All this and more made the trim orderly hesitate. A runner with news was not to be kicked unceremoniously off the porch in these days, but to be considered.
“You want to see the Superintendent, eh?”
“Oui, for sure—queeck—run ten mile,” replied the half-breed with angry impatience.
“All right,” said the orderly, “what's your name?”
“Name? Me, Pinault—Pierre Pinault. Ah, sacr-r-e! Beeg Chief know me—Pinault.” The little man drew himself up.
“All right! Wait!” replied the orderly, and passed into the shack. He had hardly disappeared when he was back again, obviously shaken out of his correct military form.
“Go in!” he said sharply. “Get a move on! What are you waiting for?”
The half-breed threw him a sidelong glance of contempt and passed quickly into the “Beeg Chief's” presence.
Superintendent Strong was a man prompt in decision and prompt in action, a man of courage, too, unquestioned, and with that bulldog spirit that sees things through to a finish. To these qualities it was that he owed his present command, for it was no insignificant business to keep the peace and to make the law run along the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass during construction days.
The half-breed had been but a few minutes with the Chief when the orderly was again startled out of his military decorum by the bursting open of the Superintendent's door and the sharp rattle of the Superintendent's orders.