"We appear to have got considerably the worst of this transaction," I
observed. "The La Pere outfit is shy something like ten thousand
dollars--we're afoot, minus everything but cigarette material. It's a
wonder they didn't take that, too. A damn good stroke of business, all
right," I finished, feeling mighty sore at myself. When it was too late,
I could think of half a dozen ways we might have avoided getting held
up.

"I got you into it, too," MacRae said calmly. "But don't get excited and
run on the rope this early in the game, Sarge; you'll only throw
yourself. Brace up. We've been in worse holes before." Never a word of
what it might mean to him; never even hinted that the high moguls at
Fort Walsh were more than likely to put him on the rack for letting any
such lawless work be carried out successfully, in his own district. A
Mounted Policeman can make no excuses for letting a tough customer slip
through his fingers; the only way he can escape censure is to be brought
in feet first.

He motioned to the poor devil lying by the fire.

"Look at him, Sarge," he went on, in a different tone. "You always had a
pretty good memory for faces. So have I, for that matter, but--go
ahead--look."

I bent over the man, looked closely at the still features, dropped on
one knee and turned his face toward the firelight to make sure. I
recognized him instantly, and I knew that MacRae had no doubts of his
identity, for each of us had broken bread and slept in the same blankets
with that quiet figure.