"I won't leave you, then," was the reassuring response. "You shall go along, too."
Stooping down, he lifted the child tenderly in his arms and turned his face up-stream. Could he make the journey? That was the question. Had he the strength after his two fearful ordeals to struggle through that dusky tangled underbrush, where no trail marked the way, and with his feet stumbling at almost every step? Suppose he should fall and not be able to rise again? He banished the thought. It was too horrible to be entertained even for an instant. No, he must not fail. What would the Major, who had entrusted him with such a sacred commission think? And how would the Force regard it? "Constable N. Grey, Regiment No. —— lost; supposed to have died on the trail, somewhere between Big Glen and the river Hishu, while in search of a stolen child." How would words such as these sound in the laconic Police Report when it appeared the following year? Would their bones, bleached and white, at last be found amid those tangled bushes? And the mother, what of her? Would she ever know of the struggle he had made to save her darling child? There came to him now her white, drawn face. Did not every man in the Barracks know Mrs. Farwell? She was beautiful, cultured, and a general favourite in the little social circle of Big Glen. But she was kind to all, and greeted each constable she met with a pleasant smile. She had spoken to him once, and congratulated him upon the capture of "One-eyed" Henry, the Swede. He had never forgotten that, and her sparkling eyes and sunny face had haunted him for months. For her sake now, at least, he must not fail. He would save her child. He had taken but a few steps forward when he stopped short in his tracks. A dark form had suddenly loomed up out of the night right in front of him. It was an Indian tall and silent, leaning upon his grounded rifle. For the space of ten heart throbs neither spoke. Then,
"Who are you," Grey demanded, "and what do you want?"
"You call?" came the calm reply.
"Yes, indeed, I did call. Look you. This child is wet, cold, freezing. Got in river. See? You savvey cabin—fire, eh?"
At once the Indian took a step nearer, and peered keenly into the white man's face.
"Ah, ah," he remarked. "Me savvey. Come."
Turning abruptly he plunged into the thicket of jack pines and cotton wood trees. He had not gone far, however, ere he paused and looked back.
"Me take bah-bee," he said; "you cally gun, eh?"
But when he reached out his hands Donnie shrank back with a little sobbing cry, and threw his arms tightly around his preserver's neck.