The Sergeant thrust his hand aside, and said sharply: "Whin I take y'r
hand, Little Hammer, it'll be to put a grip an y'r wrists that'll stay
there till y'are in quarters out of which y'll come nayther winter nor
summer. Put that in y'r pipe and smoke it, y' scamp!"

Little Hammer had a bad time at the Post that night. Lounging half-
breeds reviled him; the H. B. C. officials rebuked him; and travellers
who were coming and going shared in the derision, as foolish people do
where one is brow-beaten by many. At last a trapper entered, whom
seeing, Little Hammer drew his blanket up about his head. The trapper
sat down very near Little Hammer, and began to smoke. He laid his plug-
tabac and his knife on the counter beside him. Little Hammer reached
over and took the knife, putting it swiftly within his blanket. The
trapper saw the act, and, turning sharply on the Indian, called him a
thief. Little Hammer chuckled strangely and said nothing; but his eyes
peered sharply above the blanket. A laugh went round the store. In an
instant the trapper, with a loud oath, caught at the Indian's throat; but
as the blanket dropped back he gave a startled cry. There was the flash
of a knife, and he fell back dead. Little Hammer stood above him,
smiling, for a moment, and then, turning to Sergeant Gellatly, held
out his arms silently for the handcuffs.

The next day two men were lost on the prairies. One was Sergeant
Gellatly; the other was Little Hammer. The horses they rode travelled so
close that the leg of the Indian crowded the leg of the white man; and
the wilder the storm grew, the closer still they rode. A 'poudre' day,
with its steely air and fatal frost, was an ill thing in the world; but
these entangling blasts, these wild curtains of snow, were desolating
even unto death. The sun above was smothered; the earth beneath was
trackless; the compass stood for loss all round.