All day long the blizzard had raged, in one continuous squalling moaning
roar--the fine-spun snow swirling and drifting about the
barrack-buildings and grounds of the old Mounted Police Post of L.
Division. Whirraru!-ee!--thrumm-mm! hummed the biting nor'easter through
the cross-tree rigging of the towering flag-pole in the centre of the
wind-swept square, while the slapping flag-halyards kept up an infernal
"devil's tattoo." With snow-bound roof from which hung huge icicles,
like walrus-tusks, the big main building loomed up, ghostly and
indistinct, amidst the whirling, white-wreathed world, save where, from
the lighted windows broad streamers of radiance stabbed the surrounding
gloom; reflecting the driving snow-spume like dust-motes dancing in a
sunbeam.

Enveloped in snow-drifts and barely visible in the uncertain light there
clustered about the central structure the long, low-lying guard-room,
stables, quartermaster's store, and several smaller adjacent buildings
comprising "The Barracks." It was a bitter February night in South
Alberta.

From the vicinity of the guard-room the muffled-up figure of a man, with
head down against the driving blizzard, padded noiselessly with
moccasined feet up the pathway leading to the main building. Soon
reaching his destination, he dived hastily through the double storm-doors
of the middle entrance into the passage, and banged them to.

Flanking him on either side, in welcome contrast to the bitter world
outside, he beheld the all-familiar sight of two inviting portals, each
radiating light, warmth, and good fellowship--the one on his right hand