"Sometimes I eat with the sergeants' mess," Mac said. "But generally I
camp with 'Bat' Perkins when I drop in here. Bat's an ex-stock-hand like
ourselves, and we'll be as welcome as payday. And he'll know if Lyn
Rowan has come to Walsh."

I wasn't in shape, financially, to have any choice in the matter of a
stopping-place. Forty or fifty dollars of expense money covered the
loose cash in my pockets when I left Walsh for Benton; and, while I may
have neglected to mention the fact, those two coin-collectors didn't
overlook the small change when they held me up for La Pere's roll. There
was a sort of sheebang--you couldn't call it a hotel if you had any
regard for the truth--on the outskirts of Walsh, for the accommodation
of wayfarers without a camp-outfit, but most of the time you couldn't
get anything fit to eat there. So I was mighty glad to hear about Bat
Perkins.




CHAPTER VII.

THIRTY DAYS IN IRONS!


It transpired, however, that before we reached Bat Perkins' cabin Mac
got an unexpected answer to one of the questions he intended to ask. As
we turned the corner of a rambling log house, which, from its
pretentiousness, I judged must house some Mounted Police dignitary, we
came face to face with a tall, keen-featured man in Police uniform, and