CHAPTER I

THE TRAIL-RUNNER


High up on the hillside in the midst of a rugged group of jack pines the
Union Jack shook out its folds gallantly in the breeze that swept down
the Kicking Horse Pass. That gallant flag marked the headquarters of
Superintendent Strong, of the North West Mounted Police, whose special
duty it was to preserve law and order along the construction line of the
Canadian Pacific Railway Company, now pushed west some scores of miles.

Along the tote-road, which ran parallel to the steel, a man, dark of
skin, slight but wiry, came running, his hard panting, his streaming
face, his open mouth proclaiming his exhaustion. At a little trail that
led to the left he paused, noted its course toward the flaunting flag,
turned into it, then struggled up the rocky hillside till he came to the
wooden shack, with a deep porch running round it, and surrounded by
a rustic fence which enclosed a garden whose neatness illustrated a
characteristic of the British soldier. The runner passed in through the
gate and up the little gravel walk and began to ascend the steps.

"Halt!" A quick sharp voice arrested him. "What do you want here?" From
the side of the shack an orderly appeared, neat, trim and dandified in
appearance, from his polished boots to his wide cowboy hat.

"Beeg Chief," panted the runner. "Me--see--beeg Chief--queeck."

The orderly looked him over and hesitated.