Slowly the constable walked back across the Square toward the Canteen. His Commanding Officer's parting words touched him. He realised on this night as never before what a sympathetic heart beat beneath the Major's cold exterior. He was human after all, and cared for his men. What a change, too, he thought, to be out of the Force—to be free! And yet, why should he leave? Why should he not "take on again"? What was there for him in life? Where should he go? What was there to do? He could go home, but what was home without her? He paused, and bared his head. The evening breeze cooled his hot brow, and played with his wealth of dark hair. Above him shone the stars—their glory dimmed by the long northern twilight. There was the pole star steady as of yore. He remembered the night they had last looked at it together by the garden gate among the flowers. How beautiful she was then in all her virgin purity! That was six years ago—and where was she now? Six years, and not a trace of her since!
"Star of heaven," he murmured, "where is she to-night? Where is my long lost darling? Guide me, oh, lead me, to her side!"
The bugle sounded "Lights out," and soon all was in silence in the Big Glen Barracks. Major Sterling still sat at his desk, studying the map before him, and occasionally glancing at several closely-written papers lying near. From the stable at one corner of the Square Norman Grey led forth a jet-black horse, and stood for a minute stroking her glossy neck. There was no one to bid him farewell, no one to grip his hand and speed him on his way. A slight sarcastic laugh escaped his lips as he sprang lightly into the saddle and headed Blackbird for the open road. He was going out alone, unnoticed. But he would return—and what then? Again he smiled, settled himself firmly in the saddle, and gave one word to Blackbird. Then the ring of steel-shod hoofs sounded along the gravelled way as horse and rider sped through the night, out of the Barracks Square, out of the little straggling town, and out upon a great lone trail stretching dim and uncertain beyond the farthest bounds of civilization.
CHAPTER II THE TERROR OF THE MOUNTAINS
The long trail wound and twisted far ahead, shimmering faintly in the light of the westering sun. Miles and miles of wild bunch grass, sage brush, and desolate sand met the eye, flanked on either side by high mountain ranges.
"Good Lord, what a trail!" muttered Norman Grey, regaining his seat with difficulty as Blackbird plunged her right foot into a concealed gopher hole. "Will this cursed valley never end? It's getting worse all the time."
Almost a week had now passed since he had swung away from Big Glen. Almost a week, and yet how much that brief period of six days contained. What desolate regions he had traversed, what streams forded, and what lonely nights he had spent upon the cold hard ground beneath the starry canopy of heaven. Thrice had he met Indians encamped along the way. Friendly were they, and had provided him with a liberal supply of tender moose meat. A mighty leveller is the northern trail. Here rank, title, creed and race fade into absurd insignificance. Here all useless appendages are swept aside. Here each stands for what he is, and his sole worth lies in himself. And here, too, in a region so vast, where the loneliness mocks and appals, the sight of a human face, though dark and uncouth, thrills the heart with a sweet gladness.
These children of the wandering foot looked with admiration upon the pale-faced stranger. They conversed with him in broken English, and slowly shook their heads when Grey pointed away to the left and mentioned the word "Hishu." As he started to leave the camp an Indian woman, old and scrawny, had laid her long, slim fingers upon the pommel of the saddle and looked up anxiously into his face.