Gruber, who headed the party, breathed with relief when he led them through a pass in the hills down to the edge of the wide meadows surrounding Blackburn’s Lake. October had come in; and during their long ride across the prairie they had met with more than one snow-storm. Fortunately for them the snow had melted; had it remained lying on the prairie, or had they experienced one of the early blizzards that are not unknown at this season, their position would have been serious. Now, with the shelter of the timber at hand, they were safe.
The party was well outfitted of course; but even so, what with the snow, the hard frosts at night and the raw, biting winds by day, traveling had been intensely disagreeable. They carried a small tent for the two women. Gruber had three hot-heads in his company who could not brook the slightest delay. Besides Loseis and Conacher there was young Sergeant Ferrie of the Mounted Police who was no less eager than the other two to bring down retribution on the head of Andrew Gault. The policeman’s professional pride had been wounded. With three troopers he had joined the party at the Crossing. Mary-Lou was also of the party; and six Cree half-breeds from Miwasa Landing. They had upwards of twenty horses.
They slept for the last time on the same little point of high land running out into the meadows, where Conacher had been surprised by Etzooah four months before. The days were growing short now. About eleven o’clock next morning they were riding past the Slavi village on the opposite side of the river. The inhabitants lined up to watch them pass, in silent consternation. Even at the distance they could not have failed to recognize Loseis and the famous yellow head of Conacher.
“Some of them could jump in a canoe and get to the Post with the aid of the current before we could,” suggested Conacher.
“They have no love for Gault,” said Loseis. “There is no reason why they should warn them. The Slavis never look for trouble.”
“Even if he should be warned, he’s got nowhere to run except back to his own Post,” Gruber pointed out. “And there he’d only run into the arms of the other party of police who went down the big river.”
“Just the same,” said Sergeant Ferrie, frowning, “I’ve no intention of letting any other party take him. He belongs to me!”
They urged their weary horses on a little faster.
Suspecting that Gault might make a dash for freedom at the sight of them, Ferrie determined to send a party across country to head him off on the other trail. Two of the white troopers and two Crees were allotted to this duty. They turned off on the same ridge a mile from the Post that Gault had used. In order to give them time to reach their post, the rest of the party halted for their midday meal in the hollow beyond.
When they started out again, Ferrie took command. He wished Loseis and Mary-Lou to remain in that spot with a guard; but Loseis would not hear of it. Much to her disgust she was forced to bring up the rear of the train. As they came in sight of the Post the men’s faces were grim. It had a deserted look. Gault had never succeeded in persuading the Slavis to return, and the grassy meadow below the buildings, yellow now, was empty. When they cantered up into the little square within the buildings, that was empty too: Women’s House, store, warehouses, Blackburn’s House; doors closed and chimneys cold. The bars of the corral were down.