police.

"I wonder if Mr. Pasmore has got through to the Fort,
dad!" she said suddenly.

"I was just about to tell you, my dear, what happened,"
he replied. "I was going quietly along, trying to find
some trace of you, when a couple of breeds came up behind
and took me prisoner. I thought they were going to shoot
me at first, but they concluded to keep me until to-morrow,
when they would bring me before their government. So they
shut me up in a dug-out on the face of a bank, keeping
my capture as quiet as possible for fear of the mob taking
the law into its own hands and spoiling their projected
entertainment. I hadn't been there long before the door
was unbarred and Pasmore came in with Katie here. He told
me to go with her, and, when I had found you, to return
to where we had left the sleighs, and make back for the
ranche by the old trail as quickly as possible. He said
he'd come on later, but that we weren't to trouble about
him. Katie had made it right, it seems, with my jailers,
whom I am inclined to think are old friends of hers."

"But why couldn't he come on, dad, with you?"

There was something about the affair that she could not
understand.

"I suppose he thought it would attract less attention to
go separately. I think the others must have got safely
into the Fort. It seems that since they have discovered
that some of the English are trying to get through their
lines they have strengthened the cordon round the Fort,
so that now it is impossible to reach it."

"It's not pleasant, dad, to go back again and leave the
others, is it?"

"It can't be helped, dear. I wish Pasmore would hurry up
and come. He said, however, we were not to wait for him.
That half-breed doesn't look too friendly, does he?"

"Pepin Quesnelle is, so I fancy it doesn't matter about
the other," replied Dorothy.

The rancher turned to the others, who had evidently just
finished a serious argument.

"Pepin," he observed, "I'm glad to find you're not one
of those who forget their old friends."

"Did you ever think I would? Eh? What?" asked the manikin
cynically, with his head on one side.

"I don't suppose I ever thought about the matter in that
way," said Douglas, "but if I'd done so, I'm bound to
say that I should have had some measure of faith in you,
Pepin Quesnelle. You have known me for many years now,
and you know I never say what I do not mean."

"So!... that is so. _Bien!_" remarked Pepin obviously
pleased. "But the question we have had to settle is this.
If we let your daughter go now, how is Bastien here to
account for his prisoner in the morning? He knows that
one day he will have to stand on the little trap-door in
the scaffold floor at Regina, and that he will twirl
round and round so--like to that so"--picking up a hobble
chain and spinning it round with his hand--"while his
eyes will stick out of his head like the eyes of a
flat-fish; but at the same time he does not want to be
shot by order of Riel or Gabriel Dumont to-morrow for
losing a prisoner."

"Yees, they will shoot--shoot me mooch dead!" observed
Bastien feelingly.

"So we have think," continued the dwarf, "that he should
disappear also; that he go with you. I will tell them
to-morrow that the girl here she was sit by the fire and
she go up the chimney like as smoke or a speerit, so,
and that Bastien he follow, and when I have go out I see
them both going up to the sky. They will believe, and
Bastien perhaps, if he keep away with you, or go hide
somewhere else, he may live yet to get drown, or get
shot, or be keel by a bear, and not die by the rope. You
follow?"

"Where ees ze sleighs?" asked the breed, taking time by
the forelock.

They told him and he rose with alacrity.

"Zen come on quick, right now," he said.

Douglas was pressing some gold into the old dame's hand,
but Pepin saw it.

"Ah, non!" he said. "There are bad Engleesh and there
are good Engleesh, and there are bad French, but there
are also good French. The girl is a good girl, but if
Pepin cannot marry her he will at least not take her
gold."

The old dame as usual, seconded him.

"That is right, Pepin," she said, "I cannot take the
monies. Go, my child; you cannot help that my son will
not have you for a wife. Some day, perhaps, you may find
a hoosband who will console you. Adieu!"

Dorothy had again put on her fur coat, and, bidding the
good old lady an affectionate farewell, and also thanking
Pepin, they prepared to set out again for the deserted
homestead in the bluffs.

"You will send the sergeant on at once if he comes here,
won't you, Pepin?" said Douglas to the dwarf. "Perhaps
it is as well to take his advice and get back as quickly
as possible."

"Come now," remarked Pepin, "you must go. If you wait
you may be caught Bastien will lead you safely there.
Adieu!"

He opened the door and looked out Antoine moved to the
door with a moccasin in his mouth. Dorothy said good-bye
to Katie, who would have gone with her, only Pepin would
not allow it. As Dorothy passed the latter he was evidently
apprehensive lest she might be anxious to bid him a
demonstrative farewell, for he merely bowed with exaggerated
dignity and would not meet her eyes.

"There are lots of other men nearly as good as myself,
my dear," he whispered by way of consolation.

By this time the last of the frenzied mob was looking
for somewhere to lay its sore and weary head, so the open
spaces were comparatively clear of rebels. In a couple
of hours another dawn would break over that vast land of
frozen rivers and virgin snows to witness scenes of
bloodshed and pillage, the news of which would flash
throughout the civilised world, causing surprise and
horror, but which it would be powerless to prevent. By
this time the stores which had burned so brilliantly on
the previous night were dully glowing heaps of ashes.
The tom-toms had ceased their hollow-sounding monotones
so suggestive of disorder and rapine, and the wild yelpings
of the fiend-like crew had given place to the desultory
howling of some coyotes and timber-wolves that had ventured
right up to the outskirts of the village, attracted by
the late congenial uproar. They were now keeping it up
on their own account. Farther away to the east, in the
mysterious greyness of the dreary scene, lay the Fort,
while in the ribbed, sandy wastes around, and in the
clumps of timber, the cordon of rebels watched and waited.

As the fugitives looked back at the edge of the bluffs
to catch one last glimpse of a scene that was to leave
its mark on Canadian history, a rocket shot high into
the heavens, leaving behind it a trail of glowing sparks
and exploding with a hollow boom, shedding blood-red
balls of fire all around, which speedily changed to a
dazzling whiteness as they fell. It was a signal of
distress from the beleaguered Fort to any relieving column
which might be on its way. Then away to the north, as if
to remind man of his littleness, the Aurora borealis
sprang into life. A great arc or fan-like glory radiated
from the throne of the great Ice-king, its living shafts
of pearly, silvery and rosy light flashing with bewildering
effect over one half of the great dome of the heavens,
flooding that vast snow-clad land with a vision of
colouring and beauty that brought home to one the
words--"How marvellous are Thy works." No wonder that
even the Indians should look beyond the narrow explanation
of natural phenomena and call such a soul-stirring sight
_the dance of the Spirits!_

But there was no time to lose, for should they be taken
now their lives would surely pay for their rashness. They
threaded their way among the wooded bluffs, avoiding the
homesteads, and once they nearly ran into a rebel outpost
standing under the trees near which two trails met. They
made a detour, and at last, on crossing over a low ridge,
they came upon the deserted homestead where they had left
the sleighs, horses and dogs.

Everything seemed quiet as they silently approached, and
Bastien seemed considerably astonished when he caught
sight of the signs of occupation by the enemy. He,
however, felt considerably relieved, for Pepin's pleasant
prognostications were weighing somewhat heavily upon his
mind. As for Dorothy, she felt strangely disappointed
when she found that Sergeant Pasmore had not put in an
appearance, for somehow she realised that there was
something mysterious in his having stayed behind. They
were passing an open shed when suddenly a not unfamiliar
voice hailed them.

"The top av the mornin' t'ye," it said, "an' shure an'
I thought I'd be here as soon as you."

It was Rory, who, after many adventures in dodging about
the village, and seeing Jacques and the two women servants
safely past the lax cordon of rebels, without taking
advantage of the situation to take refuge in the Fort
himself, had come back to his beloved dogs with a
presentiment that something had gone wrong with the
others, and that his services might be required. He was
singularly right.

Bastien nearly jumped out of his blanket suit with terror
when he heard this strange voice. He had seized poor
Dorothy with reckless temerity on the previous night when
he was surrounded by his own people, but now that he had
to deal with a white man he was not quite so brave. But
Douglas speedily reassured him, and he busied himself in
hitching up a team.

The rancher and Rory speedily compared notes.

"It will be light in another hour," said Douglas, not a
little impatiently, "and I can't make out why Pasmore
doesn't come on, unless he's got into trouble. As you
tell me, and as he would know himself, it would be useless
trying to get to the Fort. I don't like the idea of going
on ahead, as he told me to be sure and do, while he may
be in need of help."

"It's mortal queer," observed Rory, "that he didn't come
on wid you." He turned and addressed Bastien, who, having
hitched up two teams, seemed in a great hurry to be off.
"Eh, mister, an' what may you be sayin' to it?"

"I tink eet ees time to be what you call depart," was
the reply. "Eet ees mooch dead ze metis will shoot us if
zey come now."

He glanced apprehensively around.

"It's the other man who came with Katie to the place
where they had me prisoner, and who remained behind,"
explained Douglas. "He told me he'd come on."

The half-breed looked surprisedly and incredulously at
the rancher. Dorothy had now joined the group, and was
listening to what was being said.

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Bastien, "but ees eet possible
that you not know! Katie she haf told all to me. Ze man
you declare of he will no more come back. Ze man who made
of you a preesonar, have to show one on ze morrow, but
eet matter not vich, and dey arrange to show _ze ozer
man!_ He take your place; he mooch good fellow, and zey
shoot him mooch dead to-morrow!"

And all at once the truth--the self-sacrifice that Pasmore
had so quietly carried out--flashed upon them. It was a
revelation.

Douglas understood now why it was the sergeant had told
him to hurry on, and not wait.




CHAPTER XI

THE RETREAT

There was a dead silence for about thirty seconds after
the half-breed had revealed the truth regarding Pasmore's
non-appearance. Douglas wondered why he had not suspected
the real state of affairs before. Of course, Pasmore
knew that his guards had only consented to the exchange
on condition that he was handed over to the bloodthirsty
crew on the morrow!

As for Dorothy, she realised at last how she had been
trying to keep the truth from herself. She thought of
how she had almost resented the fact of Pasmore having
more than once faced death in order to secure the safety
of her father and herself, although the man was modesty
itself and made it appear as if it were only a matter of
duty. True, she had thanked him in words, but her heart
upbraided her when she thought of how commonplace and
conventional those words must have sounded, no matter
what she might have felt She knew now that Katie must
have found and spoken to him, and that her father's
liberty probably meant his--Pasmore's--death. How noble
was the man! How true the words--"Greater love hath-no
man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friend."

It was Douglas who first broke the silence; he spoke like
a man who was determined on a certain line of action,
and whose resolve nothing should shake.

"I feel that what this fellow tells us is true, Dorothy,"
he said; "but it is utterly impossible that I can have
it so. Pasmore is a young man with all his life before
him, and I have no right to expect a sacrifice like this.
I am going back--back this very moment, and you must go
on with Rory. Pasmore can follow up. You must go on to
Child-of-Light, who will take you safely to some of the
settlers near Fort Pitt. As soon as the soldiers get here
they will crush this rebellion at once. After all, I
don't believe they will harm me. As for Pasmore, if they
discover that he is one of the Police, he is a dead man.
Good-bye!"

The girl caught him by both hands, and kissed him.

"You are right, father, you are only doing what is right,"
she said, "but I am coming with you. I could not possibly
think of going on alone. We will return together. You
will go on and take Pasmore's place--it will be all one
to his guards so long as they produce a prisoner--and he
can make good his escape. Lagrange here, who had charge
of me before, can imprison me along with you, and the
chances are they will be content to keep us as prisoners.
It will also save Lagrange from getting into trouble
later on."

"Ah! that ees mooch good," broke in the breed, who had
caught the drift of the last proposal. "_Oui_, that ees
good, and then they will not shoot me mooch dead."

Old Rory gave a grunt and eyed the hulking fellow
disgustedly. "It's nary a fut ye'll be goin' back now,
an' I'm tellin' yees, so it's makin' what moind ye have
aisy, sez Oi."

He turned to the rancher and there was grim determination
in his eyes.

"An' as for you goin' back now, shure an' it's a gossoon
ye'll be takin' me for if ye think I'll be lettin' yees.
It's ten chances to wan them jokers'll have changed their
sentymints by the time ye git thar, and will hould on to
the sarjint as well as to you. It's mesilf as is goin'
back if ye juist tell me where the show is, for I knows
the whole caboodle, an' if I can't git him out o' that
before another hour, then Rory's not the name av me. You
juist--"

But he never finished the sentence, for at that very
moment two or three shots rang out on the still night.
They came from the neighbourhood of the town.

"Summat's up," exclaimed Rory. "Let's investigate."

The three men seized their rifles and ran up the ridge
that overlooked the bend of the trail They peered into
the grey moonlit night in the direction of the township.

At first they could see nothing, but a desultory shot or
two rang out, and it seemed to them that they were nearer
than before. At last, round a bend in the trail, they
caught sight of a dark figure running towards them.

"It must be one of the Police or Pasmore," said the
rancher.

At last they saw this man's pursuers. There were only
three of them, and one stopped at the turn, the other
two keeping on. Now and again one of them would stop,
kneel on the snow, and take aim at the flying figure.
But moonlight is terribly deceptive, and invariably makes
one fire high; moreover, when one's nerves are on the
jump, shooting is largely chance work.

"'Pears to me," remarked Rory, "thet this 'ere ain't what
you'd 'xactly call a square game. Thet joker in the lead
is gettin' well nigh played out, an' them two coves
a-follerin' are gettin' the bulge on 'im. Shure an' I'm
thinkin' they're friends av yourn, Lagrange, but they
wants stoppin'. What d'ye say?"

"_Oui, oui_--oh, yiss, stob 'em! If they see me ze--what
you call it--ze game is oop. Yiss, they friends--shoot
'em mooch dead."

The tender-hearted Lagrange was a very Napoleon in the
advocating of extreme measures when the inviolability of
his own skin was concerned.

"It's a bloodthirsty baste ye are wid yer own kith an'
kin," exclaimed Rory, disgustedly; "but I'm thinkin' the
less shootin' the better unless we wants to hev the whole
pack after us. No, we'll juist let thet joker in the lead
git past, an' then well pounce on thim two Johnnies before
they can draw a bead, an' take 'em prisoners."

No sooner said than done. They ran down the shoulder of
the ridge, and, just where the trail rounded it, hid
themselves in the shadow of a great pine. In a few minutes
more a huge figure came puffing and blowing round the
bend. They could see he had no rifle. The moonlight was
shining full on his face, and they recognised Jacques.
He did not see them, so they allowed him to pass on. In
another minute his two pursuers also rounded the bend.
One of them was just in the act of stopping to fire when
Douglas and Rory rushed out.

"Hands up!" they shouted.

One of them let his rifle drop, and jerked his hands into
the air at the first sound of the strange voices. But
the other hesitated and wheeled, at the same moment
bringing his rifle to his shoulder.

But Douglas and Rory had sprung on him simultaneously.
His rifle was struck to one side, and he received a rap
on the head that caused him to sit down on the snow
feeling sick and dizzy, and wondering vaguely what had
happened.

On hearing the commotion behind him, Jacques also stopped,
and turned. He came up just in time to secure the better
of the two rifles. The gentleman who had sat down against
his own inclination on the snow, was hauled on one side,
and while Douglas, Jacques and Lagrange stood over the
prisoners, Rory again ascended the ridge to find out
whether or not any more of the enemy were following.

In a few words Jacques told Douglas his adventures since
he had left them on the previous night He and the women
had reached the British lines in safety, and shortly
afterwards the Police also arrived. The Fort, however,
was most uncomfortable. There were about six hundred men,
women, and children all huddled together in the insufficient
barrack buildings. After waiting for a few hours, Jacques
began to wonder what was delaying the others, and to
think that something must have gone wrong. He was not
the sort to remain inactive if he knew his services might
be required, so he evaded the sentries and stole out of
the Fort again to find his missing friends. Luck had so
far favoured him, and he had wished many of the rebels
good-night without arousing any suspicion as to his
identity, when unexpectedly he stumbled against a picquet.
It had doubtless got about that there were spies and
strangers in the town, for when they challenged him his
response was not considered satisfactory, and they ordered
him to lay down his rifle and put up his hands. He made
off instead, and, by dodging and ducking, managed to
escape the bullets they sent after him. He had lost his
rifle by stumbling in the snow, but he was fleet of foot,
and soon managed to get ahead of his pursuers. He knew
where there was a rifle if only he could reach the sleighs.
He had hardly expected such good fortune as to fall in
with his party again, having feared that they had been
captured by the rebels. He advised Douglas to get back
to the ranche by a little-used circuitous trail, as now
it was pretty certain that the whole township was aroused,
and the rebels would be out scouring the countryside for
them in another hour or less. The only consolation that
lay in the situation to Jacques was that he would now
have an opportunity of seeking out and finally settling
his little difference with his _bete noire_, Leopold St.
Croix.

Rory came down from the ridge and reported that it would
now be madness to attempt to carry out their programme
of going back, as the entire settlement was aroused, and
there was evidently some little fight going on amongst
the rebels themselves. Douglas, he said, could not return
to Pasmore's guards and offer to exchange himself, trusting
to their friendship for Katie, for every one now would
see them; they might only precipitate Pasmore's fate,
and probably get shot themselves. They must get back to
Child-of-Light.

It was certainly a distressing thing to have to do after
all they had gone through, but the worst part of the
whole affair was the thought of having to return leaving
the man who had risked his life for them at the mercy of
the rebels.

But it was folly on the face of it to go back to Battleford.
Still Douglas hesitated.

"It's too much to expect one to do to leave him," he
said, "but I'm afraid we're too late to do anything else."

As for Dorothy, she looked sick of it all, to say the
least of it.

"It's too terrible, dad; too terrible for words, and I
hardly thanked him for what he had done!"

"Nonsense, Dorothy! He knew we were people who didn't go
about wearing our hearts upon our sleeves. Besides, the
chances are that Pepin or Katie will stand him in good
stead yet. Besides, they may take it into their heads to
hold him as a hostage."

"Pardon, _mon ami_," said Jacques. "I think it is this
of two ways. Either we go as Rory here says, or we stop
and go back. As for myself, it matters not which--see"--he
showed some ominous scars on his wrists--"that was
Big-bear's lot long time ago when they had me at the
stake, and I was not afraid then. But I think it is well
to go, for if Pasmore is not dead, then we live again to
fight, and we kill that idiot St. Croix and one or two
more. _Bien!_ Is not that so?"

"Thet's the whole affair in a nutshell," said Rory. "Now
the question is, what we're going to do wid them beauties?
It would hardly do to leave 'em here, an' as for Lagrange,
he knows that them in Battleford won't be too friendly
disposed to him now, so 'e'd better come, too."

"That's it," said the rancher, "we'll make these two
breeds drive in front of us with the spare sleighs--they
can't leave the trail the way the snow is--and anyhow
we've got arms and they haven't, so I fancy they'll keep
quiet. When we get some distance away we may send them
back as hostages for Pasmore. Let us get ready."

The horses were speedily got into the sleighs, and in a
few minutes the procession was formed. As for Rory, he
had some little trouble in starting, for his dogs, in
their joy at seeing him, gave expression to it in their
own peculiar way. A big Muskymote knocked down a little
Corbeau and straightway began to worry it, while a Chocolat
did the same with a diminutive _tete-noire._

The order was given to pull out, and away they went again
in the early dawn. Rory had not gone far in his light
dog-sleigh before he pulled alongside the rancher.

"I say, boss," he said, "I ain't juist agoin' wid you
yet awhile. I know iviry hole an' corner of them bluffs,
an' I'm juist makin' for a quiet place I knows of, close
by, where I'll be able to find out about Pasmore, and
p'rhaps help him. As for you, keep right on to
Child-o'-Light. I'll foller in a day or so if I kin, but
don't you trouble about Rory. I'se know my way about,
an' I'll be all right, you bet."




CHAPTER XII

A MYSTERIOUS STAMPEDE

Before Douglas could make any demur, Rory had switched
off on to another trail and was driving quickly away.

"Rory is as wide awake as a fox," said Douglas to his
daughter. "He's off at full speed now, and I don't suppose
he'd turn for me anyhow, if I did overtake him."

"Let him go, father," said the girl. "Rory would have
been dead long ago if there had been any killing him.
Besides, he may really be of some use to Mr. Pasmore--one
never can tell. Do you know, dad, I've got an idea that
somehow Mr. Pasmore is going to come out of this all
right I can't tell you why I think so, but somehow I feel
as if he were."

The rancher's gaze seemed concentrated on the tiny
iridescent and diamond-like crystals floating in the air.
There was a very sober expression on his face. He only
wished he could have been honestly of the same opinion.

The sun came out strong, and it was quite evident that
Jack Frost had not many more days to reign. Already he
was losing that iron-like grip he had so long maintained
over the face of Nature. The horses were actually steaming,
and the steel runners glided smoothly over the snow, much
more easily, indeed, than they would have done if the
frost had been more intense, as those accustomed to
sleighing very well know.

There was a great silence all round them, and when on
the open prairie, where the dim horizon line and the cold
grey sky became one, they could almost have imagined that
they were passing over the face of some dead planet
whirling in space. Only occasionally, where the country
was broken and a few stunted bushes were to be met with,
a flock of twittering snow-birds were taking time by the
forelock, and rejoicing that the period of dried fruits
and short commons was drawing to a close.

And now Dorothy saw that her father was struggling with
sleep. It was not to be wondered at, for it was the third
day since he had closed an eye. Without a word she took
the reins from his hands, and in a few minutes more had
the satisfaction of seeing him slumbering peacefully with
his head upon his breast. The high sides of the sleigh
kept him in position. When he awoke he found it was about
eleven o'clock, and that once more they were in the wooded
bluff country.

"You have let me sleep too long, Dorothy," he said. "It's
time we called a halt for breakfast Besides, we must send
those breeds back."

He whistled to Jacques, who called to Bastien, and in
another minute or two the sleighs were pulled up. The
prisoners were then provided with food, and told that
they were at liberty to depart By making a certain cut
across country they could easily reach the township before
nightfall.

One would have naturally expected that the two moccasined
gentry would have been only too glad to do as they were
told; but they were truculent, surly fellows, both, and
had been fretting all morning over the simple way in
which they had been trapped, and so were inclined to make
themselves disagreeable. Bastien Lagrange, who had always
known them as two particularly tricky, unreliable customers,
had preserved a discreet silence during the long drive,
despite their endeavours to drag some information out of
him. From what they knew of Douglas they felt in no way
apprehensive of their personal safety, so, after the
manner of mean men, they determined to take advantage of
his magnanimity to work out their revenge. Of Jacques,
however, they stood in awe. They knew that if it were
not for the presence of the rancher and his daughter that
gentleman would very soon make short work of them. The
cunning wretches knew exactly how far they could go with
the British.

They began by grumbling at having been forced to accompany
their captors so far, and asked for the fire-arms that
had been taken from them. One of them even supplemented
this modest request by pointing out that they were
destitute of ammunition. Jacques could stand their
impudence no longer, so, taking the speaker by the
shoulders, he gave him an unexpected and gratuitous start
along the trail. The two stayed no longer to argue, but
kept on their way, muttering ugly threats against their
late captors. In a few minutes more they had disappeared
round a turn of the trail.

The party proceeded on its way again. After going a few
hundred yards they branched on to a side trail, which
led into hilly and wooded country. Passing through a
dense avenue of pines in a deep, narrow valley, they came
to a few log huts nestling in the shadow of a high cliff.
There was a corral [Footnote: Corral = yard.] hard by
with a stack of hay at one end. They approached it
cautiously. Having satisfied themselves that the huts
concealed no lurking foes, it was resolved that they
should unhitch, give the horses a rest, and continue
their journey a couple of hours later.

Jacques put one of his great shoulders to the door of
the most habitable-looking log hut and burst it open.
Dorothy entered with him. The place had evidently belonged
to half-breeds. It was scrupulously clean, and in the
fairly commodious kitchen, with its open fire-place at
one end, they found a supply of fuel ready to their hand.

Whilst Jacques assisted the rancher and Lagrange in
foddering the horses, Dorothy busied herself with
preparations for a meal.

It was pleasant to be engaged with familiar objects and
duties after passing through all sorts of horrors, and
Dorothy entered cheerfully on her self-imposed tasks.
She quickly lit a fire, and then went out with a large
pitcher to the inevitable well found on all Canadian
homesteads. She had to draw the water up in the bucket
some forty or fifty feet, but she was no weakling, and
soon accomplished that. To fill and swing the camp-kettle
across the cheery fire was the work of a minute or two.
She then got the provisions out of the sleighs, and before
the three men returned from looking after the horses she
had laid out a meal on the well-kept deal table, which
she had Covered with an oilcloth. The tea had been made
by this time, and the four steaming pannikins filled with
the dark, amber-hued nectar looked truly tempting. The
rude benches were drawn close to the table, and the room
assumed anything but a deserted appearance.

It would have been quite a festive repast only that the
thought of Sergeant Pasmore's probable fate would obtrude
itself. Certainly they could not count upon the security
of their own lives for one single moment. It was just as
likely as not that a party of rebels might drive up as
they sat there and either shoot them down or call upon
them to surrender. Dorothy, despite her endeavours to
banish all thoughts of the situation from her mind, could
not free herself from the atmosphere of tragedy and
mystery that shrouded the fate of the captured one. Her
reason told her it was ten chances to one that the rebels
would promptly shoot him as a dangerous enemy. Still, an
uncanny something that she could not define would not
allow her to believe that he was dead: rather was she
inclined to think that he was that very moment alive,
but in imminent peril of his life and thinking of her.
So strongly at times did this strange fancy move her that
once she fully believed she heard him call her by name.
She put down the pannikin of tea from her lips untasted,
and with difficulty suppressed an almost irresistible
impulse to cry out. But there was no sound to be heard
outside save the dull thud of some snow falling from the
eaves.

They had just finished their meal when suddenly a terrible
din was heard outside. It seemed to come from the horse
corral. There was a thundering of hoofs, a few equine
snorts of fear, a straining and creaking of timber, a
loud crash, and then the drumming of a wild stampede.

The men sprang to their feet and grasped their rifles.

"The horses!" cried Douglas; "some one has stampeded
them! We must get them back at any cost."

"Don't go out that way," remonstrated Dorothy, as they
made for the door. "You don't know who may be waiting
for you there. There is a back door leading out from the
next room, but you'd better look out carefully through
the window first."

The wisdom of the girl's advice was so obvious that they
at once proceeded to put it into execution.




CHAPTER XIII

ROOFED!

The back windows commanded a view of the horse corral,
and they could see that one side of it had been borne
down by the rush of horses. But what had frightened them
was a mystery. There was nothing whatever of a hostile
mature to be seen. They could detect no lurking foe
among the pines, and when they passed outside, and went
round the scattered huts, there was nothing to account
for the disastrous panic.

"_Parbleu!_" exclaimed Jacques, looking around perplexedly.
"I think it must have been their own shadows of which
they were afraid. Do you not think that is so, m'sieur?"

"It looks like it," said Douglas; but we must get those
horses or the rebels will get _us_ to-morrow; they can
hardly overtake us before then. If I remember rightly,
there's a snake-fence across the trail, about half-a-mile
or so up the valley, which may stop them. Now, if you,
Jacques, go to the right, and you, Lagrange, to the left,
while I take the trail--I'm not quite so young and nimble
as you two--I dare say we'll not be long before we have
them back. But I'd nearly forgotten about you, Dorothy.
It won't do to--"

"Nonsense, dad! I'll be perfectly safe here. The sooner
you get the horses back, the sooner we will be able to
consider ourselves safe."

This view of the case seemed to commend itself to Bastien,
for without further ado he strode away to the left among
the pines.

"I'm afraid there's nothing else for it," said Douglas.
"I think you'd better go inside again, Dorothy, and wait
till we return."

"And in the meantime I'll pack the sleighs," observed
the girl. "Leave me a gun, and I'll be all right"

The rancher leant his gun against the window sill, and
then departed hastily.

The deserted huts seemed very lonely indeed when they
had gone, but Dorothy was a healthy, prairie-bred girl,
and not given to torturing herself with vain imaginings.

She went indoors, and, for the next few minutes busied
herself in cleaning up and stowing away the dinner things.
This done, she resolved to go outside, for a wonderful
change had come about in the weather. It was only too
obvious that a new Spring had been born, and already its
mild, quickening breath was weakening the grip of King
Frost.

Dorothy walked over towards the pines. She could detect
a resinous, aromatic odour in the air. Here and there
a pile of snow on the flat boughs would lose its grip on
the roughened surface and slip to earth with a hollow
thud. She skirted the outhouses, and then made for the
long, low-roofed hut again. She was passing a large pile
of cord-wood which she noted was built in the form of a
square, when, happening to look into it, she saw something
that for the moment caused her heart to stop beating and
paralysed her with fear. It was a great gaunt cinnamon
bear, which, seated on its haunches, was watching her
with a look of comical surprise upon its preternaturally
shrewd, human-like face.

Dorothy's heart was thumping like a steam-engine. Fear,
indeed, seemed to give her wings, for she gathered up
her skirts and ran towards the house as she had never
run in her life.

But the bear had just an hour or so before risen from
his long winter's sleep, influenced, doubtless, by those
"blind motions of the earth that showed the year had
turned"; feeling uncommonly empty, and therefore uncommonly
hungry, he had left his cave in the hillside lower down
the valley to saunter upwards in search of a meal. The
horses had unfortunately scented him before he was aware
of their proximity, and, with that lively terror which
all animals evince in the neighbourhood of bears, had
broken madly away, to Bruin's great chagrin. If he had
not been half asleep, and therefore stupid, he would have
crawled upon them from the lee side, and been on the
back, or at the throat, of one before they could have
divined his presence. The noise of the men's voices had
startled him, and he had gone into the wood heap to
collect his thoughts and map out a new plan of campaign.
The voices had ceased, but there was a nice, fresh-looking
girl, who had walked right into his very arms, as it
were. It was not likely he was going to turn up his nose
at her. On the contrary, he would embrace the
opportunity--and the young lady.

He must, indeed, have still been half asleep, for he had
given Dorothy time to make a start, and there was no
questioning the fact that she could run. Bruin gathered
himself together and made after her. Now, to look at a
bear running, one would not imagine he was going at any
great rate; his long, lumbering strides seem laboured,
to say the least of it, but in reality he covers the
ground so quickly that it takes a very fast horse indeed
to keep pace with him.

Before Dorothy had got half-way to the hut, she knew she
was being closely pursued. She could hear the hungry
brute behind her breathing hard. At length she reached
the hut, but the door was shut. She threw herself against
it and wrenched at the handle, which must have been put
on upside down to suit some whim of the owners, for it
would not turn. The bear was close upon her, so with a
sob of despair she passed on round the house. Next moment
she found herself confronted with a log wall and in a
species of _cul-de-sac_. Oh! the horror of that moment!
But there was a barrel lying on its side against the wall
of the hut Afterwards she marvelled how she could have
done it, but she sprang on to it, and, gripping the bare
poles that constituted the eaves of the shanty, leapt
upwards. Her breast rested on the low sod roof; another
effort and she was on it. The barrel was pushed from her
on springing, and, rolling out of harm's way, she realised
that for her it had been a record jump. The vital question
now was, could the bear follow?

She raised herself on hands and knees among the soft,
wet snow, and looked down apprehensively at the enemy.

What she saw would at any other time have made her laugh
heartily, but the situation was still too serious to be
mirthful. There, a few paces from the hut, seated on his
haunches and looking up at her with a look of angry
remonstrance on his old-fashioned face, was Bruin. His
mouth was open, his under jaw was drooping with palpable
disappointment, and his small dark eyes were gleaming
with an evil purpose. That he had used up all his
superfluous fat in his long winter's sleep was obvious,
judging by his lanky, slab-like sides. His long hair
looked very bedraggled and dirty. He certainly seemed
remarkably hungry, even for a bear. There was no gainsaying
the fact that he was wide awake now.

Dorothy rose to her feet and glanced quickly around.
Particularly she looked up the trail in the direction
taken by her father and the others, but the dark, close
pines, and a bluff prevented her from seeing any distance.
She could hear nothing save the twittering of some
snow-birds, and the deep breathing of Bruin, who seemed
sadly out of condition. The steep sides of the valley
and the dark woods close up all around and shut in that
desolate little homestead. There was no hiding the truth
from herself; she was very much alone, unless the bear
could be regarded as company. Bruin had her all to himself,
so much so, indeed, that he appeared to be taking matters
leisurely. He had the afternoon ahead of him, and, after
all, it was only a girl with whom he had to deal. As he
watched her there was even an apologetic expression upon
his face, as if he were half ashamed to be engaged in
such an ungentlemanly occupation and hoped it would be
understood that he was only acting thus in obedience to
the imperative demands of an empty stomach.

Dorothy wondered why the bear did not at once begin to
clamber up after her. As a matter of fact, bears are not
much good at negotiating high jumps, particularly when
their joints have been stiffening during the greater part
of the winter. But they have a truly remarkable
intelligence, and this particular one was thinking the
matter over in quite a business-like way.

Dorothy caught sight of a long sapling projecting from
the eaves. It was really a species of rafter on which
the sod roof rested. She cautiously lent over, and,
grasping it with her two bands, managed with some
considerable exercise of force to detach it. It was about
six feet long and nearly as thick as her arm, making a
formidable weapon.

Bruin regarded her movements disapprovingly, and resolved
to begin operations. The barrel which had helped the girl
to gain the roof was naturally the first thing that
attracted him. With a mocking twinkle in his dark eyes,
he slouched towards it. He was in no hurry, for, being
an intelligent bear, he appreciated the pleasures of
anticipation. He placed his two fore feet on it, and
then, with a quick motion, jerked his cumbersome hind
quarters up after him.

But the bear had never seen a circus, and his education,
so far as barrels were concerned, had been neglected.
The results were therefore disastrous. The barrel rolled
backwards while Bruin took a header forward. Never in
the days of his cubhood had he effected such a perfect
somersault In fact, if it had been an intentional
performance he could not have done it in better style.
It was such an unexpected and spontaneous feat that his
thoughts went wandering again, and he looked at the barrel
in a puzzled and aggrieved sort of way, as if he half
suspected it of having played him some sort of practical
joke.

In spite of the peril of her situation Dorothy could not
restrain a peal of laughter. A town-bred girl would
doubtless have been still shaking with terror, but this
was a lass o' the prairie, accustomed to danger. Besides,
she saw now that to reach her would cost the bear more
skill and agility than he appeared to possess.

The barrel, being in a species of hollow, rolled back
and rocked itself into its former position.

The bear walked round it, sniffing and inspecting it in
quite a professional manner. Then, not without a certain
amount of side--also quite professional--he prepared to
have another try.

He sprang more carefully this time, but he did it so as
to put the momentum the other way. The result was that
he rocked wildly backwards and forwards for about a
minute, and managed to stay on the barrel as a novice
might on a plunging horse, until the inevitable collapse
came. The barrel took a wilder lurch forward than it had
yet done, and Bruin dived backwards this time. He came
down with such a thud, and in such an awkward position,
that Dorothy made sure his neck was broken. To tell the
truth, Bruin thought so himself. He actually had not the
moral courage to move for a few moments, lest he should,
indeed, find this to be the case. Even when he did move,
he was not too sure of it, and looked the very sickest
bear imaginable.

But a bear's head and neck are about the toughest things
going in anatomy, so after Bruin had carefully moved his
about for a little to make sure that nothing serious was
the matter, he again turned his attention to the girl.
His stock of patience was by this time nearly exhausted,
and he glared up at her in a peculiarly spiteful fashion.
Then, suddenly seized by a violent fit of energy, he
leapt upon the barrel again with the determination to
show this girl what he really could do when put to it
But, owing to the previous hard usage the barrel had
received, some of the staves had started, the result was
that it collapsed in a most thorough manner.

In addition to the surprise and shock sustained by the
bear, his limbs got inextricably mixed up with the iron
hoops, and he looked for all the world as if he were
performing some juggling feat with them. One hoop had
somehow got round his neck and right fore leg at the same
time, while another had lodged on his hind quarters. He
fairly lost his temper and spun round and round, snapping
viciously at his encumbrances. The girl laughed as she
had not laughed for many a long day. To see the dignified
animal make such an exhibition of himself over a trifle
of this sort was too ludicrous. But at last he managed
to get rid of the hoops, stood erect on his hind legs,
and then waddled clumsily towards the hut.

Dorothy was not a little alarmed now, for his huge forepaws
were on a level with the eaves, while his blunt, black
snout was quite several inches above the sod roof. What
if he could manage to spring on to it after all! He opened
his mouth, and she could see his cruel yellow jagged
teeth and the grey-ribbed roof of his mouth. He moved
his head about and seemed preparing for a spring. Dorothy
raised the stout pole high above her head with both hands,
and, with all the strength that was in her supple frame,
brought it down crash upon the brute's head.

Bruin must assuredly have seen stars, and thought that
a small pine tree had fallen on him, for he dropped on
all-fours again with his ideas considerably mixed--so
mixed, indeed, that he had not even the sense to go round
to the other side of the house, where there was a huge
snowdrift by which he might possibly have reached the
roof. But, being a persevering bear, and having a tolerably
thick head, not to speak of a pressing appetite, he again
reared himself against the log wall with the intention
of scrambling up. On each occasion that he did this,
however, the girl brought the influence of the pole to
bear upon him, causing him to change his mind. Dorothy
began to wonder if it were possible that a blacksmith's
anvil could be as hard as a bear's skull.

But at last Bruin grew as tired of the futile game as
Dorothy of whacking at him with the pole, and, disgusted
with his luck and with himself, withdrew to the
neighbourhood of the corral fence, either to wait until
the girl came down, or to think out a new plan of campaign.

As for Dorothy, she seated herself as best she could on
an old tin that had once contained biscuits, and which,
with various other useless articles, littered the roof.
She was quite comfortable, and the sun was warm--in fact,
almost too much so. She was conscious, indeed, that her
moccasins were damp. In future she would wear leather
boots with goloshes over them during the day, and only
put on moccasins when it became cold in the evening. She
knew that in a few days the snow would have disappeared
as if by magic, and that a thousand green living things
would be rushing up from the brown, steaming earth, and
broidering with the promise of a still fuller beauty the
quickening boughs.

But what was delaying her father and the others? Surely,
if the fence and slip-rails were across the trail where
they said they were, the rush of the horses must have
been checked, and they would be on their way back now.
But she could neither see nor hear anything of their
approach. It was stupid to be sitting up there on the
roof of a house with nothing save a bear--fortunately at
a respectable distance--for company, but perhaps under
the circumstances she ought to be very thankful for having
been able to reach such a haven at all. Besides, the day
was remarkably pleasant--almost summer-like--although
there was slush under-foot. Everywhere she could hear
the snow falling in great patches from the trees and the
rocks. The bare patches of earth were beginning to steam,
and lawn-like vapours were lazily sagging upwards among
the pines as the sun kissed the cold cheek of the snow
queen.

Dorothy's head rested on her hands, and she began to feel
drowsy. The twittering of the snow-birds sounded like
the faint tinkling silver sleigh-bells far away; the bear
loomed up before her, assuming gigantic proportions, his
features at the same time taking a human semblance that
somehow reminded her of the face of Pepin Quesnelle, then
changing to that of some one whose identity she could
not exactly recall. Stranger still, the weird face was
making horrible grimaces and calling to her; her eyes
closed, her head dropped, and she lurched forward suddenly;
she had been indulging in a day dream and had nearly
fallen asleep. But surely there was some one calling,
for a voice was still ringing in her ears.

She pulled herself together and tried to collect her
senses. The bear assumed his natural proportions, and
Dorothy realised that she was still seated on the roof
of the log hut And then a harsh voice--the voice of her
dream--broke in with unpleasant distinctness upon her
drowsily-tranquil state of mind.

"Hi, you zere?" it said. "What for you not hear? Come
down quick, I zay."

Dorothy turned, and, glancing down on the other side of
the hut, saw the two objectionable rebels whom her father
had released nearly a couple of hours before. There was
an ugly grin upon their faces, and the one who had
addressed her held in his hands the gun which Douglas
had placed against the wall so that it might be handy
for his daughter in any emergency.




CHAPTER XIV

A THREE-CORNERED GAME

It was now a case of being between the devil and the deep
sea with a vengeance, and Dorothy, as she surveyed the
two vindictive rebels on one side and the hungry bear on
the other, was almost at a loss to determine which enemy
was the more to be dreaded. Upon the whole she thought
she would have the better chance of fair play with the
bear. If the latter succeeded in clambering on the roof,
at a pinch she could get down the wide chimney, a feat
which it was not likely the bear would care to emulate.
True, it would be a sooty and disagreeable experiment,
not to speak of the likelihood of being scorched on
reaching the fire-place, but then she could at once heap
more fuel on the fire, which would make it impossible
for Bruin to descend, and barricade herself in until the
others returned.

It was fortunate that the girl's presence of mind did
not desert her. Her policy was to temporise and keep the
foe waiting until the others returned with the horses.
Moreover, she noticed that Bruin sat on his haunches,
listening, with his head to one side, as if this new
interruption were no affair of his.

A brilliant idea occurred to her, and already she almost
began to look upon Bruin as an ally. As yet the half-breeds
were unaware of the bear's proximity.

The girl, without rising, picked up the pole and placed
it across her knees.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked the taller of
the two rebels. "Don't you want to return to Battleford?"

"Eet is too late how, and we want you," explained the
first villain. "Come down queeck. Eet is no time we have
to waste. Eef we have to fetch you eet will be ver' bad
for you."

"Dear me!" remarked Dorothy, outwardly keeping cool, but
not without serious misgivings. "I can't think what you
can want with me. But, as you're so anxious, I'll come
down--in a few minutes--when my father and the others
return."

"Ze horses they in big snowdreeft stuck and ze man cannot
leaf. Come down now--we want you!"

It was obvious to Dorothy that the two rebels, in taking
a circuitous route to the hut, had come upon the horses
stuck fast in a snowdrift, and that her father and Jacques
and Bastien were busily engaged in trying to extricate
them. Knowing that the girl must have been left alone
with the fire-arms, the two rebels had hurried back to
secure them, with wild, half-formed ideas of revenge
stirring their primitive natures.

Dorothy's policy was to keep cool, in order not to
precipitate any action on their part.

"Co-om," said the taller one, whose villainous appearance
was not lessened by a cast in his right eye, "we want
you to gif us to eat. Co-om down."

"Goodness! have you eaten all we gave you already? You
must have wonderful appetites, to be sure. If you look
in the sleigh--"

"Pshaw! co-om you down and get. What for you sit all
alone up there? Eet is not good to sit zere, and you will
catch cold."

"Oh, don't trouble about me, thanks. I'm all right; I
don't catch cold easily--"

What the cross-eyed one ejaculated at this point will
not bear repetition. He actually so far forgot himself
as to threaten Dorothy with bodily violence if she did
not at once obey him. But as the girl only remained
seated, with apparent unconcern, upon the biscuit tin,
and gazed mildly into his face, it became evident to the
big rebel that he was only wasting words in thus addressing
her. He prepared to ascend the snow bank, jump thence on
to the roof, and fetch her down by force.

Dorothy, like Sister Ann of Bluebeard fame, gazed anxiously
around and listened with all the intensity born of her
desperate state; but there was nothing to be seen or
heard. Only Bruin had risen again and was coming slowly
towards the hut. A bright scheme suggested itself to the
girl; but she would wait until the cross-eyed one discovered
how utterly rotten and soft the snow-bank had become
before putting it into practice. She must gain all the
time she could.

The rebel managed to reach the top of the drift, which
was nearly on a level with the roof of the hut, without
sinking more than an inch or two into the snow; but when
he braced himself preparatory to springing across the
intervening wind-cleared space, the crust gave and down
he went nearly up to the waist. The more he struggled,
the deeper he sank. His flow of language was so persistent
and abusive that even Bruin, on the other side of the
hut, stood still to listen and wonder. It was as much as
Dorothy could do to keep from laughing heartily at the
fellow's discomfiture, but she restrained herself, as
such a course might only drive him to some unpleasant
and desperate measure. She, however, thought it a pity
that only one of them should be struggling in the drift.
She must drive the other into it also. She therefore rose
and called to the second villain, on whose evil face
there was an unmistakable grin. Like Bastien, and most
of his kind, he had no objections to seeing his own
friends suffer so long as he himself came by no harm.

"Ho, you there!" she cried in apparent indignation. "Don't
you see your friend in the drift? Why don't you give him
a hand out? Are you afraid?"

But the second villain was too old a bird to be caught
with chaff, and replied by putting his mitted hand to
one side of his nose, at the same time closing his right
eye. He bore eloquent testimony to the universality of
the great sign language.

"You are a coward!" she exclaimed, disgusted with the
man, and at the failure of her little scheme.

"A nice comrade, you! I wonder you ever had the spirit
to rebel!"

This was too much for the rogue's equanimity, and he
launched into such a torrent of abuse that the girl was
obliged to put her fingers in her ears. He, however,
went to the trouble of crawling over the snowdrift and
picking up the gun which his worthy mate had dropped when
he broke through the crust By this time the first villain
had managed to extricate himself, and had moved into the
clear space opposite the front door of the hut The eyes
of the two were now fairly glowing with rage, and they
prepared to storm the position. One of them was in the
act of giving a back to the other when. Dorothy appeared
on the scene with the sapling.

"Don't be silly," she cried. "If you do anything of that
sort I shall use the pole. Go round to the back; there's
a barrel there, and if you can set it up on end against
the wall, I'll come down quietly."

They looked up at her; they did not quite understand all
she said, but the girl's face seemed so innocent and
unconcerned that they strode round the hut, still keeping
their evil eyes upon Dorothy and her weapon of defence.
It must be confessed that Dorothy had some qualms of
conscience in thus introducing them to Bruin, but her
own life was perhaps at stake, and they had brought the
introduction on themselves. Still, they had a gun, and
there were two of them, so it would be a case of a fair
field and no favour.

Bruin heard them coming and stood on his hind legs to
greet them. Next moment the three were face to face. It
would have been difficult to imagine a more undignified
encounter. The big breed's legs seemed to collapse under
him; the other, who carried the gun, and was therefore
the more self-possessed of the couple, brought it sharply
to his shoulder and fired.

Bruin dropped on his knees, but speedily rose again, for
a bear, unless hit in a vital place, is one of the most
difficult animals to kill; and in this case the bullet
had merely glanced off one of his massive shoulder-blades.
Being ignorant of the resources of a magazine rifle, the
half-breed dropped it, and ran towards a deserted outhouse
close to the horse corral.

Thoroughly infuriated now by the bullet-wound, the bear
made after him. As he could not annihilate the two men
at once, he confined his efforts with praiseworthy
singleness of purpose to the man who had fired the shot.
It was lucky for the fugitive that bullet had somewhat
lamed the great brute, otherwise it would not have needed
to run far before overtaking him.

It was an exciting chase. The breed reached the hut, but,
as there was neither open door nor window, he was obliged
to scuttle round and round it, after the manner of a
small boy pursued by a big one. Sometimes the bear, with
almost human intelligence, would stop short and face the
other way, when the breed would all but run into him,
and then the route would be reversed. On the Countenance
of the hunted one was a look of mortal terror; his eyes
fairly started from his head, and his face streamed with
perspiration. It seemed like a judgment upon him for
breaking his word to the rancher and interfering with
the girl, when he might now have been well on his way to
Battleford.

While this was going on, the cross-eyed ruffian endeavoured
to clamber on to the roof of the hut by jumping up and
catching the projecting sapling as Dorothy had done, but
the girl stopped him in this by tapping his knuckles with
the pole.

"Pick up and hand me that gun," she said, pointing to
it. "When you have done so, I will allow you to come up."

The cross-eyed one looked sadly astonished, but as he
did not know the moment when the bear might give up
chasing his worthy comrade to give him a turn, he did as
he was bid. The rifle would be of no use to the girl,
anyhow, and, besides, her father and the others must have
heard the shot and would be on their way back to see what
the matter was. It would therefore be as well to comply
with her request and try to explain that their seemingly
ungrateful conduct had only been the outcome of their
innate playfulness. If they had erred it was in carrying
a joke a trifle too far.

As soon as Dorothy found herself in possession of the
rifle she knew that she was safe. She even laid the pole
flat on the roof, allowing one end of it to project a
foot or so beyond it so as to aid the cross-eyed one in
his unwonted gymnastic feat. In a few moments the
discomfited villain stood on the roof in front of her.

Dorothy lowered the lever of the Winchester so that he
could see it and pumped another cartridge into the barrel.
The half-breed realised the extent of his folly, but saw
it was too late to do anything.

"Now stand over in that far corner," said the girl to
him, "or I will shoot you."

But the cross-eyed one was humility itself, and protested
that he could not for all the gold in the bed of the
Saskatchewan have lifted a finger to do the dear young
Mam'selle any harm. In his abject deference he was even
more nauseous than in his brazen brutality. He did as he
was bid all the same, and the two turned their attention
to the unlucky man who was having such a lively time with
Bruin. Dorothy, however, did not forget to keep a sharp
eye on the man near her.

Had there not been such tragic possibilities in the temper
and strength of the bear, the situation might have been
eminently entertaining. The position of the two principals
in the absorbing game of life and death was not an uncommon
one. Bruin stood upright at one corner of the hut and
the half-breed stood at another: each was watching the
other intently as a cat and mouse might be expected to
do. The man's mitted hands rested against the angle of
the wall and his legs straddled out on either side so as
to be ready to start off in any direction at a moment's
notice. Whenever the bear made a move the half-breed
slightly lowered his body and dug his feet more securely
into the soft snow. They resembled two boys watching each
other in a game of French and English. After standing
still for a minute or two and regaining their wind, they
would start off to their positions at two other corners.
Sometimes the bear would be unseen by the man, and this
state of affairs was generally a very puzzling and
unsatisfactory one for the latter, as he never knew from
which direction Bruin might not come charging down upon
him.

When the two spectators on the roof turned their attention
to the two actors, the latter were in the watching
attitude, but almost immediately the game of "tag" began
again. The pursued one was evidently in considerable
distress; his face matched the colour of his knitted
crimson tuque, at the end of which a long blue tassel
dangled in a fantastic fashion. His whole attitude was
that of one suffering from extreme physical and nervous
tension. Dorothy's first impulse was to try and shoot
the bear, but owing to the distance and its movements
she realised that this would be a matter of considerable
difficulty. Besides, unless the bear-hunted rogue were
fool enough to leave the friendly vantage of the hut, it
was obvious that he would be quite able to evade the
enemy until such time as her father and the others came.
This would serve the useful purpose of keeping him out
of mischief and rendering him a source of innocent
entertainment to his friend, for it must be admitted that
the latter, now that he was safe, or considered himself
so, adopted the undignified, not to say unchristian-like,
attitude of openly expressing a sporting interest in the
proceedings.

But the fugitive had grown tired of the trying device of
dodging the bear round four corners, and, thinking that
if he could only get to the horse corral and squeeze
between the posts, he could, by keeping it between himself
and Bruin, gain the hut at the far end and mount on to
the roof. He determined to put his scheme to the test.
So, when for a moment he lost sight of Bruin behind the
other corner, he made a frantic bolt for the fence. But
his enemy happened to be making a dash round that side
of the house from which Leon reckoned he had no right to
make, one, and the result was that in another instant
the beast was close at his heels. It was an exciting
moment, and Dorothy, despite the fact that the hunted
one was a dangerous enemy, could not restrain a cry of
horror when she saw his imminent peril. She would have
shot at the bear if she could, but just at that moment
it happened to be going too fast for her.

As for the cross-eyed one, it was indeed a treat to see
Leon, who had laughed at him when he sank into the
snowdrift, flying for his life with a look of ghastly
terror on his face. It was a case of retributive justice
with a vengeance. His sporting tendencies were again in
the ascendant, and he clapped his hands and yelled with
delight.

The hunted half-breed managed to reach and squeeze through
the fence ahead of the bear, but the latter, to Leon's
dismay, succeeded in getting through after him, lifting
up the heavy rails with his strong snout and great back
as if they were so many pieces of cane. Then for the next
three minutes Leon only managed to save himself by a very
creditable acrobatic performance, which consisted of
passing from one side of the fence to the other after
the manner of a harlequin. He had lost his tuque, and
the bear had spared time to rend it to shreds with its
great jaws and one quick wrench of its forepaws. His
stout blue coat was ripped right down the back, and
altogether he was in a sorry plight.

The cross-eyed one had never witnessed anything so funny
in all his life, and fairly danced about on the roof in
his glee. There was every chance that Leon would be clawed
up past all recognition in the next few minutes, so he
shouted encouragement to Bruin for all he was worth.

Then to the girl's horror she saw the hunted half-breed
stumble in the snow, and the bear grab him by his short
blue coat just as he was wriggling under the fence.
Dorothy did not hesitate to act promptly now. If she
did not instantly put a bullet into the bear the man
would be torn to pieces before her eyes, and that would
be too horrible. True, she might just possibly kill the
man by firing, but better that than he should be killed
by Bruin. Fortunately she was accustomed to fire-arms,
and was a fairly good shot, so, putting the rifle to her
shoulder, she took aim and drew the trigger.

It was a good shot, for the bullet penetrated a little
behind the left shoulder, in the neighbourhood of the
heart, and the bear, releasing his grip upon Leon, lurched
forward and lay still, while the breed crawled, in a very
dishevelled condition, into the horse corral.

Dorothy was congratulating herself upon her success, and
was in the act of heaving a sigh of relief, when suddenly
the rifle, which for the moment she held loosely in her
right hand, was snatched from her grasp. At the same
moment an arm was thrust round her throat, and she was
thrown roughly on the snow.




CHAPTER XV

CHECKMATED

For a minute or two Dorothy struggled to free herself
from her burly captor, but it was the struggle of the
gazelle with the tiger, and the tiger prevailed. He
laughed brutally, and put his knee upon her chest.

Even then she managed to slide her hand down to her side,
where, after the manner of most people in that land, she
carried a sheath-knife. This she succeeded in drawing,
but the half-breed saw the gleam of the steel and caught
her wrist with his vice-like fingers.

"Ho, Leon!" he yelled; "coom quick, and bring ze rope!"

It was a wonderful change that had come over the cross-eyed
one. A few minutes before and he had been an abject
coward; now he was the blustering bully and villain, with
his worst passions roused, and ready to take any risks
to gratify his thirst for revenge.

As for Dorothy, she saw the futility of struggling, and
lay still. What could have happened to her father and
Jacques that they did not come up? Surely they must be
near at hand. Was God going to allow these men, whose
lives she and her father had spared, to prevail? She did
not doubt that they meant to put her cruelly to death.
She breathed a prayer for Divine aid, and had a strange
presentiment that she was to be helped in some mysterious
way.

In a minute or two Leon was also upon the roof. In his
hand he held some strips of undressed buck-skin and a
jack-knife. He seemed to have forgotten all about his
late peril in the paramount question of how they were to
revenge themselves upon the girl who a short time before
had outwitted them. The cross-eyed one hated her because
she had rapped him over the knuckles and given him a bad
five minutes when she had possession of the gun. Leon
was furious because she had brought about his introduction
to Bruin so cleverly, and given him beyond doubt the
worst ten minutes he ever had in his life. Like most
gentlemen of their stamp, they quite lost sight of the
fact that they themselves had been the aggressors, and
that, had it not been for the girl's goodness of heart,
they would in all probability have both been killed.

Perhaps the strangest feature of the situation to Dorothy
was that Leon did not seem to resent his worthy mate's
late secession from the path of loyalty, or, to put it
more plainly, his cold-bloodedness in laying him the odds
in favour of the bear. Probably they knew each other so
well and were so accustomed to be kicked when down that
Leon took the affair as a matter of course. Dorothy
rightly concluded, however, that this seeming indifference
was merely the outcome of the cunning half-breed nature,
which never forgot an insult and never repaid it until
the handle end of the whip was assured.

The first thing that the two villains proceeded to do
was to tie Dorothy's hands, not too closely, however,
behind her back. It was useless to attempt resistance,
as they were both powerful men, and they would only have
dealt with her more roughly had she done so. Then the
cross-eyed one proposed that they should take her into
the empty hut and tie her up. If they succeeded in getting
another rifle, as they expected they would, they could
wait inside and shoot the rancher and Jacques as they
unsuspiciously approached with the horses. Bastien Lagrange
could then be easily disposed of. It would be necessary
to put something in the girl's mouth--Leon suggested his
old woollen head-gear which the bear had chewed up--until
her friends were ambushed, as otherwise she might give
the alarm. Afterwards they could dispose of her at their
sweet leisure. This and more they discussed with such
candour and unreserve that had only the occasion and
necessity been different, the greatest credit would have
been reflected on them.

"Oh, you fiends!" cried the girl as the horror of the
situation dawned upon her. "Would you murder the men in
cold blood who spared your lives when they had every
right to take them? You cowards! Why don't you shoot
me? Do you think I am afraid of being shot?"

It was all like some horrible nightmare to her just then.
Brief time seemed such an eternity that she longed for
it to come to an end. She felt like one who, dreaming,
knows she dreams and struggles to awake.

The cross-eyed one was evidently delighted to see that
he had at length aroused this hitherto wonderfully
self-possessed girl to such a display of emotion; she
looked ever so much handsomer now that she was angry.
His watery, awry eyes gleamed, and his thick underlip
drooped complacently. He would see if she had as much
grit as she laid claim to. It was all in the day's sport;
but he would have to hurry up.

He seized the Winchester, and, holding it in front of
him, jerked down the lever as he had seen Dorothy do, so
as to eject the old and put a fresh cartridge into the
breech. But the old cartridge, in springing out, flew up
and hit him such a smart rap between the eyes that Leon
at once seized his little opportunity and laughed
ironically.

"Good shot, Lucien!" he cried. "Encore, _mon ami!_"

Lucien's eyes were watering and smarting, and he felt
quite like shooting his sympathetic friend on the spot,
but he kept his wrath bravely under, and resolved to show
Leon in a very practical fashion how he could shoot on
the first auspicious occasion. Yes, such a blessed
opportunity would be worth waiting and suffering for.

And now they prepared to remove Dorothy from the roof,
and take her inside the hut. Leon was to descend first,
and then Lucien was to make her jump into the snowdrift,
where she would stick, and Leon would be waiting for her.

Poor Dorothy knew that if help did not come speedily she
would be undone. She prayed for Divine aid. She could
not believe that God would look down from Heaven and see
these fiends prevail. God's ways, she was aware, were
sometimes inscrutable, and seemed to fall short of justice,
but she knew that sooner or later they invariably worked
out retributive justice more terrible than man's. This
was to be made plain to her sooner than she imagined,
and unexpectedly, as God's ways occasionally are.

Leon descended, and his comrade, with an evil light in
his eyes and an oath on his lips, came towards Dorothy
to force her to jump on to the snowdrift; but villain
number two stopped him.

"Ze gun, Lucien," he said, "hand me ze gun first time."

The half-breed grasped the Winchester by the barrel and
handed it down to his comrade, but as he did so he was
unaware of the fact that the lever, in pumping up a fresh
cartridge, had also put the weapon on full cock. Leon,
in grasping it, did so clumsily, and inadvertently touched
the trigger. In an instant the death-fire spurted from
the muzzle, and Lucien fell forward with a bullet through
his brain.

Not always slow are the ways of Him Who said, "Vengeance
is Mine."

The girl sank back in horror at the sight. To see a man
sent to his account red-handed is a terrible thing.

The fatal shot was still ringing in her ears when another
sound broke in upon the reverberating air. It was the
muffled drumming of hoofs and the hurried exclamations
of voices which she recognised. It was her father and
the others returning with the horses. She staggered to
her feet again as best she could, for her hands, being
tied behind her back, made rising a difficult matter.
She must have presented a strange sight to the party,
bound as she was, and with her long hair streaming behind
her. She heard her father's cry of apprehension, and the
next moment she caught sight of the remaining rebel
scuttling like a startled iguana towards the dense
plantation, where it would have been quite possible for
him to have eluded pursuit. But before he reached it
there was a sharp ping. He threw up his hands and fell
dead on his face. Douglas had made sure of him.

"It's all right, dad, and I'm not hurt," said the girl
reassuringly, as her father ran towards her with a look
of anguish on his face. "You just came in the nick of
time; they were going to ambush you. Don't let the horses
go too near the corral, as they will be stampeded again.
A dead bear is lying there."

In a few minutes she had told her father what had occurred,
and he had explained the delay. It had been as the two
rebels had said. The horses had gone off the trail into
a deep snowdrift, and it had required a great deal of
hard work to get them out. They had not heard the shot
which Dorothy had fired at the bear, for the very sufficient
reason that two bluffs intervened, and the fairly strong
chinook wind carried away all sound. They had not thought
there was any reason to be apprehensive about her, but
they had worked toilsomely to get back. Bastien had proved
a pleasant surprise in this respect--he had, doubtless,
by no means incorrect views regarding Riel's powers of
pursuit and revenge. That the two rebels should have come
back, and that a bear--a sure harbinger of spring--should
have made itself so intrusive were contingencies the
party could hardly have foreseen. As it was, Dorothy,
save for the fright, was little the worse for the rough
handling she had received, so they resolved to proceed
on their way in about an hour's time, when certain
necessary duties had been fulfilled.

Before the ruddy sun began to go down behind the
pine-crested bluffs and far-stretching sea of white-robed
prairie in a fairy cloudland of crimson and gold and
keenest blue, the horses were hitched up into the sleighs,
and the fugitives were bowling merrily up the valley so
as to strike the main trail before nightfall.




CHAPTER XVI

THE FATE OF SERGEANT PASMORE

When Sergeant Pasmore was left in the dug-out, or, to
explain more fully, the hut built into the side of a
hill, he sat down in the semi-darkness and calmly reviewed
the situation. It was plain enough.

He was a prisoner, and would be shot within twelve hours;
but Douglas and Dorothy were probably now safe, and well
on their way to friends. This, at least, was a comforting
reflection.

He heard the talking of the breeds at the door; then he
saw it open, and one looked in upon him with his rifle
resting upon his chest. These were two of the sober crowd.
There was no getting away from them. The leaders of the
rebels probably by this time knew they had a prisoner,
and if he were not forthcoming when they were asked to
produce him, the lives of his gaolers would more than
likely pay the penalty. True, for Katie's sake they had
made an exchange, but that did not matter--no one would
know. Yes, they were ready to shoot him like a dog if he
made the slightest attempt to escape.

And she, Dorothy--well, he didn't mind dying for her.
Within the last twenty-four hours he had realised how
fully she had come into his life. And he had striven
against it, but it was written in the book. He could not
altogether understand her. At one moment she would be
kind and sympathetic, and then, when he unbent and tried
to come a step nearer to her, she seemed to freeze and
keep him at arm's length. And he thought he had known
women once upon a time, in the palmy days across the
seas. He wondered what she would think on finding out
the truth about her father's release.

It was cold sitting on an upturned pail with his moccasins
resting on the frozen clay, and breathing an atmosphere
which was like that of a sepulchre. He wished the dawn
would break, even although it meant a resumption of that
awful riot and bloodshed.

Yes, they would certainly shoot him when they discovered
that he was one of the hated red-coats who represented
the might and majesty of Great Britain. Why they should
now hate the Mounted Police, who had indeed always been
their best friends, was one of those problems that can
only be explained by the innate perversity of what men
call human nature.

He was becoming drowsy, but he heard a strange scraping
on the low roof over his head, and that kept him awake
for some little time speculating as to whether or not it
could be a bear. It seemed a silly speculation, but then,
in wild regions, inconvenient prisoners have often been
quietly disposed of through roofs and windows during
their sleep. As he did not intend to be taken unawares
like that, he groped around and found the neck yoke of
a bullock. It would do to fell a man with, anyhow.

He could hear the voices of his two guards at the door
only indistinctly, for, as has been said, it was a long,
narrow room. He wished it were a little lighter so that
he might see what he was doing. When the thing on the
roof once broke through, he would be in the shadow, while
it would be against the light That would give him the
advantage.

At length the unseen intruder reached the straw that
covered the thin poles laid one alongside the other. The
straw was scraped aside, and then against the dark grey
sky Pasmore could see an uncertain shape, but whether
man or beast he could not make out To push aside the pole
would be an easy matter. He held his breath, and gripped
the neck yoke.

"Hist!" and the figure was evidently trying to attract
his attention.

Pasmore thought it as well to wait until he was surer of
his visitor. A Mounted Policeman knew better than to give
himself away so simply.

"His-st, Sar-jean! Katie and Pepin she was send," said
the voice again.

It flashed through Pasmore's brain that here now was the
explanation of this strange visit. The half-breed (and
it was Pierre La Chene himself) had been sent by his
sweetheart to effect his rescue. It was, of course, absurd
to suppose that Pierre was undertaking this hazardous
and philanthropical job on his own account. What else
save love could work such wonders?

"Sar-jean, Sar-jean, you ready now?" asked Pierre,
impatiently, preparing to pull up the poles.

But Pasmore hesitated. Was he not imperilling the safety
of Douglas and his daughter by following so soon after
them? For, should they not have got quite clear of the
settlement, the hue and cry would be raised and scouts
would be sent out all around to cut off their retreat.
He thought of Dorothy. No, he could not in his sober
senses risk such a thing.

"Sar-jean, Sar-jean!"

But just at that moment, somewhere over in the village,
there was a wild outbreak of noise, the sound of
rifle-firing being predominant.

The straw was quickly pushed back over the poles and some
_debris_ and snow scooped over that At the same moment
the door was thrown open and his two guards entered; but
they came no farther than the doorway. One of them struck
a light, and immediately lit some hemp-like substance he
carried in his hand. It flared up instantly, illuminating
the long barn from end to end.

"Hilloa! you thar?" cried one of them.

But it was unnecessary to have asked such a question,
for the light disclosed the form of the sergeant re-seated
on the upturned pail, with his head resting on his hands.
He appeared to be asleep.

Evidently satisfied with their scrutiny his guards again
turned towards the door to find out, if possible, the
reason of the firing. The whole settlement would be
aroused in a few minutes if it went on, or at least those
would who had not entered so fully as the others into
the orgie. What could it be? It was in reality Jacques
making good his escape, but Pasmore was not to know that.

To the sergeant the uncertainty was painful. Could the
rancher and his daughter have been delayed until they
had been detected by some vigilant rebels? The idea was
terrible. But he noted that the grey wintry dawn was fast
creeping over the snow-bound earth, and he concluded that
the fugitives must have got through some considerable
time before.

The firing ceased, and at last the thoroughly tired-out
man laid himself down on some old sacking, and fell fast
asleep.

It was broad daylight when he was awakened by a kick from
a moccasined foot.

"Ho, thar!" cried some one. "Git up and be shot!"

The speaker did not repeat the kick, as he took good care
to stand well to one side when the sleeper awoke.

Then the present, with all its lurid horror, crashed down
upon the soul of Pasmore. He was to be shot--yes, but
his heart glowed within him when he thought of Dorothy,
for whom he had made this sacrifice!

He rose to his feet There was a group of dirty, bleary-eyed
breeds and Indians standing within the doorway. One or
two who had known him before looked on sulkily and
silently, for they knew that while he was a man whose
hand was iron and whose will was indomitable in the
carrying out of the law, he had ever a kindly word and
a helping hand for such as needed help. Those who only
knew him by the power he represented in the law, openly
jeered and crowed over this big "shermoganish" whom now
they had fairly in their grasp, and whom they must destroy
if the metis were to own and govern the land. They also,
however, kept well away from him, for had they not heard
how he had taken three bad Indians single-handed on the
Eagle Hills by wounding them in turn, and then driving
them before him, on foot, like sheep, into the Fort?

The sun was shining brightly down on the scene of rapine
and lawlessness, which looked peaceful and fair enough,
in all truth, robed as it was in its snow-white vestments.
Only here and there a heap of black and smouldering ruins
spoke of the horrors of the previous night. From the
scattered houses on the flat, wreaths of smoke were rising
right cheerily into the sharp, clear air. Breeds and
Indians, men, women, and children, were moving about
everywhere, carrying with them, for purposes of display,
their ill-gotten goods. Some of the lounging figures at
the door even had resplendent new sashes, and odd-looking
articles that did duty for them, wound round their waists
and necks. At intervals Pasmore could hear an odd rifle
shot, and he guessed that the Fort must be closely
invested. His first thoughts, however, were for Dorothy
and her father, whom he hoped were now safely back under
the friendly protection of Child-of-Light.

"Sar-jean," said a big half-breed whom he recognised as
one of his guards of the previous night, "will you haf
to eat and drink?"

The fellow did not look such a callous fanatic as some
of the others, and although this promise of breakfast
was not particularly exhilarating, still, Pasmore had a
healthy appetite, and he answered in the affirmative.

The big breed issued some orders, and in a few minutes,
to Pasmore's no little satisfaction, a lad brought a tin
of biscuits, a tin of salmon, a piece of cheese, and a
spoon, all obviously supplied by the Hudson Bay Company
on the previous evening free of charge--and against its
will.

He sat down on the upturned pail once more and enjoyed
the simple fare. It was queer to think that this meal in
all probability would be his last on earth. His
surroundings seemed incongruous and unreal, and his mind
ran in a vein of whimsical speculation. It is strange
to think, but it is a fact, all the same, that certain
temperaments, when face to face with death, allow their
thoughts to take an oddly critical and retrospective view
of things in general. The fear of death does not affect
them, although, at the same time, they are fully conscious
of the momentous issues of their fate.

The crowd gathered around the door of the long building,
and many were the uncouth jests made at the expense of
the prisoner. One or two still half-drunk Indians pushed
their way through and came close up to him, talking
volubly and shaking their fire-arms in his face. But the
big breed let out at them with his great fists, and sent
them away expostulating still more volubly. Pasmore could
easily have settled the matter himself under other
circumstances, but he did not wish to precipitate matters.
The crowd grew in numbers, and very soon he gathered
something in regard to what was on foot.

He was to be taken to a certain little rise on the
outskirts of the village, where the Police had shot a
notorious malcontent and murderer some years before, and
there he was, in his turn, to be executed. This would be
retributive justice! Pasmore recollected with cynical
amusement how some of these very same rebels had lived
for years in dread of their lives from that desperado,
and how at the time nearly the whole population had
expressed their satisfaction and thanks to the Police
for getting rid of the outlaw, who had been killed in
resisting arrest. Now, when it suited their ends, the
latter was a martyr, and he was a malefactor. He wished
they would hurry up and shoot him out of hand, if he was
to be shot He did not know what horrible formality might
not be in store for him before they did that. But how
beautifully the sun was shining! He had hardly thought
that Battleford could be so fair to look upon.

At last he saw several breeds approaching, and one of
them carried with him an axe and a quantity of rope.

And behind the breeds, greeted by lusty acclamations from
the mob, came Louis Riel.




CHAPTER XVII

A CLOSE CALL

As the would-be priest and originator of two rebellions
approached Pasmore, the ragged, wild-eyed, clamorous
crowd made way for him. It was ludicrous to note the air
of superiority and braggadocio that this inordinately
vain and ambitious man adopted. The prisoner was standing
surrounded by his now largely augmented guard, who,
forgetful of one another's contiguity, had their many
wonderfully and fearfully made blunderbusses levelled at
him, ready to blow him into little pieces at a moment's
notice if he made the slightest attempt to resist or
escape. Great would have been the slaughter amongst the
metis if this had happened.

"Prisoner," said Riel, with a decided French accent, "you
are a spy." He fixed his dark grey eyes upon Pasmore
angrily, and jerked out what he had to say.

"I fail to see how one who wears the Queen's uniform can
be a spy," said Pasmore, undoing the leather tags of his
long buffalo coat and showing a serge jacket with the
regimental brass button on it.

"Ah, that is enough--one of the Mounted Police! What
are you doing in this camp?"

"It is I who should be asking you that question. What
are _you_ doing under arms? Another rebellion? Be warned
by me, Monsieur Riel, and stop this bloodshed as you
value your immortal soul."

He knew that through the fanatic's religion lay the only
way of reaching him at all.

But the only effect these words had upon Riel was to
further incense the arch rebel.

"Bind him, and search him," he cried.

Pasmore knew that resistance was hopeless, so quietly
submitted. Their mode of tying him was unique. They put
a rope round his waist, leaving his arms free, while the
two ends were held on either side by a couple of men.
His late guard, the big breed, who could not have been
such a bad fellow, discovered his pipe, tobacco, and
matches in one pocket, but withdrew his hand quickly.

"Nozing thar," he declared.

Whether or not he thought the prisoner might soon require
them on his way to the Happy Hunting Grounds is a matter
of speculation.

They took his pocket-knife and keys, and in the inner
pocket of his jacket they found the usual regimental
papers and weekly reports pertaining to the Police
Detachment. These are alike as peas throughout the
Territories, and not of the slightest value or interest,
save to those directly concerned, but to Riel it was a
great find. He spread them out, scanned a few lines here
and there, opened his eyes wide, pursed his lips, and
then, as if it were superfluous pursuing the matter
further, waved his hand in a melodramatic fashion, and
cried--

"It is enough! He is of the Police. He has also been
found spying in camp, and the penalty for that is death.
I hear he is one of the men who ran down and shot Heinault,
who was one of the people. Let him be taken to the same
spot and shot also. He took the blood of the metis--let
the metis now take his! Away with him!"

Such a wild yelling, whooping, and brandishing of guns
took place at these words that Pasmore thought there
would be little necessity to take him to the spot where
"Wild Joe" of tender memory slept. When an antiquated
fowling-piece actually did go off, and shot an Indian in
the legs, the uproar was inconceivable. Pasmore thought
of Rory's dogs having a sporting five minutes, and smiled,
despite the gravity of the situation. But order was
restored, and with Riel and two of his so-called "generals"
in the lead, and a straggling crowd of human beings and
dogs following, the prisoner was led slowly towards the
spot fixed for his execution.

Past the piles of smouldering ashes, and tracks strewn,
with all sorts of destroyed merchandise, they went. They
had looted the stores to their hearts' content, and were
now rioting in an excess of what to them was good living;
but where those short-sighted creatures expected to get
fresh supplies from is a question they probably never
once put to themselves.

Silent and powerless in King Frost's embrace lay the
great river. How like beautiful filagree work some of
the pine-boughs looked against the snow banks and the
pale blue sky! How lovely seemed the whole world! Pasmore
was thinking about many things, but most he was thinking
of some one whom he hoped was now making her way over
the snow, and for whose sake he was now here. No, he did
not grudge his life, but it was a strange way to die
after all his hopes--mostly shattered ones; to be led
like a brute beast amongst a crowd of jeering half-breeds
who, only a few days before, were ready to doff their
caps at sight of him; and to be shot dead by them with
such short shrift, and because he had only done his
duty!...

They were coming to the rise now. How like a gallows that
tall, dead, scraggy pine looked against the pale grey!
How the hound-like mob alongside yelled and jeered! One
of them--he knew him well--he of the evil Mongolian-like
eyes and snaky locks--whom he had spoken a timely word
to a year ago and saved from prison--from some little
distance took the opportunity of throwing a piece of
frozen snow at Pasmore. It struck the policeman behind
the ear, causing him to feel sick and dizzy. He felt the
hot blood trickling down his neck, and he heard one or
two of the pack laughing.

"He will be plenty dead soon," said one. "What does it
matter?"

But the big breed, with a touch of that humanity which
beats down prejudice and makes us all akin, turned upon
the now unpleasantly demonstrative rabble, and swore at
them roundly. In another moment Pasmore was himself again,
and he could see that gallows-like tree right in front
of him... And what was that hulking brute alongside
saying about skulking shermoganish? Was he going to his
death hearing the uniform he wore insulted by cowardly
brutes without making a resistance of some sort? He knew
he would be shot down instantly if he did, and they would
be glad of an excuse, but that would be only cutting
short the agony. The veins swelled on his forehead, and
he felt his limbs stiffen. He made a sudden movement,
but the big breed caught his arm and whispered in his
ear. It was an Indian saying which meant that until the
Great Spirit Himself called, it was folly to listen to
those who tempted. It was not so much the hope these few
words carried with them, as the spirit in which they were
uttered, that stayed Pasmore's precipitate action. He
knew that no help would come from the invested Fort, but
God at times brought about many wonderful things.

As they led him up the rough, conical mound he breathed
a prayer for Divine aid. It would be nothing short of a
miracle now if in a few minutes he were not dead. They
faced him about and tied him to the tree; and now he
looked down upon the upturned faces of the wild-eyed,
fiery-natured rebels.

Riel stepped forward with the papers in his hand.

"Prisoner," he said, "you have been caught red-handed,
and the metis will it that you must die. Is it not so?"
He turned to the crowd. "On the spot where he now stands
he spilt the blood of the metis. What say you?"

There was a hoarse yell of assent from the followers of
the fanatic.

Riel turned to one of his generals, who cried to some
one in the crowd. It was the next of kin to Heinault,
who had been shot on that very spot, and in very truth
he looked a fit representative of the man who had perished
for his crimes. He was indeed an ill-looking scoundrel.
There was a gratified grin upon his evil face. He knew
Pasmore of old, and Pasmore had very good reason to know
him. Their eyes met.

"Now you will nevare, nevare threaten me one, two, three
times again," he cried.

Pasmore looked into the cruel, eager face of the breed,
and he knew that no hope lay there. Then he caught the
gleam of snow on the crest of the opposite ridge--it was
scintillating as if set with diamonds. How beautiful
was that bit of blue seen through the pillar-like stems
of the pines!

Pasmore's thoughts were now elsewhere than with his
executioners, when unexpectedly there came an interruption.
There was a hurried scattering of the crowd at the foot
of the mound, and Pepin Quesnelle, leading his bear,
appeared upon the scene. That his short legs had been
sorely tried in reaching the spot there could be little
doubt, for his face was very red, and it was evident he
had wrought himself into something very nearly approaching
a passion.

Riel, who had at first turned round with an angry
exclamation on his lips, seemed somewhat startled when
he saw the weird figures before him, for he, too, like
the breeds and Indians, was not without a species of
superstitious dread of the manikin and his strange
attendant. The executioner glared at the intruder angrily.

"Wait, you just wait one bit--_coquin_, rascal, fool!"
gasped Pepin, pulling up within a few yards of him, and
shaking his stick. "You will not kill that man, I say
you will not! I know you, Leon Heinault; it is because
this man will stop you from doing as your vile cousin
did that you want to shoot him." He turned to Riel. "Tell
him to put down that gun!"

But Riel had the dignity of his position to maintain
before the crowd, and although he would not meet the
black, bead-like eyes of the dwarf, with no little bluster,
he said--

"This man is a spy, and he must die. He is of the hated
English, and it is the will of the Lord that His people,
the metis, inherit the land."

"And I say, Louis Riel, that it is the will of the Lord
that this man shall not die!" reiterated the dwarf,
emphasising his words with a flourish of his stick.

Then an uncanny thing happened that to this day the metis
speak about with bated breath, and the Indians are afraid
to mention at all. Heinault, who during the wrangle had
concluded that his quarry was about to slip through his
hands, took the opportunity of raising his gun to the
shoulder. But ere he could pull the trigger there was
the whistle of a bullet, and he fell dead in the snow.
Then, somewhere from the wooded bluffs--for the echoes
deceived one--there came the distant ring of a rifle.

The perspiration was standing in beads on Pasmore's
forehead, for he would have been more than human had not
the strain of the terrible ordeal told upon him. From
a dogged abandonment to his fate, a ray of hope lit up
the darkness that seemed to have closed over him. It
filtered through his being, but he feared to let it grow,
knowing the bitterness of hope's extinction. But the blue
through the pines seemed more beautiful, and the snow on
the crest of the ridge scintillated more cheerily.

As the would-be executioner fell, something like a moan
of consternation ran through the crowd. The dwarf was
the only one who seemed to take the tragedy as a matter
of course. He was quick to seize the opportunity.

"It is as the Lord has willed," he said simply, pointing
to the body.

But Riel, visibly taken aback by this sudden _contretemps_,
knew only too well that his cause and influence would be
imperilled if he allowed this manikin, of whom his people
stood so much in awe, to get the better of him; and he
was too quick-witted not to know exactly what to do. He
turned to his officers, and immediately a number of breeds
started out to scour the bluffs. Then he called upon five
breeds and Indians by name to step forward, and to see
that their rifles were charged. Pepin waited quietly
until his arrangements were completed, and then, looking
round upon the crowd with his dark eyes, and finally
fixing them upon the arch rebel, he spoke with such
strength and earnestness that his hearers stood breathless
and spellbound. The file of men which had been drawn up
to act as executioners, and the condemned man himself,
hung upon his words. It was significant that, after the
fatal shot had been fired, no one seemed to be apprehensive
of a second.

"Louis Riel," he began, "you are one bigger fool than I
did take you for!"

Riel started forward angrily, and was about to speak when
the dwarf stopped him with a motion of his hand.

"You are a fool because you cannot see where you are
going," he continued.

"Can't I, Mr. Hop-o'-my-thumb?" broke out the rebel in
a white heat, shouldering his rifle.

But the dwarf raised his stick warningly, and catching
Riel's shifty gaze, held it as if by some spell until
the rifle barrel sunk lower inch by inch.

"If you do, Louis Riel, if you do, the Lord will give
you short shrift!" he said. "Now, I will tell you what
I see, and to you it ought to be plain, for you have been
in Montreal and Quebec, and know much more than is known
to the metis. I see--and it will come to pass long before
the ice that is in one great mass in this river is carried
down and melts in the big lakes, whose waters drain into
the Bay of Hudson--I see the soldiers of the great Queen
swarming all over the land in numbers like the gophers
on the prairie. They have wrested from you Battleford,
Prince Albert, and Batoche. I see a battlefield, and the
soldiers of the Queen have the great guns--as big as Red
River carts--that shoot high into the air as flies the
kite, and rain down bullets and jagged iron like unto
the hailstorms that sweep the land in summer time. I see
the bodies of the metis lying dead upon the ground as
thick as the sheaves of wheat upon the harvest-field.
Many I see that crawl away into the woods to die, like
to the timber-wolves when they have eaten of the poison.
I see the metis scattered and homeless. I see you, Louis
Riel, who have misled them, skulking alone in the woods
like a hunted coyote, without rest night and day, with
nothing to eat, and with no moccasins to your feet. But
the red-coats will catch you, for there is no trail too
long or too broken for the Riders of the Plains to follow.
And, above all, and take heed, Louis Riel, I see the
great beams of the gallows-tree looming up blackly against
the grey of a weary dawn; and that will be your portion
if you shoot this man. Put him in prison if you will,
and keep him as a hostage; but if you spill innocent
blood wantonly, as the Lord liveth, you shall swing in
mid-air. And now I have spoken, and you have all seen
how the hand of the Lord directed the bullet that laid
that thing low. Remember this--there are more bullets!"

The dwarf paused, and there was a death-like stillness.
Riel stood motionless, glaring into space, as if he still
saw that picture of the gallows. While as for Pasmore,
his heart was thumping against his ribs, for the spark
of Hope within him had burst into flame, and he saw how
beautiful was the blue between the columns of the pines.




CHAPTER XVIII

ACROSS THE ICE

Pepin Quesnelle's weird speech had worked upon the
superstitious natures of the rebel leader and his followers
alike, for they unbound Pasmore from the tree and hurried
him away to a tenantless log hut, the big breed and two
others staying to guard him. Riel, with some of his
followers, started off on sleighs to Prince Albert, to
direct operations there, while the remainder stayed behind
to further harass the beleaguered garrison. Pasmore was
now glad that he had not offered a resistance that must
have proved futile when his life hung in the balance. He
offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for his
deliverance so far, and he mused over the strange little
being with a deformed body, to whom God had given powers
to see more clearly than his fellows.

The big breed was remarkably attentive to his wants,
but strangely silent When night arrived, Pasmore was
placed in a little room which had a window much too small
for a man's body to pass through, and left to himself.
He could hear his guards talking in the only room that
led to it. Pasmore had slept during the afternoon, and
when he awoke late in the evening he was imbued with but
one idea, and that was to escape. The fickle natures of
the half-breeds might change at any moment.

It was close on midnight, and there was not a sound in
the other room. Pasmore had, by standing on the rude
couch, begun operations on the roof with a long thatching
needle he had found on the wall-plate, when the door
silently opened and a flood of light streamed in. He
turned, and there stood the big breed silently watching.
Pasmore stared at him apprehensively, but the big breed
merely placed one finger on his lips to enjoin silence,
and beckoned him to descend. Wondering, Pasmore did so.
His gaoler took him by the arm, and stealthily they
entered the other room, their moccasined feet making no
noise. There, on the floor, lay the other two guards,
fast asleep. The big breed opened the door and they passed
out. Pasmore's brain almost refused to grasp the situation.
Was his gaoler going to assist him to escape?

But so it was. There was no one about. Every one seemed
to be asleep after the orgie on the previous night. At
last they reached a large empty shed on the outskirts of
the village, and there his guide suddenly left him without
a word. Pasmore was about to pass out, and make good his
escape, when suddenly he was hailed by a voice that he
knew well.

"Aha! villain, _coquin!_" it said, "and so you are here!
_Bien!_ This is a good day's work; is it not so?"

"Pepin Quesnelle!" cried Pasmore, going towards him. "No
words can thank you for what you have done for me this
day."

"And who wants your thanks?" asked the dwarf,
good-naturedly. "Come, the shake of a hand belonging to
an honest man is thanks enough for me. Put it thar, as
the Yanks say."

And Pasmore felt, as he obeyed, that, despite his
extraordinary foibles, Pepin Quesnelle was a man whom he
could respect, and to whom he owed a debt of gratitude
that he could never repay.

"Now, that is all right," observed Pepin, "and you will
come with me. Some friends of Katie's have found a friend
of yours to-day in the woods, and I will take you to
him."

But Pepin would tell him no more; his short legs, indeed,
required all his energies. But after winding in and out
of the bluffs for an hour or more, Pasmore found out who
the friend was. Coming suddenly upon a couple of hay-stacks
in a hollow of the bluffs, the dwarf put his fingers to
his lips and whistled in a peculiar fashion. In another
moment a dark figure emerged from the shadow.

"Top av the marnin' t'ye," it said.

"Rory, by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed Pasmore as
they wrung each other's hands.

"That's me," said Rory. "Now, here's a sleigh. I fancy
it was wance Dumont's, or some other gint's, but I'm
thinkin' it's ours now. It's bruk the heart av me thet
I couldn't bring them dogs along. If we have luck we'll
be back at the ranche before noon to-morrer. Jest ketch
hould av this rifle, and I'll drive."

In the clear moonlight Pasmore could see a team standing
on an old trail not fifteen yards away.

"But just let me say good-bye first to Pepin," said
Pasmore.

But Pepin Quesnelle had vanished mysteriously into the
night.

"Rory," asked Pasmore a little later, when the team of
spirited horses was bowling merrily along the by-trail,
"was it you who fired that shot to-day and saved my life?"

"Young man," said Rory, solemnly, "hev yer got sich a
thing about yer as a match--me poipe's gone out?"

And Pasmore knew that, so far as Rory was concerned, the
subject was closed.

Next day about noon the two were to the north of the
valley, where lay the ranche. On rounding a bluff they
came unexpectedly upon three Indians in sleighs, who had
evidently just cut the trail.

"Child-of-Light!" they cried, recognising the foremost.

A wave of apprehension swept over Pasmore when he saw
the inscrutable expression on the face of the friendly
chief. Was it well with the rancher and his daughter?

"Ough, ough!" ejaculated Child-of-Light, wonderingly, as
he caught sight of Pasmore. He pulled up, jumped out of
his sleigh, and shook hands cordially. "Child-of-Light's
heart lightens again to see you, brother," he said. "His
heart was heavy because he thought Poundmaker must have
stilled yours."

"Child-of-Light is ever a friend," rejoined Pasmore.
"But what of Douglas and the others?"

Then Child-of-Light told him how on the previous morning
Douglas and his daughter had reached the ranche. But as
Poundmaker's men were hovering in great strength in the
neighbourhood, he, Child-of-Light, had deemed it advisable
that they should take fresh horses and proceed in an
easterly direction towards Fort Pitt, and then in a
northerly, until they came to that secluded valley of
which he had previously told them. They had done this,
and gone on with hardly a pause.

In the meantime Child-of-Light had sent some of his braves
to run off the rancher's herd of horses to a remote part
of the country, where they would be safe from the enemy,
while he and one or two others remained behind to cover
his retreat. But alarming news had just been brought him
by a runner. Big Bear had perpetrated a terrible massacre
at Frog Lake, near Fort Pitt. Ten persons had been shot
in the church, and two brave priests, Fathers Farfand
and Marchand, had been beaten to death. If Douglas and
the others kept on they must run right into their hands.
It was to catch them up, if possible, and fetch them back
before they crossed the Saskatchewan, that Child-of-Light
was on his way now. Better to fall into the hands of
Poundmaker and his braves, who probably now realised that
they had gone too far, than into those of Big Bear, who
was a fiend. Of course, he, Pasmore, would come with
them.

"But are there no fresh horses for us, Child-of-Light?"
asked Pasmore. "If the others have got a good start and
fresh horses, can we catch them up?"

"I have said I have sent all the horses of Douglas away
for safe keeping. We must overtake them with what we
have. The Great Spirit is good, and may do much for us."

"Then let us push on, Child-of-Light, for it will be a
grievous thing if evil befall our friends now."

For three days they travelled in a north-easterly direction,
but the sun had gained power, and spring had come with
a rush, as it does in that part of the world. The first
chinook wind that came from the west, through the passes
of the Rockies from warm southern seas, would render
travelling impossible--their sleighs would be useless.
The great danger was that Douglas and the others would
have passed over the Saskatchewan, and the ice breaking
up behind them would have cut off their retreat.

In those three days the party was tortured with alternative
hopes and fears. Now it was a horse breaking through the
softening crust of snow and coming down, and then it
would be one playing out altogether. If in another day
those in front were not overtaken, it was pretty certain
they must run into Big Bear's band, and that would mean
wholesale massacre. In order to catch them up they walked
most of the night, leading their horses along the trail.
On the fourth day they sighted the broad Saskatchewan,
now with many blue trickling streams of water upon its
surface and cracking ominously. They scanned the opposite
shore in the neighbourhood of the trail anxiously.

"Look, brother," cried Child-of-Light, "they are camped
on the opposite bank, and away over yonder, coming down
the plateau, are Indians who must belong to Big Bear's
band. But the river is not safe now to cross. I can hear
it breaking up and coming down at the speed of a young
broncho away up the reaches. Before the sun sets this
river will be as the Great Falls in the spring, when the
wind is from the west."

It was as the keen-eyed and keen-eared Red man said.
There were the rancher and his party camped on the other
side, in all innocence of the Indians who, unseen, were
stringing over the plateau. There was no time to be lost.

"You give me your jumper, Child-of-Light, and your
pony--they are the best," Pasmore cried. "I shall be back
with the others before long. In the meantime, look to
your guns."

The others would fain have accompanied him, but Pasmore
knew that would only be aggravating the danger. Without
a moment's delay he jumped into the light box of wood
and urged the sure-footed pony across the now groaning
and creaking ice. And now there broke upon his ears what
before only the Indian had heard. It was the coming down
of the river in flood, miles away. It sounded like the
roar of a distant Niagara. Here and there his pony was
up to the fetlocks in water, and the ice heaved beneath
him. Every now and again there was a mighty crackle,
resembling the breaking of a thunderbolt, that sent his
heart into his mouth. He feared then that the end had
come and he would be too late. With rein and voice he
urged the sure-footed pony across the ice. Would he never
reach the opposite bank? But once there, would it be
possible for the party to recross? Surely it would be as
much as their lives were worth to try.

Long before Pasmore had reached the landing, Douglas and
the others had seen him. It was no time for greetings,
and, indeed, their meeting was one too deep for words.
They merely wrung each other's hands, and something
suspiciously like moisture stood in the rancher's eyes.
As for Dorothy, she could not utter a word, but there
was something in her look that quickened Pasmore's
heart-beats even then.

"You must be quick," cried Pasmore. "Big Bear will be
down upon you in ten minutes. Look! There they are now.
There is yet time to cross."

And as he spoke there came a roar like thunder, travelling
from the higher reaches of the river towards them; it
passed them and was lost in the lower reaches. It was
the "back" of the ice being broken--the preliminary to
the grand chaos that was to come. The Indians had seen
them now, and were coming at a gallop not a mile away.

Douglas, Jacques, and Bastien ran and hitched up the
horses into the sleighs.

"You are not afraid to tackle it, are you?" asked Pasmore,
as he looked into the girl's face.

"I'd tackle it now if it were moving down in pieces no
bigger than door-mats," she answered smilingly.

"Then will you tackle it with me?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Jump in, and I'll follow. Your sleigh
is empty, and father's is full of all sorts of things
--it's too heavy as it is. Here they come! Dad, I'm going
with Mr. Pasmore," she cried; and the sleighs raced
abreast of one another down the slope.

"Spread out there," cried Pasmore, "and don't bunch
together, or--"

He did not finish the sentence, for just at that moment
there came a _ping_ from the shore they had just left,
and a bullet sent up a jet of water into the air alongside
of them. There was another great rending sound from the
ice that struck terror into their hearts. Their horses
quivered with excitement as they darted forward. There
was a roar in their ears that sounded as if they were
close to a battery of artillery in action. _Ping, ping,
ping!_ and the bullets came whizzing over their heads or
skidding on the ice alongside. It was a lucky thing for
them that the Indians were too keen in the pursuit to
take proper aim. Separating, so as to minimise the danger,
each team dashed forward on its own account.

"Stay with it, broncho! Stick to it, my son!" yelled
Pasmore.

In the pauses of the thundering and rending there cut
clearly into the now mild air the clattering of the
horses' hoofs, the hum of the steel-shod runners, and
the _ping, ping_ of the rifles. It was a race for life
with a vengeance, with death ahead and alongside, and
with death at their heels. A gap in the ice, or a stumble,
and it would surely be all up with them.

"Go it, my game little broncho!" and with rein and voice
Pasmore urged the brave "steed onwards.

"Hello! there goes the breed's pony!" cried Pasmore.

A bullet had struck Bastien's horse behind the ear and
brought it down all of a heap upon the ice. There was
an ear-splitting crack just at that moment which added
to the terror of the situation. But the rancher pulled
his horse up by a supreme effort, and Bastien, deserting
his sleigh, leapt in beside him. Then on again.

Pasmore's pony was now somewhat behind the others, when
suddenly there was a mighty roar, and a great crevasse
opened up in front of them. It took all the strength that
Pasmore possessed to pull up on the brink.

"We must get out and jump over this somehow," Pasmore
cried to Dorothy. "It's neck or nothing."

So they sprang out of the sleigh, unhitched the plucky
pony, and prepared to cross the deadly-looking fissure.




CHAPTER XIX

CAPTURED BY POUNDMAKER

The first thing that Pasmore did was to urge the pony to
leap the crevasse on its own account; after a very little
coaxing the intelligent animal gathered itself together,
and jumped clear of certain death. It then rushed on with
the others.

"Now, give me your hand, and we'll see if we can't find
an easier place to cross," said Pasmore to Dorothy.

"It's lucky we've got on moccasins instead, of boots, is
it not?" she said. She seemed to have dropped that old
tone of reserve as completely as she might a cloak from
her shoulders.

She gave him her hand, and they ran up the river alongside
the jagged rent. Two or three bullets whizzed past them
perilously near their heads.

"Why, there's Child-of-Light and Rory!" she cried. "I
suppose they've come to keep back the Indians."'

It was indeed the case. The sight of the advancing Indians
had been too much, for them, and they had come out on
the ice so as to check the foe. Their fire was steadier
than the enemy's, for it did undoubted execution.

Soon Pasmore and Dorothy came to a place that seemed
comparatively narrow, and here they essayed to cross.
The other side seemed a terribly difficult spot on which
to land, and the clear, blue water that ran between looked
deadly cold. Once in there and it would be a hundred
chances to one against getting out.

"I'll jump across first," said Pasmore, "so as to be
ready to catch you on the other side."

He jumped it with little effort, although he fell on the
other side, and then it was Dorothy's turn.

There was a flush on her cheeks and her eyes were strangely
bright as she put one foot on the sharp corner of the
rent, fixed her eyes on him, and sprang. It was a
dangerous and difficult jump for a woman to take, but he
caught her in his strong arms just as she tottered on
the brink, in the act of falling backwards, and drew her
to him.

"Well done!" he cried, "another time I wish you'd come
to me like that!"

"Let us run," she said, ignoring his remark, but without
show of resentment. "Here is Jacques waiting for us with
his sleigh."

And then a tragic thing occurred. The mighty waters of
the Saskatchewan had been gathering force beneath the
ice, and, pressing the great flooring upwards, at length
gained such irresistible power that the whole ice-field
shivered, and was broken up into gigantic slabs, until
it resembled a vast mosaic. The horse attached to Jacques'
sleigh was shot into a great rent, from which it was
impossible to extricate it. They dared not stay a moment
longer if they wished to escape with their lives.

Then far five minutes they held their lives in their
hands, but they proceeded cautiously and surely, jumping
from berg to berg, the man encouraging the woman to fresh
endeavour, until at last they gained the southern bank.
Had they slipped or overbalanced themselves it would have
been good-bye to this world. Pasmore and Douglas had to
assist Dorothy up the steep banks, so great had been the
strain and so great was the reaction. Nor was it to be
wondered at, for it would have tried the nerves of most
men. They turned when they had reached a point of vantage
and looked around. An awe-inspiring but magnificent sight
met their gaze.

Coming down the river like a great tidal wave they could
see a chaotic front of blue water and glistening bergs
advancing swiftly and surely. At its approach the huge
slabs of ice in the river were forced upwards, and shivered
into all manner of fanciful shapes. It was the dammed-up
current of the mighty river which at length had forced
the barrier of ice, and carried all in front of it, as
the mortar carries the shell. There was one continuous,
deafening roar, punctuated with a series of violent
explosions as huge blocks of ice were shivered and shot
into the air by that Titanic force. Nothing on earth
could live in that wild maelstrom. It was one vast,
pulsating, churning mass, and as the sun caught its
irregular, crystal-like crest, a lawn-like mist, that
glowed with every colour of the rainbow, hovered over
it. It was indeed a wondrously beautiful, but awe-inspiring
spectacle.

But the most terrible feature of the scene was the human
life that was about to be sacrificed in that fierce flood.
The murderous members of Big Bear's band who had followed
them up, led away against their better judgment by the
sight of their human prey, had advanced farther over the
ice than they imagined, so that, when checked by the
deliberate and careful shooting of Rory and Child-of-Light,
they remained where they were instead of either rushing
on or beating a precipitate retreat. Thus thirty of them
realised that they were caught as in a trap. They saw
the towering bulk of that pitiless wave coming swiftly
towards them, and then they ran, panic-stricken, some
this way and some that. They ran as only men run when
fleeing for their lives.

"It is too horrible!" cried the girl, turning away from
the gruesomeness of the spectacle.

The Indians had flung their rifles from them and were
scattering in all directions over the ice, but that
gleaming wave, that Juggernaut of grinding bergs, was
swifter than they, and bore down upon them at the speed
of a racehorse. It shot them into the air like so many
playthings, caught them up again, and bore them away in
its ravenous maw like the insatiable Moloch that it was.
In another minute there was neither sign nor trace of
them.

And now the party drew together to compare notes, and to
deliberate upon their future movements. Whatever was
said by Douglas to Pasmore about the sacrifice he had
made on his behalf none of the party knew, for the rancher
did not speak about it again, nor did the Police sergeant
ever refer to it.

What they were going to do now was the matter that gave
them most concern. They could not go on, and to go back
meant running into Poundmaker's marauding hordes. They
came to the conclusion that the best thing they could do
was to camp where they were. They therefore drove the
sleighs over to a sunny, wooded slope that was now clear
of snow, and pitched Dorothy's tent in lee of the
cotton-wood trees. The air was wonderfully mild, a soft
chinook wind was blowing, and the snow was disappearing
from the high ground as if by magic.

For three days they stayed in that sheltered spot, and
enjoyed a much-needed rest; and perhaps it was the
pleasantest three days that Pasmore had spent for many
a long year.

"Don't you think we're understanding each other better
than we used to do?" he asked of Dorothy one day.

"You don't insist on having quite so much of your own
way," she replied stooping to pick up something. He,
however, saw the smile upon her face.

On the fourth day Child-of-Light had ascended the rise
behind the camp to look around before going back to his
people, and to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood of the
ranche, when, to his no little dismay, he saw a
far-stretching column of Indians coming towards them
across the plain. He cried to those in the camp to arm
themselves. In a few minutes more he was joined by Douglas,
Pasmore, and the others. To their consternation they saw
that they were gradually being hemmed in by a
crescent-shaped body of warriors, who must have numbered
at least several hundred.

"It is Poundmaker's band," said Child-of-Light. "They
have been with the wolves worrying the sheep, and have
grown tired of that and are anxious to hide. But they
cannot cross the Kissaskatchewan for many days yet, so
they will turn and go back to their holes in the Eagle
Hills. The chances are they may be afraid to kill us,
but they will certainly make us prisoners. Shall we fight
them, my brothers, and then all journey together to the
Happy Hunting Grounds beyond the blood-red sunsets?"

But there was Dorothy to be thought of, and they knew
that Poundmaker, though he might possibly put them to
death, would not practise any of those atrocities ascribed
to Big Bear. As the odds were a hundred to one against
them, and they would all inevitably be shot down, it
would be folly to resist, seeing that there was a chance
of eventually escaping with their lives. Discretion was
always the better part of valour, and in this case it
would be criminal to forget the fact.

They laid down their arms, and Pasmore himself went
forward to meet them on foot, waving a branch over his
head. This, amongst the Indians on the North American
continent, is equivalent to a flag of truce.

In five minutes more they were surrounded, marshalled in
a body, and marched into the presence of Poundmaker
himself. The chief sat on a rise that was clear of snow,
surrounded by his warriors. All the fire-arms the party
had possessed were taken from them. Douglas had slipped
his arm through his daughter's, and, no matter what the
girl may have felt, she certainly betrayed no fear. It
was Child-of-Light who first addressed Poundmaker. He
stood in front of the others, and said--

"Poundmaker, it is not for mercy, but for your protection
that we sue. If you have gone upon the war-path with the
metis against the white people, let not those who are
innocent of wrong suffer for those whose unwise doings
may have stirred you up to the giving of battle after
your own fashion. Thus will it be that the warriors of
the Great White Queen, who will surely swarm over all
this land in numbers as the white moths ere the roses on
the prairie are in bloom, when they hear from our lips
that you have been mindful of us, will be mindful of you.
Douglas and his daughter you know; they have ever been
the friends of the Red man. You remember the evil days
when there was nought to eat in the land, how they shared
all they had with us, and called us brothers and sisters?
Ill would it become Poundmaker and his Stonies to forget
that. As for the others, they but serve their masters as
these your braves serve you, and is that a crime?

"As for myself, Poundmaker, I have not gone on the
war-path, because I believe this man, Louis Riel, to be
one who hearkens to a false Manitou. For him no friendly
knife or bullet awaits, but the gallows-tree, by which
no good Indian can ever hope to pass to the Happy Hunting
Grounds.

"If it is that one of us must suffer to show that you
have the power of life and death over us, let it be me.
I am ready, O Poundmaker! Do with me as you will, but
spare these who have done no wrong. This is the only
thing that I ask of you, and I ask it because of those
days when we were as brothers, riding side by side after
the buffalo together, and fighting the Sarcees and the
Sioux. You have told me of old that you believed in the
Manitou--show your belief now. I have spoken, O chief!"

It has been the fashion with those who have seen only
one or two contaminated specimens of the Red man to sneer
at that phrase, "the noble savage." This they do out of
the fullness of their ignorance. Child-of-Light was
indeed a noble savage, and looked it, every inch of him,
as he drew himself up to his full height and gazed
fearlessly into the face of his enemy.

A chorus of "Ough! ough!" was heard from every side,
showing that not only had Child-of-Light himself
considerable personal influence, but that the fairness
of his speech had gone home.

Then the wily Poundmaker spoke. He was an imposing figure
with his great head-dress of eagles' feathers, and clad
in a suit of red flannel on which was wrought a rich
mosaic of coloured beadwork. White ermine tails dangled
from his shoulders, arms, and breast. He was in reality
cruel and vindictive, but his cunning and worldly wisdom
made him a master in expediency. He had intelligence
above the average, but lacked the good qualities of such
as the loyal Crowfoot, the Chief of the Blackfoot nation,
who also had the benefit of Pere Lacombe, that great
missionary's, sound counsel.

"Child-of-Light has spoken fairly," he said, "but it
remains to be shown how much of what he has said is true,
and how much like the ghost-waters that deceive the
traveller in autumn, in places where nought but the
sage-bush grows, and the ground is parched and dry.
Douglas and the others must come with us. We shall return
to the strong lodges in the Eagle Hills and await what
time may bring. If the warriors of the Great Queen come
to the land and molest us, then shall you all be put to
death. But if they come and stay their hand, then we
shall let you return to your own homes. As for the white
maiden, the daughter of Douglas, nothing that belongs to
her shall be touched, and she shall have a squaw to wait
upon her. I have spoken."

He was a far-seeing redskin, and meditated grim reprisals
when the time was ripe.

In a few days, when the snow had completely gone, they
started back to the Eagle Hills. It was heavy travelling,
and the men had to walk, but the Indians got a light Red
River cart for Dorothy, and in this, attended by a squaw,
she made the greater part of the journey. Their goods
were not interfered with, for the Indians had a plethora
of loot from the Battleford stores. But still the
uncertainty of their ultimate fate was ever hanging over
them. They knew that if Poundmaker thought the British
were not coming, or that they were not strong enough to
vanquish him, he was capable of any devilry.

They passed into the wild, broken country of the Eagle
Hills, the "Bad Lands," as they were called, and there,
in a great grassy hollow surrounded by precipices, gullies,
and terraces of wonderfully-coloured clays, they camped.

It was now the end of April, and the prisoners were
beginning to get uneasy. Had anything happened to the
British, or had they been left to their fate? The situation
was more critical than they cared to admit But one day
all was bustle in the camp, and the warriors stood to
their arms.

The British column had moved out from Battleford, and
was advancing to give battle to Poundmaker.

The critical moment had come.




CHAPTER XX

THE BATTLE OF CUT-KNIFE

When the Indians discovered that bright May morning that
a British column had unexpectedly moved right up to their
position, there was a scene approaching confusion for a
few minutes. But they had studied the ground for days
and knew every inch of it, so that each individual had
his allotted post, and needed no orders to go there.
Luckily for the prisoners, however, Poundmaker had not
time to put into operation the elaborate plans he had
contemplated. Moreover, the chief saw, to his no little
consternation, that, as Child-of-Light had said, the
soldiers of the White Queen were in numbers beyond anything
he had expected. He therefore hurried the prisoners up
a narrow terrace to a high headland from which it would
be impossible to escape, and where a couple of Indians
could effectually take charge of them. The latter followed
close at their heels with loaded rifles. To the no little
satisfaction of Pasmore and the others, the headland, or
bluff, which must have been some two hundred feet high,
commanded a splendid view of the operations. The British
were approaching right across a species of scarred
amphitheatre, while the Indians, and such half-breeds as
had recently fled from Battleford on the approach of the
British and joined them, occupied the deep ravines and
wildly irregular country in their immediate neighbourhood.
They were protected by the rocks from rifle and shell-fire;
the only danger would be in the event of a shrapnel
bursting over them.

Dorothy's face was lit up with animation as she watched
the stirring spectacle. The sight of British troops, with
the promise of speedy release after weeks of continuous
danger and apprehension, was surely something to gladden
the heart. And now they were about to witness that
grandest, if most terrible, of all sights, a great battle.

"Look," Dorothy was saying to Pasmore, who crouched beside
her amongst the rocks, "there come the Police--"

"Down all," cried Pasmore.

He had seen a flash and a puff of smoke from one of the
guns. There was a dead silence for the space of a few
moments, and then a screech and a peculiar whirring sound,
as a shell hurried through the air over their heads.

Following this there was a loud report and a puff of
smoke high in the air; a few moments later and there came
a pattering all round as a shower of iron descended. It
was indeed a marvel that none of the party were hit. The
two Indians who guarded them were evidently considerably
astonished, and skipped nimbly behind convenient rocks.

"It will be more lively than pleasant directly if they
keep on like that," remarked Pasmore. "Look, there are
the Queen's Own extending on the crest of the gully to
protect the left flank, and there are the Canadian Infantry
and Ottawa Sharpshooters on the right. I don't know who
those chaps are protecting the rear, but--"

His words were drowned in the furious fusillade that
broke out everywhere as if at a given signal. There was
one continuous roar and rattle from the battery of
artillery, and from the Gatling guns, as they opened
fire, and a sharp, steady crackle from the skirmishers
in the firing line and from the gullies and ridges in
which the Indians had taken up their position. Everywhere
one could see the lurid flashes and the smoke wreaths
sagging upwards.

"What a glorious sight!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes
sparkling and her face glowing. "If I were a man I'd give
anything to be there--I'd like to be there as it is."

"You're very much there as it is," remarked Pasmore,
soberly. "If you expose yourself as you're doing, something
is bound to hit you. There's not much fun or glory in
being killed by a stray bullet. Move just a little this
way--there's room enough for us both--and you'll be able
to see just as well with a great deal less danger."

She smiled, and a slight flush dyed her cheeks, but it
was significant to note that she obeyed him unhesitatingly.
A month ago she would have remained where she was.

And now the battle had begun in grim earnest. The Indians,
dreading the destructiveness of the guns and the Gatlings,
had made up their minds to capture them. As if by a
preconcerted signal a large number of them leapt from
their cover, and with wild, piercing whoops and war-cries,
made a rush on the battery. Some of them were on horseback,
and actually had their steeds smeared with dun-coloured
clay so as to resemble the background and the rocks. It
was indeed exceedingly difficult to distinguish them.
Those on foot ran in a zigzag fashion, holding their
blankets in front, so as to spoil the aim of the rifle-men.

"They will capture the guns," cried Dorothy, trembling
with excitement, "look, they are nearly up to them now!"

Indeed, for the moment it seemed extremely likely, for
the Indians rushed in such a way that those on the flanks
were unable to render the gunners or the Mounted Police
any assistance. If Poundmaker succeeded in capturing the
guns, the flankers would soon be cut to pieces. It was
a moment of the keenest anxiety for the prisoners, not
only for the safety of the brave Canadian troops, but
also because they realised that if Poundmaker prevailed
their lives were not worth a moment's purchase.

"Well done, Herchmer!" cried Pasmore. "See how he is
handling the Police!"

And in all truth the coolness and steadiness of the Police
were admirable. They lay flat on their faces while the
guns delivered a telling broadside over them on the
approaching foe that mowed them down, and sent them
staggering backwards. Then, with a wild cheer, the troopers
rose, and, like one man, charged the wavering mass of
redskins, firing a volley and fixing their bayonets. The
sight of the cold steel was too much for the Indians,
who turned and fled. The guns were saved.

But those precipitous gullies were filled with plucky
savages, and not a few half-breeds, who, while they could
effectively pick off and check the advance of the British,
were themselves screened from the enemy's fire. For two
hours and more the fight went on with little gain on
either side. The day was hot, and it must have been
terribly trying work for those in the open. The guns
contented themselves with sending an odd shell into likely
places, but owing to the nature of the ground, which
presented a wall-like front, their practice was only
guess work.

Suddenly the girl caught Pasmore by the wrist "Look over
there," she cried. "Do you see that body of Indians going
down that gully? They are going to attack the column in
the rear, and our people don't know it. Is there no way
of letting them know?"

"There is," cried Pasmore, "and it's worth trying. Our
fellows are not more than a thousand yards away now, and
I can signal to them. It's just possible they may see
me. Give me that stick, Rory. Jacques, I saw you with
your towel an hour or so ago. Have you still got it?"

In a few seconds he had fastened the towel to the stick
and was about to crawl out on to the other side of the
ledge in full view of the British, who had been steadily
advancing.

"Do take care," cried Dorothy, "if any of the Indians
should see you--"

"They won't be looking this way," he said, adding, "There's
sure to be a signaller with Otter or Herchmer. They'll
think it a queer thing to get a message from the enemy's
lines"--he laughed light-heartedly at the idea. "Now, do
keep out of sight, for there's just a chance of a bullet
or two being sent in this direction."

Fortune favoured Pasmore when a shell came screeching
over their heads just at that moment, for the two guards,
who might otherwise have seen him, both dodged behind
rocks. When they looked again in the direction of their
prisoners they did not know that one of them was apprising
the British leader of the fact that a body of the enemy
was at that moment skirting his right flank in cover of
an old watercourse, so as to attack his rear.

When the British signaller wonderingly read the message,
and repeated it to the Colonel, the latter, before giving
his troops any definite order, inquired of the sender of
the message as to his identity, and Pasmore signalled in
reply. Then the order was given to fix bayonets and charge
the enemy in the watercourse. Silently and swiftly the
regular Canadian Infantry bore down on it. Completely
taken by surprise, and at a disadvantage, the redskins
were completely routed.

But an ambush was being prepared for the British of which
they did not dream. At a certain point the redskins fell
back, but in a hollow of the broken country through which
the British would in all probability pass to follow up
their supposed advantage, were two or three hundred
warriors mounted and awaiting their opportunity. If only
the British could bring their artillery to bear upon that
spot, and drop a few shells amongst them, great would be
their confusion.

Pasmore rose to his feet again from behind the rock where
he had crouched, for one or two bullets, either by design
or accident, had come very near him indeed. Quickly the
towel at the end of the stick waved the message to the
officer in command. Just as he was going to supplement
it, a bullet passed clean through his impromptu flag and
grazed his serge. He went on with his message as if
nothing had happened. But the moment he had finished,
and was still standing erect to catch the glint of the
British signaller's flag, a voice hailed him. It was
Dorothy's.

"Mr. Pasmore," she cried, "if you have done, why don't
you take cover? The Indians have seen you, and you'll be
shot in another minute."

"For goodness' sake, get down!" he cried, as he turned
round and saw that the girl, unseen by the others, had
come towards him, and was also exposed to the enemy's
fire.

She looked him steadily in the eyes, but did not move,
although the bullets were beginning to whistle in grim
earnest all around them.

"Not unless you do," she said. "Oh, why don't you take
shelter?"

Immediately he resumed his crouching attitude by her
side, and then he turned to her, and there was an unwonted
light in his eyes.

"Did you really care as much as that?" he asked.

"You are the stupidest man I know," she replied, looking
away. "Do you think I'd have stood there if I didn't!"

There was a great joy in his heart as he took her hand.

"If we get out of this alive, will you say that again?"
he asked.

"That you are the stupidest man I know?" she queried,
with that perversity inseparable from the daughters of
Eve from all time.

"No--that you care for me?"

And at this she looked into his eyes with a simple
earnestness, and said, "Yes."

What more they might have said was cut short by the
furious outburst of firing from the guns, which dropped
shell after shell into the projected ambuscade.

And now the British were forcing the natural stronghold
of the Indians in many places, and their guards looked
as if they were undecided what to do with their prisoners.

"If we don't collar those chaps," said Douglas, "they'll
be wanting to account for us before they go off on their
own. They look dangerous. Stand by me, Jacques, and we'll
crawl up behind them when the next shell comes. They're
too busily engaged below to pay much attention to us
now."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before their ears
caught the eerie sound of a shrapnel shell coming towards
them. The two Indians got down on their faces behind a
rock. The next moment, regardless of consequences, the
rancher was on the top of one and Jacques had secured
the other. To take their rifles, and tie their hands and
feet with belts, was short work, and then Rory told them
that if they remained quiet all would be well with them.
They were sensible redskins, and did as they were bid.

And now it was time for the prisoners to again make their
presence known to the British, for should the Indians
and breeds succeed in holding the gully beneath them
against the invading force, it was tolerably certain they
would discover how Pasmore and his companions had
overpowered their guards, and swift vengeance was sure
to follow. As they looked down the precipitous sides of
the ravine they could see that only four men--two breeds
and two Indians held the narrow pass. These men, while
they themselves were comparatively safe, could easily
hold a large number of troops at bay.

"_Mon Dieu!_ it ees ze metis, and it ees _mon ami_,
Leopold St Croix, I can see," exclaimed Lagrange, as he
peered anxiously over the brink. "Ah! I tink it ees one
leetle rock will keel him mooch dead."

He did not wait for any one to express assent, but began
at once to assist the British with dire effect. Lagrange
never did things by halves. When he realised that he was
compromised with the enemy, he at once started in to
annihilate his old friends with the utmost cheerfulness.

No sooner had Jacques heard that Leopold St. Croix was
below than he rushed down the terrace, rifle in hand, to
have it out with him. There was no holding him back; he
was regardless of consequences.

The others remained where they were. With one rifle they
could command the terrace until the troops came to their
relief. Lagrange continued to roll down rocks, to the
great discomfiture of the holders of the pass, who kept
dodging about from one side to the other in imminent fear
of their lives. When one Indian was effectually quieted
by a huge boulder that Lagrange had sent down on the top
of him, the others saw that it was impossible to remain
there any longer, so incontinently fled. Leopold St.
Croix, being somewhat stout, was left behind in the
headlong flight that ensued.

When Jacques reached the bottom of the terrace, he found
that the Indians had left the coast clear for him. He
was rounding the bluff amongst the rocks when he met his
old enemy face to face.

"Ha! _coquin!_" cried Jacques; "and so, _mon ami_, I have
found you! _Bien!_ Now we shall fight, like that, so!"

And putting his rifle to his shoulder, he sent a bullet
through Leopold St. Croix's badger-skin cap. St. Croix
returned the compliment by shaving a lock of hair off
Jacques' right temple. Both men got behind rocks, and
for three minutes they carried on a spirited duel. At
length, after both had had several narrow shaves of
annihilation, Jacques succeeded in sending a bullet
through St. Croix's shoulder, and that settled the matter.

The prisoners had now descended the terrace, and were
every moment expecting to find themselves once more face
to face with British troops, when something occurred
which is always occurring when a civilised force, with
its time-honoured precedent, is dealing with a savage
race that acts on its own initiative--the unexpected
happened--the inevitable slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.
The British, thinking that their work was over, left
their cover and rushed towards the various inlets in a
careless, disorganised fashion. Quick as thought the
rebels seized their opportunity. They rallied and poured
in a withering fire upon the scattered troops. The
unprotected guns were rushed by a mere handful of Indians
who had been hiding in the watercourse, and the retreat
was sounded to protect them. At the same moment Poundmaker
found himself with one of his head men, who bore the
picturesque name of Young-Man-Who-Jumps-Like-a-Frog, and
these two, with a strong following at their heels, appeared
round the corner of a bluff. A few seconds later Jacques
was seized from behind, and the other prisoners were once
more secured. It all happened so suddenly that there was
no time to escape or make any resistance.




CHAPTER XXI

BACK TO CAPTIVITY

It was as well for the prisoners that Poundmaker was not
aware of the fact that they had overpowered their guard
and had been in the act of escaping when he came round
the corner. It is only probable to suppose that he was
surprised to find them all alive and unscathed by the
shell-fire, and that he imagined some natural mishap had
occurred to the escort during the progress of the fight
Lucky it was for that same escort that it was the British
troops, and not Poundmaker's men, who afterwards found
them bound hand and foot, for it is safe to say that in
the latter case they would never have had an opportunity
of being surprised again. They would have dangled by
their heels from the bough of some tree while a slow fire
underneath saved them the necessity of ever after requiring
to braid their raven locks.

In point of fact, Poundmaker was in rather a good humour
than otherwise, for the British were now withdrawing to
take up a position on the open prairie, where they knew
the Red men and metis would not attack them. True, the
rebels had suffered severely, but so had the Government
troops. Before the British could make another attack, he
would be off into the wild, inaccessible fastnesses of
the Eagle Hills, where they would have to catch him who
could. He had sense enough to know that the British must
catch him in the long run, but he would have a high old
time till then. Civilisation was a very tame affair, and
a rebellion was a heaven-sent opportunity for resuscitating
a picturesque past with lots of loot and scalps thrown
in. His meditated revenge on the prisoners would keep--there
was nothing like having a card up one's sleeve.

He straightway broke up the party. With a certain rude
sense of the fitness of things, he put Douglas and Pasmore
together. He assured the former that the same young squaw
who had been in attendance on his daughter would continue
to wait upon her in the future. His lieutenant,
"Young-Man-Who-Jumps-Like-a-Frog," a very promising young
man indeed, would be responsible to him for her safety.
If anything happened to her, or she escaped, then Young-Man,
etc., would no longer have eyes to see how he jumped.

It would have been madness for the party to have made
any serious attempt to resist arrest, for they were simply
covered by the muzzles of fire-arms. Still, Pasmore sent
two Indians reeling backwards with two right and left
blows, which made them look so stupid that Poundmaker
was secretly amused, and therefore stopped the pulling
of the trigger of the blunderbuss that an Indian placed
close to the police sergeant's head in order to effect
a thorough and equal distribution of his brains. The grim
and politic chief, who was not without a sense of humour,
ordered that a rope be tied round the waist of the wild
cat--as he was pleased to term Pasmore--and that to the
two braves who had been so stupid as to allow him to
punch their heads, should be allotted the task of leading
him about like a bear. He hinted that if Pasmore
occasionally amused himself by testing the powers of
resistance of their skulls with his hammer-like fists,
no difficulties would be thrown in his way by the others.

Douglas had begged to be allowed to accompany his daughter,
but Poundmaker said that was impossible, and assured him
that no harm would come to her. Dorothy went over to
her father and said good-bye, and then they were forced
apart. To Pasmore she said--

"You need not fear for me. I feel sure that, now they
know the strength of the British, they will take care of
us so as to save themselves. It is madness for you to
resist. If you wish to help me, go quietly with them."

"Yes, you are right," he said. "But it is so hard. Still,
I feel that we shall pull through yet. Good-bye!"

He was too much a man of action and of thought to be
prodigal of words. And she knew that a facility in making
pretty speeches is in nine cases out of ten merely the
refuge of those who desire to conceal indifference or
shallowness of heart.

In another minute the men were hurried away. An Indian
pony with a saddle was brought for Dorothy, and she was
told to mount. The young squaw who had her in charge,
and who was called "The Star that Falls by Night," mounted
another pony and took over a leading-rein from Dorothy's.
Poundmaker, after giving a few instructions, rode off to
direct operations and to see that his sharpshooters were
posted in such a way that it would be impossible for the
British to advance until his main body had made good
their retreat into the more inaccessible country. Of
course, it was only a matter of time before they would
be starved out of those hills, but much might occur before
then.

The middle-aged brave who was handicapped with a name
that suggested froggy agility, proudly took his place at
the head of the little cavalcade, and a few minutes later
they were threading their way through deep, narrow gullies,
crossing from the head of one little creek on to the
source of another, and choosing such places generally
that the first shower of rain would gather there and wash
out their tracks. When they passed the main camp, Dorothy
saw that the lodges had been pulled down, and were being
packed on _travois_, [Footnote: Two crossed poles with
cross pieces trailing from the back of a pony.] preparatory
to a forced march. She noted that the sleighs had been
abandoned, as, of course, there were no wheels there to
take the place of the runners. Her own slender belongings
were secured on the back of a pack-horse, and the squaw
saw to it that she had her full complement of provisions
and camp paraphernalia such as suited the importance of
her prisoner.

Poor Dorothy! There would, however, be no more tea or
sugar, or other things she had been accustomed to, for
many a long day, but, after all, that was of no particular
moment There was pure water in the streams, and there
would soon be any amount of luscious wild berries in the
woods, and plants by the loamy banks of creeks that made
delicious salads and spinaches, and they would bring such
a measure of health with them that she would experience
what the spoilt children of fortune, and the dwellers in
cities, can know little about--the mere physical joy of
being alive--the glorious pulsing of the human machine.

They kept steadily on their way till dusk, and then halted
for a brief space. The party was a small one now, only
some half-dozen braves and a few squaws. Dorothy wandered
with her jailer, whom she had for shortness called the
Falling Star, to a little rise, and looked down upon the
great desolate, purpling land in which evidently Nature
had been amusing herself. There were huge, pillar-like
rocks streaked with every colour of the rainbow, from
pale pink and crimson to slate-blue. There were yawning
canyons, on the scarped sides of which Nature had been
fashioning all manner of grotesqueries--gargoyles and
griffins, suggestions of many-spired cathedrals, the
profile of a face which was that of an angel, and of
another which was so weirdly and horribly ugly--suggesting
as it did all that was evil and sinister--that one shivered
and looked away. All these showed themselves like
phantasmagoria, and startled one with a suggestion of
intelligent design. But it was not with the face of the
cliff alone that Nature had trifled.

The gigantic boulders of coloured clays, strewn about
all higgledy-piggledy, resolved themselves into uncouth
antediluvian monsters, with faces so suggestive of
something human and malign that they were more like the
weird imaginings of some evil dream than inanimate things
of clay. And over all brooded the mysterious dusk and
the silence--the silence as of death that had been from
the beginning, and which haunted one like a living
presence. Only perhaps now and again there was a peculiar
and clearly-defined, trumpet-toned sound caused by the
outstretched wing of a great hawk as it swooped down to
seize its prey. It was the very embodiment of desolation.
It might well have been some dead lunar landscape in
which for aeons no living thing had stirred.

But Dorothy had other things to think of. Her position
was now seemingly more perilous than before. It was so
hard to think that they had all been so near deliverance,
and, in fact, had given themselves over entirely to hope,
and then had been so ruthlessly disappointed.

But there had been compensations. Putting on one side
the shedding of blood, for which nothing could compensate,
there was that new interest which had sprung into glorious
life within her, and had become part of her being--her
love for the man who had more than once put himself in
the power of the enemy so that she and her father might
be saved. Yes, that was something very wonderful and
beautiful indeed.

When the moon got up the party was reformed, and they
started out again. In the pale moonlight the freaks of
Nature's handiwork were more fantastic than ever, and
here and there tall, strangely-fashioned boulders of clay
took on the semblance of threatening, half-human monsters
meditating an attack.

Dorothy had noticed by the stars that the party had
changed its direction. They were now heading due north.
With the exception of one short halt they travelled all
through the night, and in the early grey dawn of the
morning came out upon a great plain of drifting sand that
looked for all the world like an old ocean bed stretching
on and on interminably. It was the dangerous shifting
sands, which the Indians generally avoided, as it contained
spots where, it was said, both man and horse disappeared
if they dared to put foot on it. But Poundmaker's lieutenant
was not without some measure of skill and daring, and
piloted them between the troughs of the waste with unerring
skill.

When the sun gained power in the heavens and a light
breeze sprang up, a strange thing took place. The face
of the wave-like heights and hollows began to move. The
tiny grains of sand were everywhere in motion, and actually
gave out a peculiar singing sound, somewhat resembling
the noise of grain when it falls from the spout of a
winnowing machine into a sack. It was as if the sand were
on the boil. There was no stopping now unless they wanted
to be swallowed up in the quicksand. Dorothy noticed that
the squaws, and even the braves, looked not a little
anxious. But their leader kept steadily on. The sand
was hard enough and offered sufficient resistance to the
broad hoof of a horse, but if one stood still for a minute
or so, it began gradually to silt up and bury it. It was
a horrible place. When at noon that devil's slough resolved
itself into a comparatively narrow strip, and Dorothy
saw that they could easily have left it, she began to
understand their reason for keeping on such dangerous
ground--_they did not wish to leave any tracks behind
them_. In all truth there was absolutely nothing to show
that they had ever been in that part of the country. At
last they came to what looked like a high hill with a
wall-like cliff surmounting it. They stepped on to the
firm clayey soil where the sage-bush waved, and had their
midday meal. As soon as that had been disposed of, they
resumed their journey.

They now went on foot, and steadily climbed the steep
hillside by the bed of an old watercourse. Dorothy
wondered what was behind the sharply-cut outline of the
cliffs, for it gave the impression that nothing lay beyond
save infinite space. They entered a narrow ravine, and
then suddenly it was as if they had reached the jumping-off
place of the world, for they passed, as it were, into
another land. Immediately beneath them lay a broken
shelf of ground shaped like a horseshoe, the sides of
which were sheer cliffs, the gloomy base of which, many
hundred feet below, were swept by the coldly gleaming,
blue waters of the mighty Saskatchewan. Beyond that,
drowsing in a pale blue haze, lay the broad valley, and
beyond that again the vast purpling panorama of rolling
prairie and black pinewoods until earth and sky were
merged in indistinctness and became one. It resembled a
perch on the side of the world, a huge eyrie with cliffs
above and cliffs below, with apparently only that little
passage, the old creek bed, by which one might get there.
Dorothy realised that people might pass and repass at
the foot of the hill on the other side and never dream
there was such a place behind it. Still less would they
imagine that there was a narrow cleft by which one could
get through. Moreover, a couple of Indians stationed at
the narrow track could easily keep two hundred foe-men
at bay. Dorothy realised that she was now as effectually
a prisoner as if she had been hidden away in an impregnable
fortress.

The party descended a gentle slope, and there, in a
saucer-shaped piece of low-lying ground fringed with
saskatoon and choke-cherry trees, they pitched their
camp.

For the first three days Dorothy was almost inclined to
give way to the depression of spirits which her surroundings
and the enforced inaction naturally encouraged. Though
the Red folk were not actually unkind to her, still,
their ways were not such as commended themselves to a
well-brought-up white girl. Fortunately, the Falling Star
was well disposed to her, and did all she could to make
Dorothy feel her captivity as little as possible. The
two would sit together in a shady place on the edge of
the great cliff for hours, gazing out upon the magnificent
prospect that outspread itself far beneath them, and the
Indian girl, to try and woo the spirit of her white sister
from communing too much within itself, would tell her many
of the quaint, beautiful legends of the Indian Long Ago.

On the third day, just as Dorothy was beginning to wonder
if it were not possible to steal out of the wigwam one
night when Falling Star slept soundly, and, by evading
the sentries--who might also chance to be asleep--make
her way out through the narrow pass and so back to freedom,
there was an arrival in camp that exceedingly astonished
her. She was sitting some little distance back from the
edge of the great cliff with Falling Star near at hand,
when some one behind her spoke.

"Ah, Mam'selle," said the voice, "it ees ze good
how-do-you-do I will be wish you."

Dorothy turned, and to her surprise Bastien Lagrange
stood before her.

Despite the jauntiness of his speech, and the evident
desire he evinced to appear perfectly at his ease, Dorothy
at once detected an under-current of shame-facedness and
apprehension in Bastien's manner. His presence urged that
he was no longer a prisoner with Poundmaker's band. What
did it portend?

In her eagerness to learn something of her father, Pasmore,
and the others, Dorothy sprang to her feet and ran towards
Lagrange. But that gentleman gave her such a significant
look of warning that she stopped short. He glanced
meaningly at the Indian woman, Falling Star. Dorothy
understood, and a presentiment that she was about to be
disappointed in the feeble-hearted half-breed took
possession of her.

"You can speak, Bastien," Dorothy said. "Falling Star
will not understand a word. I can see you have come with
a message to Jumping Frog, but first, tell me--what about
my father and the others?"

"_Helas_, I know not!" said Bastien, feeling vastly
relieved that it had not been a more awkward question.
"They haf go 'way South branch of Saskatchewan. They all
right. I tink Poundmaker mooch 'fraid keel them. They--"

"But how is it you are here? Have you joined the enemy
again?"

It had come at last, and Bastien, shrugging his high
shoulders, spread his hands out deprecatingly.

"_Helas_, Mam'selle! What was there for to do? I say I
Eenglish, and they go for to shoot me mooch dead. I say
'Vive Riel!' and they say, 'Zat ees all right, Bastien
Lagrange, you mooch good man.' I tell them that I nevare
lof ze Eenglish, that your father and shermoganish peleece
she was took me pressonar, and I was not able to get
'way, and that I plenty hate the Eenglish, oh! yees, and
haf keel as many as three, four, fife, plenty times. So
they say, 'Bully for you, pardner! and you can go tell
Man-Who-Jumps-Like-a-Frog to sit down here more long and
ozer tings.' _Comprenez?_"

The peculiar and delicate line of policy the unstable
breed was pursuing was obvious. Lagrange was one of those
who wanted to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds
simply because he did not particularly care for either,
and it was incumbent upon him that he should do one or
the other. When the proper time came he certainly wanted
to be with the side that got the best of it, and he had
a shrewd suspicion that that would be the English. He
was delightfully immune from any moral prejudice in the
matter, and already a brilliant scheme was developing in
his plastic brain that promised both safety and
entertainment. He, however, resolved to do whatever lay
in his power to assist this charming young lady and her
father.

"Bastien," observed the girl, after a pause, "you'd better
take good care what you do. Take my word for it that all
the rebels, both half-breeds and Indians, who have done
wrong will have to answer for it. I do not ask you what
message you carry to the Indians here, but it is unlikely
that you will stay with us. Now, I know that Battleford
is not so very far away; will you go and tell Pepin
Quesnelle to come to me? The Indians are all afraid of him,
so he will suffer no harm. See, give him this from me."

She turned and plucked a little bunch of blue flowers
that grew close at hand, which in the Indian language
signify "Come to me." Then she produced a little brooch
which she had worn at her throat that night she had met
the dwarf, and wrapping both In a small piece of silk,
gave them to the half-breed.




CHAPTER XXII

ANTOINE IN TROUBLE

Four nights later Pepin Quesnelle and his mother were
having their supper in the large common sitting-room,
which also did duty as kitchen and workshop. The tidy,
silver-haired old dame had set out a place for Pepin at
the well-scrubbed table, but the _petit maitre_, much to
her regret, would not sit down at it as was his wont He
insisted on having his supper placed on the long, low
bench, covered with tools and harness, at which he was
working. He had a Government job on hand, and knew that
if he sat down to the table in state, there would be much
good time wasted in useless formality. His mother therefore
brought some bread and a large steaming plate of some
kind of stew, and placed them within reach of his long
arms.

"Pepin," she said, with a hint of fond remonstrance, "it
is not like you to eat so. If any one should happen to
come and catch you, my sweet one, eating like a common
Indian, what would they think? Take care, apple of my
eye, it is ver' hot!"

She hastily put down the steaming bowl, from which a
savoury steam ascended, and Antoine the bear, who was
sitting on his haunches in evident meditation behind the
bench, deliberately looked in another direction. What
mattered the master's dinner to a bear of his high-class
principles!

"Thank you, my mother," said Pepin, without lifting his
eyes, and sewing away with both hands as if for dear
life. "What you say is true, ver' true, but the General
he will want this harness, and the troops go to-morrow
to catch Poundmaker. And, after all, what matters it
where I sit--am I not Pepin Quesnelle?"

Antoine, still looking vacantly in another direction,
moved meditatively nearer the steaming dish. Why had they
not given him his supper? He had been out for quite a
long walk that day, his appetite was excellent.

"Mother," said Pepin again, "that young female Douglas,
who was here some time ago, I wonder where she may be
now? Since then I have been many times think that, after
all, she was, what the soldier-officers call it, not
half-bad."

"Ah, Pepin!" and the old lady sighed, "she was a sweet
child, and some day might even have done as wife for you.
But you are so particular, my son. Of course, I do not
mean to say she was good enough for you, but at least
she was more better than those other women who would try
and steal you from me. _Mon Dieu_, how they do conspire!"

"So, that is so," commented Pepin resignedly, but at the
same time not without a hint of satisfaction in his voice;
"they _will_ do it, you know, mother. Bah! if the
shameless females only knew how Pepin Quesnelle sees
through their little ways, how they would be
confounded--astonished, and go hide themselves for the
shame of it! But this girl, that is the thing, she was
nice girl, I think, and if perhaps she had the airs of
a _grande dame_ and would expect much--well, after all,
there was myself to set against that Eh? What? Don't you
think that is so, my mother?"

"Yes, Pepin, yes, of course that is so, my sweet one,
and what more could any woman want? And that girl, I
think, she was took wid you, for I see her two, three
times look at you so out of the corners of the eyes."

While this conversation was proceeding, Antoine had more
than once glanced at his master without turning his head.
The plate of stew was now within easy reach of his short
grizzled snout, and really it looked as if it had been
put there on purpose for him to help himself.

When Pepin happened to look round, he thought his mother,
in a fit of absent-mindedness, must have put down an
empty plate--it was so clean, so beautifully clean. But
when he looked at Antoine, who was now sitting quite out
of reach of the plate, and observed the Sunday-school
expression on the bear's old-fashioned face, he understood
matters. He knew Antoine of old.

"Mother," he said, in his natural voice and quite quietly,
"my dear mother, don't let the old beast know that you
suspect anything. Take up that plate, and don't look at
him, or he will find out we have discovered all. What
have you got left in the pot, my mother?"

"Two pigeons, my sweet one, but--"

"That will do, mother. Do not excite yourself. Your
Pepin will be avenged. The b'ar shall have the lot, _ma
foi!_ the whole lot, and he will wish that he had waited
until his betters were finished. Take down the mustard
tin, and the pepper-pot, and yes, those little red peppers
that make the mouth as the heat of the pit below, and
put them all in the insides of one pigeon. Do you hear
me, my mother dear? Now, do not let him see you do it,
for his sense is as that of the Evil One himself, and he
would not eat that pigeon."

"Oh, my poor wronged one, and to think that that--"

"Hush hush, my mother! Can you not do as I have told you?
Pick up the plate quietly. _Bien_, that is right! Now,
do not look at him, but fill the pigeon up. So ... that
is so, mother dear. O, Antoine, you sweet, infernal b'ar,
but I will make you wish as how the whole Saskatchewan
were running down your crater of a throat in two, three
minutes more. But there will be no Saskatchewan--_non_,
not one leetle drop of water to cool your thieving tongue!"

And despite the lively state of affairs he predicted for
his four-footed friend, he never once looked at it, but
kept tinkering at the harness as if nothing particular
were exciting him.

The good old lady was filled with concern for Antoine,
for whom, as sharing the companionship of her well-beloved,
she had quite a friendly regard. Still, had not the
traitorous animal robbed her darling--her Pepin--of his
supper? It was a hard, a very hard thing to do, but he
must be taught a lesson. With many misgivings she stuffed
the cavernous fowl with the fiery condiments.

"Now, mother dear, just wipe it clean so that the fire
and brimstone does not show on the outside, and pour over
it some gravy. That is right, _ma mere_. I will reward
you--later. Now, just place it on the bench and take away
the other plate. Do not let the cunning malefactor think
you notice him at all. He will think it is the second
course. _Bien!_"

He turned his head sharply and looked at the bear with
one of his quick, bird-like movements, just at the same
moment as the bear looked at him. But there was nothing
on the artless Antoine's face but mild, sentimental
inquiry.

"Ha! he is cunning!" muttered Pepin. "Do you remember,
my mother, how--_Mon Dieu!_ he's got it!"

That was very apparent. Antoine had nipped up the fowl,
and with one or two silent crunches was in the act of
swallowing it. So pressed was he for time that at first
he did not detect the fiery horrors he was swallowing.
But in a minute or two he realised that something unlooked
for had occurred, that there was a young volcano in his
mouth that had to be quenched at any cost So he sprang
to his feet and rushed at a bucket of water that stood
in a corner of the room, and went so hastily that he
knocked the bucket over and then fell on it. The burning
pain inside him made him snap and growl and fall to
worrying the unfortunate bucket.

As for Pepin, he evinced the liveliest joy. He threw the
harness from him, leapt from the bench, and seizing his
long stick, danced out on the floor in front of the bear.
The good old dame stood with clasped hands in a far corner
of the room, looking with considerable apprehension upon
this fresh domestic development.

"Aha, Antoine, _mon enfant!_" cried the dwarf, "and so
my supper you will steal, will you? And how you like it,
_mon ami?_ Now, for to digest it, a dance, that is good.
So--get up, get up and dance, my sweet innocence! Houp-la!"

But just at that moment there came a knock at the door.
It was pushed open, and the unstable breed, Bastien
Lagrange, entered. Antoine, beside himself with internal
discomfort and rage, eyed the intruder with a fiery,
ominous light in his eyes. Here surely was a heaven-sent
opportunity for letting off steam. Before his master
could prevent him he had rushed open-mouthed at Lagrange
and thrown him upon his back. Quicker than it takes to
write it, he had ripped the clothing from his body with
his great claws and was at his victim's throat. The dwarf,
with a strange, hoarse cry, threw himself upon the bear.
With his powerful arms and huge hands he caught it by
the throat, and compressed the windpipe, until the
astonished animal loosed its hold and opened its mouth
to gasp for breath. Then, bracing himself, Pepin threw
it backwards with as much seeming ease as when, on one
occasion, he had strangled a young cinnamon in the woods.
Bastien Lagrange lay back with the blood oozing from his
mouth, the whites of his eyes turned upwards. He tried
to speak, but the words came indistinctly from his lips.
He put one hand to his breast, and a small packet fell
to the ground.

"From the daughter of Douglas," he gasped. And then he
lay still.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE DEPARTURE OF PEPIN

After all, Bastien Lagrange had been more frightened than
hurt by Antoine the bear. When Pepin Quesnelle had
satisfied himself that there were no bones broken, and
that the wound from which the blood flowed was a mere
scratch, he, as usual, became ashamed of his late display
of feeling and concern, and again assumed his old truculent
attitude. He gave the breed time to recover his breath,
then roughly asked him whom he thought he was that he
should make such a noisy and ostentatious entry into his
house.

"It ees me, Pepin, your ver' dear friend, Bastien Lagrange,"
whined the big breed, with an aggrieved look at the dwarf
and an apprehensive one at Antoine.

"What, villain, _coquin_, _I_ your ver' dear friend?
--may the good Lord forbid! But sit up, and let me once
more look upon your ugly face. Idiot, _entrez!_ Sit up,
and take this for to drink." So spoke Pepin as he handed
Bastien a dipper of water.

In all truth the shifty breed had an expression on his
face as he tried to put his torn garments to rights that
savoured not a little of idiocy. He had been for the last
three hours working himself into a mood of unconcern and
even defiance, so that he might be able to repel the
attacks of the outspoken Pepin. But now, at the very
first words this terrible manikin uttered, he felt his
heart sinking down into his boots. Still, he bore news
which he fancied would rather stagger the dwarf.

"And so, _mon ami_--"

"_Tenez vous la_, villain! You will pardon me, but I am
not the friend of a turncoat and traitor! _Dis donc_,
you will bear this in mind. Now what is it you have for
to say? _Bien?_"

"_Parbleu!_ what ees ze matter wit' Antoine?" exclaimed
the breed uneasily. "What for he look at me so? Make him
for to go 'way, Pepin."

Pepin caught up his stick and changed the trend of
Antoine's aggressive thoughts. The big brute slunk to
the far end of the room, sat upon his haunches, and
blinked at the party in a disconcerting fashion. Then
Pepin again turned upon Bastien with such a quick, fierce
movement that the latter started involuntarily.

"Bah! blockhead, pudding-head!" cried Pepin impatiently.
"Antoine has only that fire in his mouth that you will
have in the pit below before two, three days when you
have been hanged by the neck or been shot by the soldiers
of the great Queen. Proceed!"

"Aha! you ver' funny man, Pepin, but do you know that
Poundmaker has been catch what zey call ze convoy--sixteen
wagons wit' ze drivers and ze soldiers belongin' to your
great Queen, and now zey haf no more food and zey perish?
Haf you heard that, _mon_--M'sieur Pepin?"

Pepin had not heard it, but then he had heard some awkward
things about Bastien Lagrange, and he immediately proceeded
to let him know that he was acquainted with them. The
soldiers, with their great guns, were now swarming up
the Saskatchewan, and it was only a matter of a few weeks
before Poundmaker and Big Bear would be suing for mercy.
This and more of a disquieting nature did the dwarf tell
the unstable one, so that by the time he had finished
there was no hesitation in Bastien's mind as to which
side he must once and for all definitely espouse. So he
told of the capture of the Douglas party by Poundmaker
and of the fight at Cut-Knife. Then he called Pepin's
attention to the packet he had dropped, and explained
how it had been entrusted to him.

The manikin examined it in silence. A strange look of
intelligence came into his face. He shot a half-shy,
suspicious glance at the breed, but that gentleman, with
an awe-stricken expression, was watching Antoine, as with
sinister design that intelligent animal was piling up
quite a collection of boots, moccasins, and odds and ends
in a corner preparatory to having a grand revenge for
the trick that had been played upon him. He would chew
up every scrap of that leather and buckskin if he wore
his teeth out in the attempt The old lady, fortunately
for him, had left the room.

Pepin opened the packet, and the sight of that plain
little gold brooch and the bunch of prairie forget-me-nots
moved him strangely. After all, his heart was not adamant
where youth and beauty were concerned--he only realised
the immense gulf that was fixed between a man of his
great parts and graces and the average female.

He abruptly ordered Bastien into the summer kitchen to
look for his mother and get something to eat, and then,
when he realised he had the room to himself, he literally
let himself go. He sprang to his feet, and, waving the
flowers and the brooch over his head, advanced a few
paces into the middle of the room, struck a melodramatic
attitude, and, with one hand pressed to his heart, carried
Dorothy's tokens to his lips.

Then he turned and observed Antoine. This somewhat
absent-minded follower had already begun operations on
his little pile; but he had been so taken aback by the
unwonted jubilation of his master, that he stopped work
to gaze upon him in astonishment, and quite forgot to
remove the half-torn moccasin from his mouth. When he
saw he was caught red-handed, he dropped the spoil as he
had dropped the hot potato, and crouched apprehensively.
His master made a fierce rush at him.

"What ho! Antoine, you pig, you!" he cried; "and so you
would have revenge, you chuckle-pate!" And then he punched
Antoine's head.

Just at that moment his mother and Bastien re-entered
the room; the former set Lagrange down at a small table
in a far corner with some food before him. The dwarf
lounged towards the fire-place with an assumed air of
indifference and boredom, and, leaning against the
chimney-piece, stroked his black moustache.

"What is it, Pepin, my son?" asked the old lady anxiously.

"Oh, nothing--nothing, my mother; only that they are at
it again!"

"The shameless wretches!" she exclaimed; "will they never
cease? Who is it this time, Pepin?"

"Only that young Douglas female we have spoke about"--he
tried hard to infuse contempt into his voice--"she wants
me to go to her! Just think of it mother! But she is a
preesonar, and, perhaps, it is also my help she wants.
And she was a nice girl, was it not so, _ma mere?_"

Between them they came to the conclusion that Pepin must
go with Bastien to where Dorothy was kept a prisoner and
see what could be done. They also wisely decided that it
was no use notifying or trying to lead the Imperial troops
to the spot, for that might only force the Indians to
some atrocity.

Later on, when the moon arose, Pepin took Lagrange out
and showed him the British camp with its apparently
countless tents, and its battery of guns. It appeared
to the unstable one as if all the armies of the earth
must be camped on that spot. When the dwarf told him that
there were other camps further up the river, to which
the one before him was as nothing, Bastien fairly trembled
in his moccasins. When a sentry challenged them, the
now thoroughly disillusioned breed begged piteously that
they should return to Pepin's house and set out early on
the following morning for the place where Dorothy was
imprisoned up the Saskatchewan, before that army of
soldiers, who surely swarmed like a colony of ants, was
afoot.

Pepin knew that the approach of an army would only be
the means of preventing him from finding Dorothy. He
must go to her himself. He would also, for the sake of
the proprieties, take his mother along in a Red River
cart; his mind was quite made up upon that point. If he
did not do so, who could tell that the Douglas female,
with the cunning of her sex, would not lay some awkward
trap for him? The girl had plainly said, "Come to me,"
and he was secretly elated, but his conviction of old
growth, that all women were "after" him, made him cautious.

So next morning, before break of day, the Red River cart
was packed up and at the door. Pepin and his mother got
into it, Antoine was led behind by means of a rope, and
Bastien rode alongside on a sturdy little Indian pony.
It was indeed an _outre_ and extraordinary little procession
that started out.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE INDIANS' AWAKENING

Little Running Cropped-eared Dog of the Stonies sat
smoking his red clay calumet at the narrow entrance of
the gorge that looked out upon the wooded hillside, the
only means of ingress to the shelf which constituted
Dorothy's prison-house. He was keeping watch and ward
with his good friend "Black Bull Pup," who also sat
smoking opposite him. Their rifles lay alongside; they
had finished a _recherche_ repast of roasted dog, and
were both very sleepy. It was a horrible nuisance having
to keep awake such a warm afternoon. No one was going to
intrude upon their privacy, for they had heard that the
British General, Middleton, was in hot pursuit after
Poundmaker, and it was unlikely that Jumping Frog, who
was over them, would trouble about visiting the sentries.

Little Running Cropped-eared Dog laid down his pipe and
folded his arms.

"Brother," he said to Black Bull Pup, with that easy
assumption of authority which characterised him, "there
is no necessity for us both to be awake. I would woo the
god of pleasant dreams, so oblige me by keeping watch
while my eyelids droop."

Bull Pup, who was a choleric little Indian, and, judging
by his finery, a tip-top swell in Indian upper circles,
looked up with an air of surprise and angry remonstrance.

"Brother," he replied, "the modest expression of your
gracious pleasure is only equalled by the impudence of
the prairie dog who wags his tail in the face of the
hunter before hastening to the privacy of his tepee
underground. You slept all this morning, O Cropped-eared
one! It is my turn now."

But Little Running Dog was renowned among the Stonies
for his wide knowledge of men and things. Moreover, he
loved ease above all, so, by reason of his imperturbability
and honeyed words, he invariably disarmed opposition and
had his own way. On the present occasion he said--

"Black Bull Pup will pardon me; he speaks with his
accustomed truthfulness and fairness of thought I had
for the moment forgotten how, when he took Black Plume
of the Sarcees prisoner, and was leading him back for
the enlivening knife and burning tallow, he watched by
him for four days and four nights without closing an eye,
thus earning for himself the distinction of being called
the 'Sleepless One.' There is no such necessity for his
keeping awake now. Let his dreams waft him in spirit to
the Happy Hunting Grounds. As for me, I am getting an
old man, whose arrow-hand lacks strength to pull back
the string of the bow. It can be but a few short years
before I enter upon the long, last sleep, so it matters
not Sleep, brother."

But Black Bull Pup, as is often the case, was tender of
heart as well as choleric, and hastened to say that his
venerable comrade must take some much-needed rest, so
that within five minutes the ugly Cropped-eared one was
making the sweet hush of the summer noon hideous with
his snores, whilst Black Bull Pup was beginning to wonder
if, after all, he had not been "got at" again by his
Machiavelian friend. It was not a pleasant reflection,
and it really was a very drowsy sort of afternoon. Four
minutes later he was sound asleep himself.

Slowly toiling up the stony, sun-dried bed of the tarn
came Pepin the dwarf, and alongside him, showing unusual
signs of animation--he had scented brother bears--came
Antoine. Behind them walked the unstable breed, Bastien
Lagrange, with a huge pack upon his back. The pack was
heavy and the hill was steep, so that the human beast of
burden perspired and groaned considerably. He also showed
much imagination and ingenuity in the construction of
strange words suitable to the occasion. Pepin's ears had
just been assailed by some extra powerful ones when he
turned to remonstrate.

"Grumbler and discontented one," he said, "have your long
legs grown weak at the knees because you are asked to
carry a few pennyweights on your back?"--the breed was
resting his several hundred pounds pack upon a rock--"Bah!
it is nothing compared to the load of things you will
have to carry and answer for when you have to appear
before the Great Court, when the bolt has been drawn and
you are launched into space through the prison trap-door,
and your toes go jumpety-jumpety-jump. Blockhead!"

"_Parbleu, M'sieur_ Pepin, _mais_ eet ees mooch dead
would be more better than this, I tink it! _Helas!_ how
my heart eet does go for to break! I would for to rest,
Pepin, my ver' dear frient."

"Then rest, weak-kneed one, and be sure afterwards to
come on. It is good I did leave the good mother with the
Croisettes down the river! _Au revoir_, pudding-head!"

Pepin held Antoine by the neck while he surveyed the
slumbering forms of Little Running Crop-eared Dog and
Black Bull Pup.

"_Mais_, they are beautiful children of the tepees," he
murmured. "It would be easy to kill, but that would not
be of the commandments. 'He who lives by the sword shall
perish by the sword.' No; no man's blood shall stain the
hands of Pepin Quesnelle. Ah! now I have it. So!"

If the dwarf drew the line at killing, he was still as
full of mischief as a human being could well be. He had
an impish turn of mind, and hastened to gratify the same.
He took the two rifles and at once proceeded to draw the
charges, then with a smartness and lightness of touch
that was surprising, he possessed himself of their
sheath-knives. He placed Antoine on its haunches between
them, and threatened him with dire vengeance if he moved.
He himself clambered on to a rock over their heads, at
the same time not forgetting to take a few stones in his
pockets. His eyes gleamed and rolled in his head, and
he chuckled in a truly alarming fashion. Then he dropped
a stone on to the pit of Black Bull Pup's stomach, and
the other on to the head of the Crop-eared one. Antoine
watched the proceedings with much interest.

Black Bull Pup sat up and was about to remonstrate angrily
with his comrade for having roused him so unceremoniously,
when the latter also raised himself full of the same
matter.

Their eyes fairly started from their heads and they were
nearly paralysed with horror when they beheld a huge bear
sitting within a few feet of them. It must be a very ogre
of a bear when it could sit there so calmly waiting for
them to awake before beginning operations. Pepin, unseen
on the rock above them, fairly doubled himself up with
delight. But they were both Indians who had borne
themselves with credit in former encounters with bears,
so, snatching up their rifles, they both fired at Antoine
at the same moment with a touching and supreme disregard
to the other's proximity. Antoine seemed interested.
There were two flashes in the pan, and two hearts sank
simultaneously. They searched for their knives in vain.
Antoine appeared amused and looked encouragement. It was
a very nightmare to the two warriors. Then, from the rock
over their heads, they heard a deep bass voice of such
volume that it sounded like half-a-dozen ordinary voices
rolled into one.

"_Canaille!_" it cried, "cut-throats! villains!
block-heads! pudding-heads! _mais_ you are nice men to
sleep at your posts; truly, that is so! Shall I make this
bear for to devour you? Eh? What?"

When the two men looked up and beheld the weird form of
Pepin perched on the rock, it nearly finished them. They
had heard of many strange monsters, but here was something
beyond their very wildest imaginings. Of course, this
bear was his attendant evil spirit, and it was a judgment
upon them. The Crop-eared one and the Black Bull Pup
grovelled in an agony of terror. Pepin never had such a
time. What would have happened it is hard to say had
not Bastien Lagrange appeared upon the scene. For Antoine,
imagining that the movements of the Indians were generously
intended as an invitation for him to indulge in frivolity,
at once reared himself on his hind legs preparatory to
dancing all over them. Pepin slid from the rock and called
his absent-minded friend to attention. Bastien came
forward wiping his forehead, declaring that he was all
but dead, and the two worthy savages rose wonderingly to
their feet The unstable breed, who at once took in the
situation, and, as usual, derived a secret pleasure from
observing the abject discomfiture of the Indians, at once
proceeded to explain to them that the strange gentleman
before them, whom they had mistaken for a celebrity from
the ghost world, was no other than the celebrated Pepin
Quesnelle, of whom they must have heard, and that the
bear, whose magnanimity and playfulness they had just
been witnesses of, was his equally distinguished friend
and counsellor. He also explained that, of course, no
one in the land ever questioned Pepin's right to do what
he liked or to go where he chose. There was no doubt
that, in a different sphere of life, Bastien would have
risen to eminence in diplomatic circles. The two warriors
having been handed back their knives, swore by the ghosts
of their illustrious grandfathers and grandmothers, that,
so far at least as they were concerned, the little but
mighty man, with his servant the bear, might go or come
just as he pleased. Pepin and Bastien left the two now
sleepless sentries at their posts, and passed through to
the great wide terrace that overlooked the Saskatchewan,
which, here describing a great half-circle, rushed like
a mill-race between vast gloomy walls of rock.

When they reached the camp in the hollow, Jumping Frog
came forward to meet them. Pepin he had heard of, but
had not seen before. It was quite evident he resented
his presence there. He turned angrily upon the breed,
whose joy at now having come to the end of his journey
received a decided check from the reception he met with
from the head man. Jumping Frog looked at Bastien
scornfully, and asked--

"Brother, did I not send you on a mission? and what is
this thing you have brought back?"

The unstable breed, whose mercurial condition was influenced
by every breath of wind, shook with apprehension, but
Pepin came to the rescue. To be called "a thing" by an
Indian was an insult that cut into the quick of his
nature. He had taken off his slouch hat, and was leaning
forward with his two hands grasping the long stick he
usually carried. Antoine was squatted meditatively on
his haunches alongside him. Pepin now drew himself up;
his face became transfigured with rage; he took a step
or two towards the head man, and shook his stick
threateningly.

"Black-hearted and cross-eyed dog of a Stony!" he fairly
screamed; "by the ghost of the old grey wolf that bore
you, and which now wanders round the tepees of the outcasts
in the land of lost spirits picking up carrion, would
you dare to speak of me thus! I have a mind to take the
maiden whom you now hold as a prisoner away from you,
but the time is not yet ripe. But I swear it, if you
molest her in any way, or speak of me again as you have
done, or interfere with my coming or going, you shall
swing by the neck on a rope, and your body shall be given
to the dogs. Moreover, your spirit shall wander for ever
in the Bad Lands, and the Happy Hunting Grounds shall
know you not."

"Ough! ough!" exclaimed Jumping Frog uneasily; "but you
use big words, little man! Still, there is something
about you that savours of big medicine, and I do not wish
to offend the spirits, so peace with you until this matter
rights itself." He turned to Lagrange. "And you, O one
of seemingly weak purpose, tell me what news of Poundmaker
and Thunderchild?"

What Bastien had to tell was not calculated to encourage
Jumping Frog in his high-handed policy. His face fell
considerably, and Pepin, taking advantage of his
preoccupation, walked off with Antoine to find Dorothy.

When the dwarf was looking into one of the tepees, Antoine
created quite a flutter of excitement by looking into
another on his own account When the four Indians who were
solemnly seated therein, handing round the festive pipe,
beheld a huge cinnamon bear standing in the doorway,
evidently eyeing them with a view to annexing the one in
best condition, they bolted indiscriminately through the
sides of the lodge, leaving Antoine in possession. But
when they gathered themselves together outside, they were
confronted by Pepin, whom they took to be some terrible
monster from the ghost world, and the last state of them
was worse than the first Pepin enjoyed their discomfiture
for a brief space, and then explained who he was and why
he came to honour them with his presence. Calling Antoine
off, he left them in a still more dubious and confused
state of mind.

He had wandered almost half-a-mile from the camp on to
the broken edge of the great canyon, where, nearly a
thousand feet below, the ice-cold waters of the mighty
Saskatchewan showed like a blue ribbon shot with white.
Right in front of him was infinite space, and the earth
fell away as if from the roof of the world. It seemed to
Pepin that he had never before so fully realised the
majesty of Nature. Standing on the edge of the nightmarish
abyss, with the Indian girl near her, he saw Dorothy.
Neither of them observed him, and he stood still for a
minute to watch them.

As he gazed at the slim, graceful figure of the white
prisoner in her neat but faded black dress, it seemed to
him that he had never realised how beautiful and perfect
a thing was the human form. He had only in a crude way
imagined possibilities in the somewhat squat figures of
the Indian girls. There was a distinction in the poise
of Dorothy's proud shapely head that he had never seen
before in any woman. When she turned and saw him, her
face lighting up with welcome and her hands going out in
front of her, he experienced something that came in the
light of a revelation. He wondered how it was he could
have ever said, "she will not do."




CHAPTER XXV

A PROPOSAL FROM PEPIN

Dorothy approached Pepin as if to shake hands, but the
dwarf artfully pretended that there was something the
matter with Antoine's leading-rein, and ignored her. He
had never before realised how really dangerous a despised
female could he.

"Pepin Quesnelle," said Dorothy, "it was asking a great
deal when I sent for you, but I knew you would come. You
saved the life of Sergeant Pasmore when Riel was going
to shoot him, and I want to--"

"Bah, Mam'selle! But it is nonsense you talk like that,
so! The right--that is the thing. What is goodness after
all if one can only be good when there is nothing that
pulls the other way--no temptations, no dangers? It is
good to pray to God, but what good is prayer without the
desire deep down in the heart to do, and the doing? The
good deed--that is the thing. So! As for that Pasmore,
villain that he is--"

"He is a good man. Why do you say such a thing?"

"Bah! he is _coquin_ blockhead, pudding-head; still, I
love him much"--Dorothy visibly relented--"and he is
brave man, and to be brave is not to be afraid of the
devil, and that is much, _nest ce pas?_ But what is it
you want me for to do? The good mother is down at Croisettes
and sends her love--Bah! what a foolish thing it is
that women send!"

"Your mother is a good woman, Pepin, and I am glad to
have her love; as for you--"

"Mam'selle, Mam'selle! Pardon! but I am not loving--you
will please confine your remarks to my mother"--there
was visible alarm in Pepin's face; he did not know what
this forward girl might not be tempted to say--"What I
can do for to serve you, that is the question? I have
hear that your father and Sergeant Pasmore--that
pudding-head--and the others are all right. The thing is
for you to get 'way."

Pepin, who in reality had a sincere regard for Sergeant
Pasmore, had merely spoken of him in an uncomplimentary
fashion because he saw it would annoy Dorothy. He must
use any weapon he could to repel the attacks of the enemy.
As for Dorothy, the delusion that the dwarf was labouring
under was now obvious, and she hardly knew whether to be
amused or annoyed; it was such an absurd situation. She
must hasten to disillusion him.

"I don't think anything very serious can happen to me
here, Pepin. They will be too afraid to harm me, seeing
that they must know the British are so near. It is my
father and the others that I am concerned about And
Sergeant Pasmore--"

The girl hesitated. Could she bring herself to speak
about it, and to this dwarf? But she realised that she
must hesitate at nothing when the lives of those who were
dear to her hung in the balance; and she knew that he
was chivalrous. Pepin tilted his head to one side, and,
looking up suspiciously, asked--

"_Bien!_ and this Sergeant Pasmore, have you also designs
on him? Eh? What?"

"Designs! The idea!--but, of course, how can you know?
No, and I will tell you, Pepin Quesnelle, for I believe
you are a good man, and you have been our friend, and we
are in your debt--"

"Bah! Debt! What is that? I am a man, Mam'selle, and beg
you will not talk about debt! Pouf!" He shrugged his
shoulders and spread out his great hands.

"Very well, this Sergeant Pasmore, I love him, and I have
promised to be his wife."

She drew herself up proudly now, and felt that she could
have said so before the whole world.

"_Parbleu!_" exclaimed Pepin, who did not seem to hail
the news with any particular satisfaction. "You are quite
sure it was not any one else you wanted to marry? What?
You are quite sure?"

"Of course, who could there be?"

"Perhaps Mam'selle aspired. But who can tell? After all,
a woman must take whom she can get I dare say that he
will do just as well as another."

Pepin Quesnelle, now that his own safety was assured,
did not seem to value it as he thought he would. After
all, if the girl's nose did "stop short too soon," it
was by no means an unpretty one; its sauciness was
decidedly taking, and if he saw mischief lurking away
back in her eyes, he admitted it was an uncommonly lovable
sort of mischief. Being only human, he now began to wish
for what he had despised.

As for Dorothy, she could have rated Pepin roundly for
his conceit and his sentiments. But it was all too absurd,
and she must bear with him. She continued--

"Pepin Quesnelle, you have a good heart, I know, and you
can understand how it is. If I had not known that you
were not like other men, I would hardly have dared to
ask you to come all this long distance to me. I know what
you do is not for reward, so I am not afraid to ask you.
Will you find out about my father and Mr. Pasmore and
the others, and will you do what you can to save them?
I feel sure there is no man on the Saskatchewan can do
more than you."

Pepin drew himself up to his full height, smiled
complacently, and stroked his black moustache. His dark
eyes twinkled as he turned to gaze encouragingly at
Antoine, who with his tongue out was seated on his hind
quarters, watching him meditatively.

"Mam'selle has spoken the truth. I would be sorry to be
like other men--particularly your Pasmore"--he grinned
impishly as he saw the indignation on Dorothy's face--"but
that is not the thing. Pasmore is all right--in his own
way. He is even, what you might call, goodfellow. But
why is it you should fret for him? He is all right. And
even if anything should happen to him, it is not Pepin
that has the hard heart--he might even console Mam'selle.
He will not exactly promise that, but he may come to it.
Perhaps Mam'selle will remember in the house when the
good mother told how you would like to marry Pepin, and
he said you would not do. Well, Pepin has considered well
since then, and he has thought that if you tried to suit
him, you might"

"It is too great an honour, Pepin. If you expect any one
in this world to be as good and kind to you as your
mother, you will find you have made a great mistake.
Believe me, Pepin Quesnelle. I am a woman, and I know."

"_Bien! Oui_, the mother she is good, ver' good, and I
know there is right in what you say. So! Still, I think
you have improved since we first met, and the mother
likes you, so you need not think too much of that you
are not good enough, and if you should think better of
it--all may yet be well."

But Dorothy assured him that, seeing she had given her
word to Pasmore, and, moreover, seeing she loved him, it
would be a mistake to change her mind upon the subject.

This, however, was not exactly clear to Pepin, who could
not understand how any woman could be foolish enough to
stand in her own light when he, the great Pepin, who had
been so long the catch of the Saskatchewan, had graciously
signified his intention to accept her homage. Perhaps
she was one of those coy creatures who must have something
more than mere conventionalism put into an offer of
marriage, so under the circumstances it might be as well
for him to go through with the matter to the bitter end.

"Mam'selle," he said, "the honour Pepin does you is
stupendous; he is prepared to accept you--to make the
great sacrifice. He lays his heart at your feet--he
means you have laid your heart at his feet, and he stoops
to pick--"

"You'd better do nothing of the kind, Pepin Quesnelle.
It's all a mistake!--You utterly misunderstand--"

But Dorothy could say no more, for, despite her alarm,
the situation was too ludicrous for words. What further
complications might have arisen, it is difficult to say,
had not just then the astute Antoine come to the conclusion
that his master was developing some peculiar form of
madness and wanted a little brotherly attention. He
therefore came noiselessly behind him and with a show of
absent-mindedness poked his snout between his legs.

In another moment Pepin had landed on his back on top of
his four-footed friend, wherefrom he rolled helplessly
to earth. Dorothy ran forward to help him up, but the
dwarf could not see her proffered hand now--it was
Antoine he had to do business with. He was already creeping
on all-fours towards the interrupter. Dorothy's heart
was in her mouth when Pepin, with an unexpected movement,
threw his arms round the bear's neck and proceeded to
force its jaws apart with his powerful hands. He had no
twigs or old boots handy, but he meant to try the teeth
in its inside by administering earth or young rocks or
anything of a nature that could not exactly be called
nourishing. To add to the confusion, the Indian girl
fearful that something terrible was about to happen, at
once began to indulge in a weird uproar.

What would have happened it is difficult to say had not
their attention been suddenly claimed by a couple of
shots which rang out from the direction of the gorge.
Pepin released his hold on Antoine, and that resourceful
creature took the opportunity of revenging himself by
picking up his master's hat and trotting off with it in
his mouth. He meant to put it where Pepin intended to
put the little rocks.




CHAPTER XXVI

A BOLD BID FOR LIBERTY

It was midnight, and Poundmaker's prisoners, Douglas,
Pasmore, Jacques, and Rory, were lying in their tepee
under the charge of their armed guards. They knew the
latter were asleep, and in answer to some proposition
that Rory had just whispered to Jacques, the latter said--

"So, that is so. Keel him not, but to make that he cry
not. The knife to the throat, not to cut, but to silence,
that is the thing."

"S-sh! or by the powers it's your throat the knife'll be
at. Now, you to the man at your feet, and I'll to the
man beyant... Ow, slape, ye gory babes!"

If the wind had not been whistling round the tepees just
then, causing some of the loosely-laced hides to flap
spasmodically, it is extremely unlikely that either of
the two men would have ventured even to whisper. But the
tepee was dark, and Rory had managed to tell his
fellow-prisoners that, if they wanted to put their
much-discussed scheme of overcoming their guards and
making their escape into execution, now was their time.
They might never have such another chance. Rory, by reason
of his experience of such matters in the past, had insisted
on leading off with the work. He had also intimated his
intention of securing the arms of some of the other
Indians after their guards had been overpowered.

Rory rolled over on his right side and looked at the
Indians. He could only see two dark, prostrate forms
outlined blackly against the grey of the doorway. Luckily
the moon was rising, and that would somewhat assist their
movements.

One of the Indians turned over and drew a long, throaty
breath. He had indeed been asleep, and perhaps he was
going to awake. The thought of the contingency was too
much for the backwoodsman. He crawled forward as stealthily
as a panther, and next moment one sinewy hand was on the
Indian's throat, the other was across the mouth, and a
knee was planted on his chest Simultaneously Jacques was
on top of the other Indian; Pasmore and Douglas jumped
to their feet. In less time than it takes to write it,
the hands of the Indians were secured behind their backs,
gags were placed upon their mouths, their fire-arms and
knives were secured, and the latter were flashed before
their eyes. They were told that if they remained still
no harm would come to them, but if they showed the
slightest intention of alarming the camp their earthly
careers would be speedily closed. Neither of them being
prepared to die, they lay still, like sensible redskins.
Then Rory left the tepee and in two minutes more returned
with two rifles, which he had managed to purloin in some
mysterious way.

Pasmore took the lead, then came Rory, and immediately
after him Douglas and Jacques.

It was a miserable mongrel of an Indian dog that
precipitated matters. They came full upon it as it stood
close to a Red River cart, with cocked ears and tail in
air. The inopportune brute threw up its sharp snout and
gave tongue to a series of weird, discordant yelps after
the manner of dogs which are half coyotes.

"Come on!" cried Pasmore, "we've got to run for it now.
Let's make a bee-line straight up the valley!"

With rifles at the ready they rushed between the tepees.
It was run for it now with a vengeance. Next moment the
startled Indians came pouring out of their lodges. Red
spurts of fire flashed out in all directions, and the
deafening roar of antiquated weapons made night hideous.
Luckily for the escaping party they had cleared the
encampment, so the result was that the Indians, imagining
that they were being attacked by the Blackfeet or the
British, at once began to blaze away indiscriminately.
The results were disastrous to small groups of their own
people who were foolish enough to leave their doorways.
It would have been music in the ears of the fleeing ones
had not three or four shots whizzed perilously close to
their heads, thus somewhat interfering with their
appreciation of the _contretemps_.

But their detection was inevitable. Before they had gone
two hundred yards a score of angry redskins were at their
heels. It seemed a futile race, for the Indians numbered
some hundreds, and it was a moral certainty it could be
only a question of time before they were run down. They
knew that under the circumstances there would be no
prisoners taken. It was not long before the pace began
to tell on them.

"I'm afraid I'm played out," gasped Douglas, "go on, my
friends, for I can't go any farther. I'll be able to keep
them back for a few minutes while you make your way up
the valley. Now then, good-bye, and get on!"

He plumped down behind a rock, and waited for the advancing
foe.

Pasmore caught him by the arm and dragged him to his
feet. The others had stopped also. It was not likely they
were going to allow their friend and master to sacrifice
himself in such a fashion.

"Let's make up this ravine, sir," cried Pasmore. "Come,
give me your arm; we may be able to fool them yet. There's
lots of big rocks lying about that will be good cover.
There's no man going to be left behind this trip."

High walls of clay rose up on either side, so that at
least the Indians could not outflank them. At first the
latter, thinking that the troublesome escapers were
effectually cornered, essayed an injudicious rush in upon
them, but the result was a volley that dropped three and
made the remainder seek convenient rocks. Taking what
cover they could the white men retired up the narrow
valley. It was becoming lighter now, and they could
distinctly see the skulking, shadowy forms of the redskins
as they stole from rock to rock. Suddenly they made a
discovery that filled them with consternation. They had
come to the end of the valley and were literally in a
_cul-de-sac!_ They were indeed caught like rats in a
trap.

"I'm afraid we're cornered," exclaimed Douglas, "but
we've got some powder and shot left yet."

"Yes," remarked Pasmore, "we'll keep them off as long as
we can. I can't understand why the troops are not following
those fellows up. There's no getting out of this, I
fear,"--he looked at the crescent of unscalable cliff--"but
I don't believe in throwing up the sponge. I've always
found that when things seemed at their worst they were
just on the mend."

He did not say that there was a very powerful incentive
in his heart just then that in itself was more than
sufficient to make him cling to life. It was the thought
of Dorothy.

Half-an-hour more and the Indians had crawled up to within
fifty yards, and might rush in upon them at any moment,
and then all would be over. As yet, thanks to their
excellent cover, none of the little party had been wounded,
though the redskins had suffered severely. There were
few words spoken now; only four determined men waited
courageously for the end. And then something happened
that paled their cheeks, causing them to look at one
another with startled, questioning eyes. There was a
growing fusillade of rifle fire over their heads and the
sound of British cheers!

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Douglas. "It's the troops at last
They've come up overnight to attack the camp, and they
haven't come a minute too soon."

"So, that is so," said Jacques, as he took deliberate
aim at his late enemies, who, realising the situation,
were scuttling in confusion down the ravine. "_Mais_, it
is the long road that knows not the turn."

But as for Pasmore, as on one occasion when he had been
snatched from the Valley of the Shadow, and realised how
beautiful was the blue between the columns of the pines,
he now saw the sweet face of a woman smiling on him
through the mists of the uncertain future.




CHAPTER XXVII

AN ONLY WAY

When Antoine the bear so far forgot himself as to interfere
in his master's affairs, he, as usual, had occasion for
after regret--Pepin saw to that.

The Indians seized their rifles and ran up the slope to
the narrow slit in the cliff that led to their eyrie,
and which on the other side looked out upon the
far-stretching prairie. Pepin, calling Antoine all the
unpleasant names he could think of, told him to follow,
and waddled uphill after the redskins as fast as his late
exertions and his short legs would allow him. The Indians
did not attempt to interfere with his movements. Once
there, he immediately saw the reason of the interruption.
Hurriedly retiring down the hill were three or four men,
but whether whites or breeds it was difficult to determine.
He rather thought he recognised one burly form, and
determined to make sure of the fact that very night. He
thought, however, it was quite excusable for any small
party to retire. Twenty men could have been picked off
by one before they got half-way up. It was as well for
the strangers that the Indians had opened fire so soon,
otherwise some of them might have been left behind.

That night Pepin disappeared without saying a word to
any one. The strange thing was that none of the Indians
saw him go. Two days passed and there was no sign or
trace of him. On the afternoon of the third day, when
the two Indians on guard at the entrance of the Pass were
busily engaged in quarrelling over some sort of rodent,
nearly as large as a rat, Pepin suddenly rose up before
them as if from the earth. They flattened themselves
against the sides of the cliff in order to allow him and
Antoine to continue their royal progress.

Pepin sought out Dorothy. She was at her usual place on
the edge of the precipice that looked down upon the deep,
divided channels of the great river. She turned on
hearing the deep breathing of Pepin and the shambling of
Antoine as they passed over some loose gravel behind her.
She rose to her feet with a little cry of welcome. There
was something in the dwarfs face that spoke of a settled
purpose and hope. Their late awkward meeting was quite
forgotten.

There was a by no means unkindly look on the dwarfs face
as he seated himself beside Dorothy, and told her how he
had slipped out of the Indian camp unobserved three nights
before, and how, going back to Croisettes down the river,
where he had left his mother, he had fallen in with her
friends, who had been rescued by British troops from
Poundmaker's clutches and sent to stay there out of harm's
way while the soldiers pursued the scattered and flying
Indians. Pepin having told them that Dorothy was for the
time being safe, though in Jumping Frog's hands, they of
course wanted to start out at once to rescue her, but
that was promptly negatived by Pepin. Such an attempt
might only precipitate her fate. It had come to his ears
that Poundmaker's scattered band was at that very moment
making back to the strange hiding-place in the cliff,
and that as it would be impossible for them--Douglas and
party--to force the position, they must get Dorothy away
by strategy. He had been to that wild place years before.
There was a steep footpath at the extreme western end,
close to the cliff, which led directly down to the water's
edge. If a canoe could be brought overland on the other
side of the river to that spot, and hidden there, it
would be possible for him and Dorothy to get into it and
escape. They could drift down with the current and land
just above Croisettes. They would, however, have to take
care to get into the proper channel, as one of them was
a certain death-trap. It led through a horrible narrow
canyon, which for some considerable distance was nothing
more than a subterraneous passage. There were rapids in
it, through which nothing could hope to pass in safety.
To be brief, the canoe had been taken to the desired
spot, but Pepin had been enjoined not to resort to it
unless things became desperate. Jacques and Rory had gone
off in search of the British troops, while Douglas and
Pasmore remained where they were in case they would be
required.

Dorothy was jubilant over the scheme and would have
started off at once, could she have got her own way, but
Pepin told her she must retire as usual to her tepee,
where he would come for her if necessity arose.

One hour before dawn and a hundred horrible, pealing
echoes rang out from the mouth of the Pass. The British
had attacked without considering what results might follow
their precipitancy. In point of fact, Bastien Lagrange,
the unstable breed, alarmed by Pepin's unpleasant
prognostications, had developed a sudden fit of loyalty
to the British, and gone off ostensibly to carry a message
to Poundmaker, while in reality he went to search for
the former in order that he might lead them to Dorothy's
prison. Hence the present attack.

Dorothy heard the firing and rose quietly from her couch
of skins. For five minutes she waited in a condition of
painful uncertainty as to the true state of affairs. Then
some one lifted aside the flap of the doorway and Pepin
entered with Antoine close at his heels. He was evidently
perturbed.

"Mam'selle, Mam'selle," he cried, "you must come with me
now. I have hear that Jumping Frog say something to two
of his cut-throats of redskins! Come quickly!"

Without any interruption the dwarf and the girl headed
down the gulley that sloped westward. It was terribly
rough travelling, and, but for following an old and
tortuous path, it would hardly have been possible to
steer clear of the rocks and undergrowth. Suddenly the
gully stopped abruptly on the brink of the terrace,
looking down which brought a thrill of terror to Dorothy's
heart. It was as if a great water-spout had burst on the
hillside and washed out for itself an almost precipitous
channel. A wan dawn-light was creeping on apace, and
Dorothy could see that it was at least six hundred feet
to the bottom of this appalling chute. Pepin muttered
something to himself as he regarded it.

"Have we to go down there?" Dorothy asked, with white
lips.

"So, that is so!" observed Pepin soberly. "If we go back
there is the death that is of hell. If we go on, there
is the death we know or the life which means your father
or your Pasmore for you, and the good mother and the home
for me. There is the canoe at the foot of this hill, and
those we have spoken of down the river at Croisettes. It
is for you to make up your mind and choose."

"Come, Pepin, let us go down," she cried.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

The dwarf seized her hand, and, stepping over the brink,
they began their perilous descent. They lay on their
sides, feet downwards, and at once the loose sand and
fine pebbles began to move with their bodies. Down the
long slope they slid at a terrific pace that fairly took
their breath away. To Dorothy it was as if she were
falling from an immense height. The earth rushed past
her, and for one horrible moment she feared she was losing
her senses. It was a nightmare in which she was tumbling
headlong from some dizzy cliff, knowing that she would
be dashed to pieces at its foot.

"Courage, my dear."

It was Pepin's voice that brought her to her senses.
She felt the grasp of his strong hand upon her arm. Soon
she became conscious that their rocket-like flight was
somewhat checked, and noted the reason. Pepin who lay
on his back, had got his long stick wedged under his
arms, and, with the weight of his body practically upon
it, made it serve as a drag on their progress. Dorothy
felt as if her clothes must be brushed from her body.
She hardly dared look down to see how much of the fearful
journey there was yet to accomplish. Suddenly the sand
and gravel became of a heavier nature. Their pace slackened;
Pepin threw all his weight on to the stick, and they
pulled up. Dorothy saw that they were now about half-way
down--they must have dropped about three hundred feet in
a matter of seconds. Then something that to Dorothy seemed
to presage the end of all things happened. There was a
roar as of thunder over their heads. Looking up as they
still lay prone they beheld a terrifying spectacle. A
huge rock was bounding down upon them from the heights
above. It gathered force as it came, rising high in the
air in a series of wild leaps. _Debris_ and dust marked
its path. It set other stones in motion, and the noise
was as if a 15-pounder and a Vicker's Maxim gun were
playing a duet. For the moment a species of panic seized
Dorothy, but Pepin retained his presence of mind.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "It is that cut-throat and blockhead,
Jumping Frog, who has been throw down that stone! But
what need to worry! Either it will squeeze us like to
the jelly-fish or the flat-fish, or it will jump over
our heads and do no harm--"

He pressed her to earth with one strong hand as the great
rock struck the ground a few feet short of them and
bounded over their heads. A warm, sulphurous odour came
from the place of concussion. An avalanche of small
stones rattled all around them. It was a narrow escape
truly, and the very thought of it almost turned Dorothy
sick. She saw the rock ricochet down the steep slope and
plunge with a mighty splash into the blue waters far
below.

How they got to the bottom Dorothy was never able to
determine. She only knew that when she got there her
boots were torn to pieces, and any respectable dealer in
rags would hardly have demeaned himself by bidding for
her clothes. Pepin was a curious sight, for his garments
looked like so many tattered signals of distress.

The two found themselves in a great gloomy canyon with
frowning sides and a broad, leaden-hued river surging at
its foot.

But the canoe, where was it? Had it been sunk by the rock
from above? If so, they had absolutely no hope of escape.

But Pepin's sharp eyes saw it riding securely in a little
bay under a jutting rock. Dorothy and he hurried down to
it. There was a narrow strip of sand, and the water was
shallow just there. The painter was wound round a sharp
rock, and they pulled the canoe to them. Just at that
moment a shower of rocks and _debris_ passed within a
few feet of them and plunged into the water, throwing up
a snow-white geyser.

"Jump in, my dear," cried Pepin, "we will escape them
yet, and that fool of a Jumping Frog will swing at the
end of a long rope or die like a coyote with a bullet
through his stupid head."

Dorothy got in, and Pepin rolled in bodily after her.
He seized the paddle, seated himself near the bow, and
dipped his blade into the eddying flood. "Now then,
Mam'selle, have the big heart of courage and the good
God will help. One, two!"

The canoe shot out into the stream. Like a child's paper
boat or a withered leaf it was caught up and whirled
away. There was a look of exultation on the dwarfs face;
his dark eyes flashed with excitement.

"Courage, my dear!" he cried again. "Move not, and do
not be afraid. Think of the good father and the sweetheart
who will meet you at the Croisettes lower down. Think of
them, dear heart, the father and the lover!"

Dorothy did think, and breathed a prayer that God would
nerve the arm of Pepin and give them both faith and
courage.

But the river was in flood, and the current rushed like
a mill-race. Dorothy fairly held her breath as the canoe
rode over the surging waters. The river seemed to narrow,
and great black walls of rock wet with spray and streaked
with patches of orange and green closed in upon them.
They came to a bend where the water roared and boiled
angrily, its surface being broken with great blue
silver-crested furrows. Suddenly Pepin uttered a strange,
hoarse cry. There had been an immense landslide, and the
entire channel had been altered. Right in their path lay
a broad whirlpool. Pepin paddled for dear life, while
the perspiration stood out in beads upon his forehead.
His face was set and there was a strained look in his
eyes. Dorothy clasped her hands, praying aloud, but
uttering no word of fear.

"Courage, courage," Pepin cried. "The good Lord will not
forsake. Courage!"

The muscles stood out like knots on his great arms. His
body inclined forward and his paddle flashed and dipped
with lightning, unerring strokes.

The canoe leapt out of the water, and then shot out of
that swirling, awful ring into the headlong stream again.

"Houp-la, Hooray!" cried Pepin. "Thanks be to the good
God! Courage, _mon ami!_"

And then the words died on his lips, and Dorothy perceived
a sickly grey overspread his face as he stared ahead.
She looked and saw a great mass of rock right in the
centre of the stream, as if a portion of the cliff had
fallen into it, dividing the passage. Pepin, who had
somewhat relaxed his efforts, now began to ply his paddle
again with redoubled vigour. His hair stood on end, the
veins swelled on his forehead, and his body was hunched
forward in a grotesque fashion. Once he turned and,
looking swiftly over his shoulder, cried something to
Dorothy. But the thundering of the waters was now so
great that his voice was drowned. The canoe was heading
straight for the rock, as an arrow speeds from the bow.
Dorothy closed her eyes and prayed. There was a lurch,
the canoe heeled over until the water poured in, she
opened her eyes and clung to the sides for dear life,
and then it shot past the menacing death, just missing
it by a hand's breadth.

But what was the matter with the river? It had contracted
until it was not more than twenty yards in width. It
flowed between smooth slimy walls of rock, the vasty
heights of which shut out the light of coming day. There
was no roaring now, only the rapid, deep, tremulous flow
of the sea-green waters. Dorothy looked upwards, but
all she could see was the black, pitiless cliffs, and a
narrow ribbon of sky. Pepin had ceased to ply his paddle,
and was gazing fixedly down stream. A presentiment that
something was wrong took possession of Dorothy. When the
dwarf turned round, and she saw the look of pity for her
upon his face, she knew he had something ghastly to tell.
His expression was not that of fear; it was that of one
who, seeing death ahead, is not afraid for himself, but
is strangely apprehensive about breaking the news to
another. And all the time the thin ribbon of sky was
getting narrower.

The girl looked at the dwarf keenly.

"Pepin Quesnelle," she said, "you have been a good, dear
friend to me, and now you have lost your life in trying
to save mine--"

"Pardon, Mam'selle, my dear, what is it you know? You
say we go for to meet the death. How you know that, eh?
What?"

Despite the tragedy of the situation, and the great pity
for her that filled his heart, he would not have been
Pepin had he not posed as the _petit maitre_ in this the
hour of the shadow.

She pointed to the great black archway looming up ahead
under which their canoe must shoot in another minute. It
was the dread subterranean passage, which meant for them
the end of all things. It was a tragic ending to all her
hopes and dreams, the trials and the triumphs of her
young life. It was, indeed, bitter to think that just
when love, the crowning experience of womanhood, had come
to her, its sweetness should have been untasted. Even
the lover's kiss--that seal upon the compact of souls--had
been denied her. Her fate had been a hard one, but Dorothy
was no fair-weather Christian. Was it not a great triumph
that in the dark end she should have bowed to the higher
will, and been strong? And her love, if it had experienced
no earthly close, might it not live again in the mysterious
Hereafter? She thanked God for the comfort of the thought.
She had been face to face with death before, but now here
surely was the end. She would be brave and true to all
that was best and truest in her, and she felt that somehow
those who were left behind must know.

The dwarf faced her, and his hands were clasped as in
prayer. His face was transfigured. There was no fear
there--only a look of trust in a higher power, and of
compassion.

"Pepin," cried Dorothy, "you have been a good, dear friend
to me, and I want to thank you before--"

"Bah !" interrupted the dwarf. "What foolishness is it
you will talk about thanks! But, my dear, I will say this
to you now, although you are a woman, there is no one in
this wide world--save, of course, the good mother--that
I would more gladly have laid down my life to serve than
you! I am sure your Pasmore would forgive me if he heard
that Good-bye, my dear child, and if it is the Lord's
will that together we go to knock at the gates of the
great Beyond, then I will thank Heaven that I have been
sent in such good company. Now, let us thank the good
God that He has put the love of Him in our hearts."

And then the darkness swallowed them up.

Back from the land of dreams and shadows--back from the
Valley of the Shadow and the realms of unconsciousness.

Dorothy opened her eyes. At first she could see nothing.
Then there fell upon her view the shadowy form of a human
figure bending over her, and a slimy roof of rock that
seemed to rush past at racehorse speed. It seemed to grow
lighter. The canoe swayed; she heard the rush of water;
then there was darkness again.

It was the splash of cold water on her face from a little
wave that dashed over the side of the canoe that roused
her. She opened her eyes. In the bow she could see Pepin
kneeling; his hands were clasped before him; his deep
voice ran above the surge of the current, and she knew
that he was praying aloud.

The roof over her head seemed to recede. It grew higher.
Pepin turned and seized the paddle. He dipped it into
the water and headed the canoe into the centre of the
stream.

"Mam'selle, my dear," he cried, "the good God has heard
our prayer. He has guided us through. Have heart of
courage, and all will be well."

Dorothy raised herself on to her hands and knees. It was
as if she had been dead and had come to life again. The
stream opened out. Suddenly there came a break in the
roof.

"Courage, _mon ami!_" cried Pepin, and he was just in
time to turn them from a rock that threatened destruction.

Then all at once they shot out into the great isle-studded
bosom of the broad river, and the sweet sunshine of the
coming day.

Half-an-hour later, and the canoe was gliding past the
banks where the ash and the wolf-willow grew, and the
great cliffs were left behind. They knew that they were
safe, and in their hearts was thanksgiving. Suddenly
Pepin cried--

"Ah, Mam'selle, you Douglas female, look--don't you see
it? There it is--Croisettes, and look--look, there is
the good mother, and your father, and there your Pasmore,
your pudding-head, Pasmore! Look, they run. Do not you
see them?"

But Dorothy could not see, for her eyes were full of
tears--like Pepin's.


END













End of Project Gutenberg's The Rising of the Red Man, by John Mackie