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