"We'll soon fix that," the man declared. "Guess you're up against it, but our grub's holding out." He turned to the driver. "Come and tend to the cooking when you're through, Emile."
Though the order was given good-humoredly, there was a hint of authority in his voice, and the man to whom he spoke quickened his movements. Then another man came up, and while the dogs snapped at each other, and rolled in the snow, the half-breed driver unloaded a heavy provision bag and filled Harding's frying-pan.
"Don't spare it," said the first comer. "I guess these men are hungry; fix up your best menoo."
Sitting down by the fire, shapeless in his whitened coat, with his bronzed face half hidden by his big fur cap, he had nevertheless a soldierly look.
"You're wondering who we are?" he asked genially.
"Oh, no," Blake smiled. "I can make a guess; there's a stamp on you I recognize. You're from Regina."
"You've hit it first time. I'm Sergeant Lane, R.N.W.M.P. This"—he indicated his companion—"is Private Walthew. We've been up on a special patrol to Copper Lake, and left two of the boys there to make some inquiries about the Indians. Now we're on the back trail."
He looked as if he expected the others to return his confidence, and Blake had no hesitation about doing so. He knew the high reputation of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, a force of well-mounted and carefully chosen frontier cavalry. Its business is to keep order on a vast stretch of plain, to watch over adventurous settlers who push out ahead of the advancing farming community, and to keep a keen eye on the reservation Indians. Men from widely different walks of life serve in its ranks, and the private history of each squadron is rich in romance, but one and all are called upon to scour the windy plains in the saddle in the fierce summer heat and to make adventurous sled journeys across the winter snow. Their patrols search the lonely North from Hudson Bay to the Mackenzie, living in the open in arctic weather; and the peaceful progress of western Canada is due largely to their unrelaxing vigilance, Blake gave them a short account of their journey and explained his party's present straits.
"Well," said the Sergeant, "I figure that we have provisions enough to see us down to the settlements all right, and we'll be glad of your company. The stronger the party, the smoother the trail; and after what you've told me, I guess you can march."
"Where did you find the half-breed?" Benson asked. "Your chiefs at
Regina don't allow you hired packers."