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I'll unload and run back for you." The Montanan found a good camp-site, dumped the supplies, and left Cuffy as a guard. With the other dogs he drove back and met the officer. Beresford was still limping doggedly forward. Every step sent a shoot of pain through him, but he set his teeth and kept moving. None the less he was glad to see the empty sled. He tumbled on and let the others do the work.
Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamed hard and chill. He would see about that. "They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at Sweet Water Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in the girl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd better hurry." The constable swung toward the Montanan. His eyes bored into those of the prisoner.
"Don't get up," said Morse. "You've been hurt." "Hurt?" Beresford's puzzled gaze wandered to the prisoner. A flash of understanding lit it. "He asked me to light his pipe and when I turned he hit me with a club," the battered man whispered. "About how I figured it." "Afraid I'm done in." "Not yet, old pal. We'll make a fight for it," the Montanan answered. "I'm sick." The soldier's head sank down.
Whaley sat up, groaned, and pressed his hands upon the abdomen at the point where he had been struck. The reddish-brown glint in the eyes of Morse advertised the cold rage of the Montanan. He caught the gambler by the collar and pulled him to his feet. "Get out, you yellow wolf!" he repeated in a low, savage voice. The white-faced trader was still wobbly on his feet.
Under bristling eyebrows he shot a swift look at this self-assured youngster. He had noticed that men matured at an early age on the frontier. The school of emergency developed them fast. But Morse struck him as more competent even than the other boyish plainsmen he had met. "Will you be responsible for him?" The Montanan came to scratch reluctantly.
It showed in the steady eyes set wide in the tanned face, in the carriage of the close-cropped, curly head, in the spring of the step. The Montanan recognized in him a kinship of dynamic force. "Just what would I be doing?" the whiskey-runner asked, smiling. Beresford met his smile. "I fancy I'll find that out pretty soon. Your revolver, please." He held out his hand, palm up.
He could guess the dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books, without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It must have been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the Canadian's blithe joy in living. "Get him?" the Montanan asked. The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always brought back those they were sent for.
Ten miles nearer the railroad which at that was not what even a Montanan would call close he had that day established headquarters and was holding a bunch of saddle horses pending the arrival of help. He rode out on the trail thoughtfully, a bit surprised that he had not found the situation more amusing.
The Montanan was on parole, so that for the moment at least their relations were forgotten. "After the buffalo what?" asked the American. "The end of the Indian is that what it means? And desolation on the plains. Nobody left but the Hudson's Bay Company trappers, d'you reckon?" The Canadian answered in one word. "Cattle." "Some, maybe," Morse assented.
Morse, evidently trying to regain his equilibrium, plunged wildly at him and sent him ploughing into the willows. The Montanan landed heavily on top, pinned him down, and smothered him. The scarlet coat was a center of barrel hoops, bushes, staves, and wildly jerking arms and legs. Morse made heroic efforts to untangle himself from the clutter.
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