Chapter IV

Dr. Quick, Chairman and Commissioner of the Board of Health for Black Elk Territory, was a man with a wonderful sense of humour. Though plump and rosy, he did not look a jester. His face was always solemn and his twinkling grey eyes were so hidden by his huge round glasses that nothing could be read in them. Taking advantage of these facts, the doctor made his life one round of fun. He was one of the busiest men in Discovery City, working night and day and carrying almost all the burden of his department on his own shoulders; but he still found time for tricks and jokes. The doctor was an inexplicable enigma to those who did not know him. To his friends he was a perpetual delight and one of the cleverest practitioners in North America.

The doctor, being a shrewd man, knew the real thing when he saw it; hence his deep friendship for the Superintendent commanding at Discovery.

One night not long after the Rev. Mr. Northcote's return from Prospect, the doctor lingered on in Hector's quarters till the last of the guests had gone. Then he suddenly said, in his slow, solemn way:

"Adair, I'd a queer experience today—a joke. Last winter, at Nugget there was a fine big Yankee there, dying of pneumonia. Very far gone. I treated him. 'Doctor,' he says, 'if you're going to save me you'll have to be quick.' 'Quick?' said I. I'm always Quick!'" (The doctor's favourite pun.) "Well, he pulled through. He was grateful, the poor cuss. Early this evening, Adair, I saw that man again."

"Is that so?"

Hector wondered what was coming.

"Yes. I went into the Cash-In—no, not for a drink; to see a fellow lying upstairs with a broken leg, a man who can't be moved. Afterwards, on my way downstairs, a fearful specimen of human microbe held me up, asked for my money or my life. I've lots of money but only one life. Besides, he had a gun. So I obliged. One of the first holdups we've had in Discovery."

"Can you describe the man?"

"Yes. But I don't want him jailed. He's had his punishment. That's the joke. After the gentleman held me up, I returned to the office. When I got there, who should I see but my Yankee friend? Struck it rich this summer and is on his way home. Came in to make me a present of a beautiful nugget, in gratitude. We opened a convivial bottle and I told him my experience. 'Could you point the man out?' he asked. 'Come on, then. I'll get your money back.' 'I don't want the money,' I said. 'And he's armed.' 'Never mind. I want to get your roll for you. Don't worry. I was champion boxer at Yale.' So, to humour him, and expecting a little fun, I took him to the Cash-In, a good starting-point for our search. The human microbe was in the bar. Our Yankee friend called him outside—said he wanted to tell him a secret. Secret! Wow!" The doctor chuckled. "He got the human microbe's gun and then pounded him to a jelly. When the massacre was ended, the microbe handed over the roll and departed like a lamb. Strange, eh?"

"Very. But," Hector insisted, "we must take the man."

"Aw, Adair, he's had enough."

"No, he hasn't. Describe him, will you?"

The doctor looked reproachful.

"Adair, if I thought you'd do this I wouldn't have told you the story. But the King must be obeyed. He was a huge, broad-shouldered creature, with a beard and, strange to say, he had no nose. Why, do you know the gentleman?"

"Do I? That's No-nose Joe, one of Greasy Jones' men, I'm certain. Grown a beard, eh? I must see to this."

After a word with Forshaw, Sergeant Savage, at that moment patrolling the streets of Discovery, was sent for. The bulldog Sergeant appearing, he was given a description of the man and told to look for him at the Cash-In.

"And be quick!" said Hector.

"You may be quick, but you won't be Quick as I'd be," said the doctor.

"Don't worry, sir, I'll take him myself."

This to the doctor, whose joke had gone completely over the Sergeant's head.

For three-quarters of an hour, Hector and the doctor awaited the Sergeant's return at the office. At two a.m. precisely, enter a tableau:

Two solemn constables, one on each side of a battered wreck in hand-cuffs, like supporters to a battered shield; the wreck, clothes torn, face blue; Sergeant Savage, the bulldog, both eyes blackened, nose swollen, tunic torn up the back and spattered with gore. The Sergeant at his full height did not reach to the sagging shoulder of the wreck.

"Well?" said Hector.

The doctor's eyes twinkled but the Superintendent's were very stern.

The Sergeant saluted with a whisk and a clash of spurred heels.

"Sir——" said the Sergeant, "I proceeded direct to the Cash-In saloon; left the patrol outside; spotted the prisoner in a corner, drinking; arrested him. He drew a gun and pointed it at me, contrary to sections 105 and 109 of the Criminal Code. We struggled. Finally, I got the handcuffs on him and handed him over to the patrol. I regret to have to report, sir, that the following damage was done to Government and private property——"

Here the bulldog produced his notebook and read:

"'Tunic torn and blood-stained; three chairs smashed; twenty glasses smashed——' that was when we hit the bar, sir—'table smashed; wall bloodstained; panel of door smashed.' That's all, sir."

And the Sergeant closed his notebook and saluted with the utmost gravity.

"Well, it's the microbe, all right," said the doctor.

"Yes, and it's No-nose Joe!" said Hector.

Of himself he asked, "Now, how did he get through the pass? And what is he doing here?"

The secret service agents of the Police in Black Elk Territory were known only to one man—the Superintendent in command; and the reports they handed in he kept to himself. They came to him for orders, in the middle of the night, unseen by any other living soul. Of their chief's plans, they knew nothing. Each worked independently, without coming into contact with the rest.

One of the most trusted of Hector's agents was Perkins, the gambler of Regina and Qu'appelle, yet a different Perkins, reformed when Hector, returning from Arcady, had told him of his mother's death and shown him whither he was drifting. Perkins now devoted his knowledge of crime to the cause of Justice and was hardier, stronger, cleaner, altogether a better man.

A hint of wintry frost was in the air when Perkins came in one night from Prospect to report.

"Well, Perkins——" this from Hector—"have you watched Greasy Jones?"

"Sure have, sir. First thing, I got a job at the Joyland, a Prospect dance-hall. Greasy visits that place pretty frequent. An' I've got thick with him, sir. I always waits on him. He thinks I'm scart o' him, so he sen's for me—enjoys seein' me sweat fear, I guess."

"Good. And?"

"Well, sir, he's been following the usual line o' battle, murder an' sudden death. 'T'other night, sir, he an' his pardners was havin' a drink in a private room. Greasy had a drop on board. He was layin' on hot about the Police, 'cause he said you'd arrested an' put in jug one o' his main pushes—No-nose Joe."

"That's true. He didn't like the idea?"

"He didn't, sir. 'Pears he's scart Joe will let out some plan or other Greasy's got in his head."

"I see. Well, Perkins, No-nose hasn't had a word to say. I've tried everything, bar torture, and he won't open his mouth. I want to learn how he got through the pass and what he's doing here and in disguise—he's grown a beard, you know. But he won't talk."

"Would you like me to try an' find out from Greasy, sir?"

"Yes, if you can. But I don't want you shot. Last spring one of my best men was shot dead by Greasy's gang a few days after reporting here to me. It may have been accidental. Yet he hadn't learned much. He gave me useful information about Greasy but I doubt if it was worth his life."

"I'll be all right, sir. I'll be thick as thieves with Greasy soon. There's another thing you oughta know, sir. There's a lot o' feelin' runnin' against the Force. Shouldn't be surprised if they tries to rush the pass, or somethin'. It's not safe for even six policemen to be seen on the streets in Prospect now, sir—take it from me."

"I know that, Perkins. Any more meetings?"

"No, sir, but the guys at the theatres spout long spiels, all sayin' there oughta be a change in Black Elk Territory an' the yallah-legs should be swept away."

"They haven't counseled violence or said anything more about a change actually at hand?"

"Not since Greasy shot that actor 'bout three weeks ago, sir. Strange thing, that!"

"Very. Well, keep your eyes and ears open, Perkins. And stick to Greasy—tight. I may tell you, things are looking very serious here. We've had meetings demanding the Lieutenant-Governor's resignation and a clean sweep of everyone in power. They haven't threatened—but the Territory is rising to a turmoil. The other day, though, a miners' meeting at Nugget advised lynching the recorder. Mr. Cranbrook talked them into reason—a fine piece of diplomacy; but it all points to unrest. You report similar troubles from Prospect. Then again, I learn, recently, of several attempts to smuggle in large quantities of arms—started with a big nigger in the late summer—I'm speaking confidentially—and has continued intermittently ever since. It may mean nothing—or a great deal. Now, do all these things connect? And is Greasy in the game? That's what you must find out, Perkins."

"I'll stick to Greasy day an' night, sir."

"Good. And keep me posted. Mum's the word.

"Yes, sir. Good night."

III

Hopeful Pass lay gripped in the first big cold of the northern winter. Every lake, creek and river in Black Elk was frozen over. The miners had deserted their claims for town or retired into their shacks till spring. Travellers in the pass might be counted on one hand. The human tide, like the watery tide, had succumbed to the wintry clutch.

And yet the Mounted Police post was as active as in the days of the rush. Half the men were tramping up and down in the snow. Outside their big fur coats they wore their bandoliers, belts and revolvers, and each man carried his carbine, while young Inspector Gemmell, similarly equipped, was sitting on an open box of ammunition.

They were going to fight? They were—if necessary.

Gemmell, who had relieved Cranbrook at Nugget a short time before, had been advised by headquarters that an attempt might soon be made by the thugs of Prospect to rush the post on Hopeful Pass and gain admittance to the gold-fields. He was to avert this attempt by 'taking such steps as he deemed advisable'—(Let the boy run his own show!) and Gemmell, who included Hopeful Pass in his jurisdiction, had instantly taken long steps—in Hopeful Pass direction, since it was better that he should be on the scene of action himself.

To resist the advance, Gemmell had erected a barrier covering the approach to the post and had maintained a perpetual look-out in the pass a mile or two ahead. This lookout was on duty now.

From Prospect that morning had come word of an advance. Gemmell had thereupon turned out half his men, leaving the rest in comfort in the tent. Gemmell had also a Maxim in the tent but, as it was water-cooled, it was liable to freeze up if left for too long in the open.

If the thugs came up, Gemmell planned to emulate the Spartans of Thermopylae.

The pass must be held to the last.

He meant to hold it.

Meanwhile, he wished the thugs would 'get it over,' as he was sure his nose was freezing.

Gemmell's scouts suddenly appeared over the skyline a hundred yards away.

"Gang of two hundred, heavily armed, just come into sight, sir," the scouts reported on arrival.

"All right," said Gemmell. Then, to the men in the tent, "Turn out, you fellows!"

The fellows turned out. Gemmell mounted the Maxim in a conspicuous position, pointing down the pass. He stationed his reserve behind the barrier. The remainder of the men, six all told, he drew up in a line, across the pass.

Then, in a mist of descending flakes, they waited.

"If you'll pardon me, sir,"—Sergeant Kellett tactfully placed his superior knowledge and experience at his C.O.'s disposal—"I'd parley with them first."

"Yes, Sergeant," said Gemmell.

He wished his moustache was bigger.

An hour passed.

"Are you sure they're coming?" Gemmell asked the scouts.

A sudden roar, borne on the wind, supplied the answer and a crowd of men surged over the crest below.

All alone, Gemmell advanced to meet the crowd on the boundary-line, a stone's throw in front.

Two hundred?—a low estimate. There were at least three hundred in the crowd—ruffians all, and well armed, the dregs of Prospect, the toughest town on earth. Gemmell looked for Greasy Jones or his gang but saw none of them.

The crowd yelled with mingled passion and triumph when it saw Gemmell. He slung his carbine easily over his shoulder and unbuttoned the holster of his revolver. On the boundary-line he met the mob, face to face.

"Out o' the way!" roared the crowd—and halted.

"Sorry, but this is the boundary," replied Gemmell coolly. He was forced to raise his voice. "Behind me is Canadian territory. You can't pass!"

These remarks produced a storm of hoots, laughs and jeers. The crowd began to advance again, intending to sweep Gemmell aside.

On the very edge of Canadian territory the crowd halted again, checked by their leader, a desperate-looking villain, who waved significantly toward the line of Police.

"Well, what you got to say?"

Turning, when the mob had halted and had fallen into silence, the leader challenged Gemmell.

"My orders," shouted Gemmell, in return, "are to halt you at the boundary. I have a big force of men, and a Maxim gun, that could clean up this pass in half a minute. Now, I don't want trouble. I want you fellows to have some sense and go home."

The leader of the mob placed himself in front of Gemmell, feet wide apart, hands on hips, and looked him up and down. "Say, kid," he demanded, "who th' hell d'you think you are? Who told you to stop us law-abidin' citizens?"

"Her Majesty the Queen!" said Gemmell.

"Whoop!" shouted the man; and the crowd jeered.

"What th' hell right has Her Majesty got in Black Elk, anyhow?" went on the leader. "The Black Elk miners is the boys to run that country. An' they want us in. An' we're gain' in! See?"

He thrust his lowering face to within an inch of the Inspector's.

"Get your men an' your pop-gun out o' th' way!" the thug continued. "An' no one'll be hurt! Out o' th' way, you——!"

And he put out his hand to thrust Gemmell aside.

"Hard words!" smiled the Inspector.

Then he flicked the man across the mouth.

A shriek of anger rose from the crowd. The leader, his face crimson, whipped out a revolver and pointed it at Gemmell.

"Out o' th' way!" he roared.

"We're on Canadian soil. You've broken the law!"

With that, the Inspector dashed the thug's weapon aside and closed with him.

Sergeant Kellett, waiting with the line behind, saw the youngster struggling furiously, in a turmoil of snow, and the mob closing. Instantly, he doubled his men forward. A row of levelled carbines came suddenly to Gemmell's rescue.

"Stand back, you!" ordered Kellett hotly. "Or I'll open fire!" A roaring mass, the toughs swayed to and fro before that slender barrier. Between them, as on common ground, Gemmell and his antagonist rolled and struggled.

Sergeant Kellett whipped out his handcuffs, watching his chance to plunge into the fight.

But out of the scurry of snow came Gemmell, at that instant—smiling and on top! His face was lacerated, the tough kicking and clawing like a mad dog. Gemmell had pitched the revolver out of reach in the first struggle.

"Leave him, Sergeant!" he implored. "He's my meat!"

Then—click!—pulling a pair of hand-cuffs from his own pocket—the arrest was a fact accomplished.

To get back with their prisoner to the post was the work of a moment. The crowd, now lacking determined leadership, wavered. The arrest left them dazed.

"All ready?"

The machine-gun crew and the men at the barrier nodded.

The Inspector hailed the crowd.

"Get out!" he shouted. "Do you hear? The first man moving this way will mean the end of the lot of you! Remember my Maxim!"

Then both sides waited, facing each other, in intense silence.

This was the crisis. Which was it to be—a fight or a retreat?

"Don't fire, sir, till they're right on us!" whispered Kellett. "Never do, sir, never do!"

The mob gathered itself together, yelling. The Police maintained their ominous silence. Motionless, they faced the mob—twelve men against three hundred. The flag above them blew out gloriously in the breeze.

Suddenly the toughs charged.

Gemmell's face was marble, under dried streaks of blood. This, surely, was the end. Bullets whistled round them, the crowd opening fire as it advanced.

"Machine-gun, ready there!"

"Ready!"

The mob had forgotten the machine-gun. Every man heard that firm cry, "Machine-gun, ready there!" and the answer, "Ready!" Now they remembered. Quick as lightning, a mental picture flashed through them ... a picture of the pass, blocked with their bodies, dominated by a devil of brass and steel.

And the rush—melted away. Melted away!

The Police were left with their prisoner. The crowd went sullenly pouring back to Prospect in defeat.

Gemmell drew a deep breath. The tense line relaxed.

It was hard to believe the mob had given way, not on account of the carbines but simply and solely on account of the mere threat of the Maxim.

For the Maxim had been frozen up for the past twenty minutes.

"Bluffed 'em, by the Lord Harry!" said Gemmell.

Greasy Jones and Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., sat opposite each other in the little room wherein they had held their first conversation, months before.

On the stairs outside, Greasy Jones' spy, whom Northcote knew as Charlie, kept watch. Charlie had fulfilled his duty faithfully. Greasy was well aware that Welland had not 'squealed.'

"Look here," said Welland forcibly. "What are you kicking at? Haven't you been paid regularly? Isn't everything O.K.?"

The gangster started moodily at the candle flame.

"Don't misunderstand me, Molyneux," he said. "I ain't kickin'. But I do think things ain't goin' as good as they oughta have gone."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Welland impatiently. "What's the matter with them? Isn't Black Elk in a turmoil? Aren't the miners demanding the resignation of the Lieutenant-Governor and half the administration? Hasn't a petition as long as Hopeful Pass gone round calling for the transference of governing powers to the miners? Haven't we got more than enough arms in the country to overthrow the Police? Isn't every man in Black Elk ready to follow you as soon as you appear? Haven't you slipped in half your gang? And your talkers? Aren't the Police asleep? What more do you want?"

"Just listen to me a minute. When we first thought o' this thing, the idea was we was to make the first-comers sore about the others who came in later an' struck it rich first. Wasn't that so?"

"Yes," said Welland.

"Well, now we've got the whole country stirred up, not only the first-comers. An' that's dangerous. I mean, the yallah-legs is all the more liable to get on to what we're really tryin' to do."

"Now, don't be a fool, Greasy. The idea certainly was to stir up the first-comers; and we've done it, too. But I promised to help from my side. Well, I have. I got men all through the country to bribe the recorders and different government officials until the whole thing's just rotten with corruption. I got 'em to try to bribe the Police, too, but no luck so far. Never mind; the Territory's rotten. And the result? Why, everyone but the old prospectors and a few fools is on our side, instead of just the first-comers!"

"Where do the first-comers get in, then?"

"Why, I'll show you," said Welland. "We keep what we intend to do after the turn-over quiet. The Police think the whole country's against 'em. Then, when that's over, the first-comers and us—that is, you and your gang—we tell the rest, 'We're running this show now!' See? Then we put them in their places—quick!"

"That's what you once said me an' my gang 'ud do to the first-comers," said Greasy. "We was to get them stirred up only. Then we was to throw them down only. Now what do we do with 'em? Are they to be thrown down, too?"

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Welland. "They throw the others down. Then we throw them down. Is that clear?"

"A hell of a lot o' throwin' down!" muttered the mollified gangster. "But I guess I see. Has all that been kept hidden, though?"

"Certainly! None but your gang and a few men in with us know that we're going to smash the Government by force, if force is necessary. We've been preaching peace the whole time. Nor do they know that we're going to throw down the others when we're ready. See?"

"I guess I see," said Greasy again. "'Stead o' just a small crowd to scare the yallah-legs, we get everyone. And afterwards we gets our fling. That right?"

"Got it!"

"You're even slicker than I thought," the gangster remarked admiringly. "Say, I don't like the way the yallah-legs got No-nose. Suppose he squeals?"

"I know for a fact he hasn't squealed."

"You do?" asked the gangster quickly.

"Yes. He daren't. He knows what's coming. And he knows you'd kill him if you got at him and the scheme failed."

"That's so. Well, about these here arms. The yallah-legs has got most o' 'em. Don't they suspect nothin'?"

"Nobody knows what you're sending them through for, do they? Nor who's sending them? Nor where they go to?"

"No. They don't even know it's me sendin' 'em. They're told to leave 'em at a certain place in Nugget. Then O'Brien calls an' gets 'em an' stows 'em away. An' they stays stowed till wanted. An' O'Brien daren't squeal, 'cause I got him watched. An' he knows it."

"Well, what are you afraid of?"

"Just that the yallah-legs has smelt trouble."

"They haven't. And, anyway, they'd never connect these arms with you or with any big plan."

Greasy was satisfied—till he raised another point.

"I ain't got half my men I wants through the pass; not more'n twenty. An' it's gettin' harder all the time to get 'em through. An' we tried to rush the pass—that is, some o' the boys did, an' 'bout thirty o' my men behind, so's the yallah-legs wouldn't see 'em. An' what happened? Why that li'l squirt of an officer an' his twelve men wouldn't let 'em through—kep' 'em off with a bloody Maxim!"

Welland felt tempted to tell the gangster that the crowd had been bluffed. But he refrained.

"Why did you try it?" he demanded.

"Well, you remember you said we could try it if we weren't gettin' men through quick enough."

"Pah! None of the crowd had the guts to make a real charge."

"At a Maxim? They ain't crazy."

The gangster spat scornfully on the floor.

"Oh, never mind. We'll smuggle a few more through before we shoot."

The gangster grunted.

"Are you sure the yallah-legs is asleep?" he asked.

"Certain. But I'll find out again before you slip across the line. Anything else?"

"You bet!" Greasy sat up and looked fiercely at his companion. "How do I know you won't double-cross me yet? You—a Canadian M.P.?"

"My dear Greasy," said Welland, with an air of infinite patience. "Suppose I did? Couldn't you give away my part of the show—and ruin me?"

"I s'pose so," the gangster admitted. "But I ain't let on about it to anyone."

"Why not?" the politician enquired derisively.

"An' have you get to know it? Then you'd squeal on me sure!"

"That's right. So we understand each other!" Welland smiled.

This delightful pair most certainly possessed an amazing mutual understanding!

Followed a pause, while they lit cigars.

"Like to know what I've done?" the gangster asked. "Well, I've got all the Prospect toughs behind me—ready to rush in as soon as we let 'em from inside. My men are just hintin' to 'em quiet that the li'l old U.S. is goin' to back us later. Also, the same thing among the guys in Black Elk. That's bolsterin' 'em up. An' later, we'll tell it that it's so, for sure." Welland nodded. "Then—look here!"

From a corner the gangster produced a large bag. Emptying it, he revealed notepaper, stamps, rubber stamps, and a flag. He spread the smaller articles out on the table and held up the flag by the corners.

"Look!" he repeated.

Welland, eyebrows raised, complied.

The paper bore the device of a black elk's head, with the slogan, 'Liberty or Death' above it, below it the words, 'The Black Elk Republic,' and at one side, 'F.D. Jones, President.' The rubber stamps bore similar legends, with such captions as 'Board of Health' and 'Department of Justice.' The stamps were white, with the black elk's head and motto. The flag was also white, with the same device and the initials, 'B.E.R.'

"Splendid!" said Welland. "Splendid!"

He seemed struck with the assurance and determination which had caused these things to be prepared.

"Notice I'm president?" Greasy grinned.

"You bet! Why, this is fine! Real revolution—and no mistake about it!"

"Sure thing! Pretty fine, eh?"

"I—er—hope you were careful in having these things made, though," said Welland slowly, as an afterthought.

"Careful!" Greasy was scornful. "The flag was made by my woman. She's under my heel! She's made six. Everything else was made by men that I've got where I want, don't worry."

The gangster stowed his treasures away.

"When do you think we'd better spring it?" he enquired.

"Soon as the country's thoroughly tied up," said Welland. "Less than a month now, I guess—first heavy snow. Eh?"

The gangster nodded.

"You'll send me word?"

"Either that or come down and see you. It's getting hard for me to get away now. But trust me. Now, is there anything else?"

Greasy pondered.

"Oh, I was forgettin' to tell you I been tappin' the telegraph lines from Discovery to Prospect for the past week. An' I'll keep it up till we're ready."

"Why, you're a genius!" Welland cried. "I never thought of that. Anything important come through? You know, all the messages for Canada have to come down by that line."

"Yep, I know. Guess that's why I'm doin' it. I am a genius, I guess. No, nothin' much's come through yet. But, if there does, I'll know it."

"Fine. Well, that's all, eh? All right. Say, this is going to be great, Greasy! Shake!"

The two friends shook, mightily satisfied.

Hector, coming into his quarters one night, found awaiting him the first of his usual visitors—Welland.

"Cold night," said Hector cordially. "Glad to see you've stoked up the stove."

"Yes," said Welland. "Look at this."

He held up Hector's ink-bottle, placed on a table outside the immediate circle of the warmth. The ink was curdling into ice.

"I told Blythe to put the bottle on the stove," Hector said. "He's forgetful. Had a good trip?"

"Fine. Went to Prospect. I'm writing home my impressions, you know—have done for some time—and I thought I'd get acquainted with that hell-hole. Hadn't really time when I last visited it. I wanted to contrast it with Discovery City, thinking it would throw the wonderful order and quiet of Black Elk into strong relief."

"And?"

"Why, it's the finest contrast I ever clapped eyes on. Fact! This place is Paradise. But no wonder. Look at your men! Why, the way that kid Gemmell held the pass—it's marvellous!"

"I'd have flayed him if he'd let 'em through," said Hector grimly. "Still, it was a good piece of work."

"Things might be worse than they are here if a few of those swine got in."

"Yes. But there are none of that type here."

"None?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," Welland smiled. "If those Prospect toughs had a hand in the present unrest, for instance——"

"We'd be up against a big thing."

"Yes."

"But, as it is, there's a difference."

"Aren't you alarmed?"

"By the present situation? No."

"There's a lot of discontent," Welland reminded him. "And many tough characters. And they're armed."

"Yes. But they're sensible. They won't try violence."

Welland fingered his beard reflectively.

"Why are you so sure?" he asked.

"Well, I know positively they're not preaching violence. And I know their opinion of the Mounted Police."

"I see," said Welland slowly. "I see."

Just then Blythe put his head in.

"Dr. Quick's waitin' outside, sir.'

"Oh!" exclaimed Hector. "Tell him I'm coming. I go round the hospital every night with Quick, you know, Molyneux. Who's that with you in the next room, Blythe?"

"Charlie, sir—Mr. Northcote's man."

"Oh, yes. Well, excuse me, won't you, Molyneux?"

And Hector, smiling pleasantly, departed.

"The fool!" Welland's lip curled sardonically. "We've got him buffaloed, by God! The poor—blind—fool!"

Late that night Antoine, best and fastest dog-driver in North America, was summoned to Police headquarters with an intimation that he was required for a long and arduous journey. Antoine was not surprised. Surprise was beneath his principles. Besides, he was often employed on special missions by the Police, who knew his inflexible fidelity.

A French-Canadian half-breed was Antoine, a man in his prime, built on the slim lines of a runner, deep-chested, broad-shouldered. Born in a Hudson's Bay post, there was no trail of the North unknown to Antoine, no team he could not handle. To him, a run of one hundred miles a day was next to nothing; and he was as punctual as the sun itself.

Dressed for the trail, parka hood thrown back, dogs and sled outside, Antoine waited patiently in the outer office, smoking his short pipe and spitting reflectively at the stove while the Superintendent, Manitou-pewabic, prepared a despatch in the next room.

Presently he was summoned into the Presence.

Behind the lamp sat the Superintendent, quiet, gigantic—in Antoine's eyes, a god and hero.

"Cold night, Antoine."

Antoine nodded.

Hector held out a large official envelope, carefully sealed.

"For our representative in Prospect," he said. "You will hand it over to him, Antoine, and wait there for an answer. You may have to wait several days. The Sergeant there will give you the answer and you will bring it back to me here."

Antoine nodded again.

"Guard both despatch and answer with your life. No-one must see the despatch but the Sergeant. No-one must see the answer till you give it to me. Tell no-one your business either way. You must travel fast, Antoine, very fast—both going and coming; faster than ever before."

Antoine's eyes gleamed with the light of battle.

"All right. Now, this"—the Superintendent handed him a small, unsealed envelope—"is a letter which you will show to any Mounted Policeman or Mounted Police post, if necessary. It authorizes you to claim any assistance you wish. Understand?"

Antoine nodded.

"Dogs in good shape? That's fine. Start at once, Antoine. Good luck and goodbye. Remember—the fastest trip you've ever made——"

Antoine carefully stowed the two envelopes away and, drawing himself to his full height, saluted the Superintendent gravely.

A moment later, whirling his whip, he swept off behind his dogs, fleeing like a shadow, under the mysterious sheen of the northern lights—swept off into the vast silence, down the Prospect trail.

Welland, roused from sleep by the jingle of bells, gave a thought to the 'poor blind fool,' turned over in bed and slept again.