Smith bit off a huge chew of tobacco, while he digested MacRae's
warning. Then he looked up with a smile that broadened to a grin.
"You're all right," he said cheerfully. "I like your style. If I get the
worst of the deal, I won't holler. So-long!"




CHAPTER III.

BIRDS OF PREY.


Once clear of the buffalo-hunters' camp, MacRae and I paired off and
speedily began to compare notes, where we had been, what we had done,
how the world had used us in the five years since we had seen each other
last. And although we gabbled freely enough, MacRae avoided all mention
of the persons of whom I most wished to hear. I didn't press him, for I
knew that something out of the common must have happened, else he would
not have been wearing the Queen's scarlet, and I didn't care to bring up
a subject that might prove a sore one with him. But men we had known and
trails we had followed furnished us plenty of grist for the
conversational mill. Our talk ranged from the Panhandle to the Canada
line, while our horses jogged steadily southward.

Dark came down on the four of us as we topped Manyberries Ridge, and
seven or eight miles of rolling prairie still lay between us and
Pend d' Oreille. If Mac had been alone he would have made the post by
sundown, for the Mounted Police rode picked horses, the best money could