The voice sounded clear as a bell on the evening frost and unmistakably feminine. Moreover, it carried none of the accent peculiar to the half-breed mission-trained women who spoke English. They looked closer into a face of pure white and eyes that might have been brushed into the pallor with a sooty finger.
A white woman in Armistice—a young and comely girl of their own race! Think how incredible it must seem to three who had settled down to an October-April winter of isolation.
"I'm Sergeant Seymour, of the Mounted, in charge of this detachment," offered the policeman, for once speeding his speech. "Who're you looking for, ma'am?"
"I must find Oliver O'Malley's fur trading store.
"And who might be seeking our young trader?" The sergeant kept from his voice any hint of the dread that had clutched him.
"I'm Moira O'Malley of British Columbia—his sister."
This astounding complication left the three men speechless, glad for the dusk that helped mask the consternation that must be written on their faces.
CHAPTER IV
BEST OF BAD BUSINESS
In his grown-up life, Sergeant Seymour had met a procession of emergencies. Seldom had he failed to do the right and proper thing—the best for all concerned. But never had he faced a more difficult proposition than that presented by the young woman who now faced him on the trail, awaiting news of the brother she had journeyed so far to join.