d' Oreille with our backs to a sun that was lazily clearing the
hill-tops, did MacRae and I have an opportunity to unburden our souls.
When we were fairly under way in the direction of Writing-Stone, Hicks
and Gregory--the breed scout--lagged fifty or sixty yards behind, and
MacRae turned in his saddle and gave me a queer sort of look.

"I wasn't joking last night when I told Goodell that this was something
of a forlorn hope," he said. "Are you ready to take a chance on getting
your throat cut or being shot in the back, Sarge?"

I stared at him a second. It was certainly an astounding question,
coming from that source--more like the language of the villain in a
howling melodrama than a cold-blooded inquiry that called for a serious
answer. But he was looking at me soberly enough; and he wasn't in the
habit of saying startling things, unless there was a fairly solid basis
of truth in them. He was the last man in the world to accuse of saying
or doing anything merely for the sake of effect.

"That depends," I returned. "Why?"

"Because if we find what we're going after that's the sort of formation
we may have to buck against until we get that stuff to Walsh," he
replied coolly. "Beautiful prospect, eh? I reckon you'll understand
better if I tell you how it came about.

"The day you left, Lessard had me up on the carpet again. When he got
through cross-questioning me, he considered a while, and finally said
that under the circumstances he felt that losing my stripes would be
punishment enough for the rank insubordination I'd been guilty of, and
he would therefore revoke the thirty-day sentence. I pricked up my ears