they
blundered on, mile after mile, both with the pluck of the prairies in
their red blood; colder, slower, wearier, they became. Little
Wolf-Willow's head was whirling, his brain thickening, his fingers
clutching aimlessly. The bridle reins slipped from his hands. Hunger,
thirst, cold, exhaustion, overpowered both horse and rider. The animal
stumbled once, twice, then fell like a dead weight.

* * * * * * * *

At daybreak, Corporal Manan, hot on the pursuit of the supposed young
cattle thief, rode up the freezing trail, headed for the north-east.
A mile ahead of him he saw what he thought was a dead steer which the
coyotes had probably killed and were eating. As he galloped nearer he
saw it was a horse. An exclamation escaped his lips. Then, slipping from
his own mount, stiff and half frozen himself, he bent pityingly above
the dead animal that lay with the slender body of an Indian hugging up
to it for warmth.

"Poor little chap!" choked the Corporal. "Poor Little Wolf-Willow!
Death's got him now, I'm afraid, and that's worse than the Mounted
Police."

Then the soldier knelt down, and for two long hours rubbed with snow and
his own fur cap the thin, frozen face and hands of the almost lifeless
boy. He rolled the lithe young body about, pounding it and beating it,
until consciousness returned, and the boy opened his eyes dully.

"That's better," said the Corporal. "Now, my lad, it's for home!" Then
he stripped himself of his own great-coat, wrapped it snugly about the
young Indian, and, placing the boy on his own horse, he trudged ahead
on foot--five, ten, fifteen miles of it, the boy but half conscious
and freezing, the man tramping ahead, footsore, chilled through, and
troubled, the horse with hanging head and lagging step--a strange trio
to enter the Indian camp.

From far off old Beaver-Tail had seen the approaching bit of hated
scarlet--the tunic worn by the North-West Mounted Police--but he made
no comment as Corporal Manan lifted in his strong arms the still figure
from the saddle, and, carrying it into the tepee, laid it beside the
fire on the warm wolf skins and buffalo hides. It took much heat and
nourishment before Little Wolf-Willow was able to interpret the story
from the Cree tongue into English, then back again into Cree, and
so be the go-between for the Corporal and old Beaver-Tail. "Yes, my
grandfather, Big Wolf-Willow, is here," said the boy, his dark eyes
looking fearlessly into t