kin
Jerry."

Tom took in Beresford's lean body, a gauntness of the boyish face,
hollows under the eyes that had not been there when first they had
met. There had come to him whispers of the long trek into the frozen
Lone Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He could guess
the dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books,
without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It must
have been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the
Canadian's blithe joy in living.

"Get him?" the Montanan asked.

The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always brought
back those they were sent for. Already the Force was building up the
tradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent.

"Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience that
had taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilized
existence. "Been back a week. Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a
look-see."

"At what? He ain't suspectin' any one at Faraway of stretchin',
bendin', or bustin' the laws."

Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor. Rumor had it that Faraway was
a cesspool of iniquity. It was far from the border. When sheriffs of
Montana became too active, there was usually an influx of population
at the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushed
north to safety.

"Seems to be. You're not by any chance lookin' for trouble?"

"Duckin' it," answered Tom promptly.

The officer smiled genially. "It's knocking at your door." His
knuckles rapped on the desk.

"If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy--"

"Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured.

"--you certainly ain't him. Onload your grief."

"The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions,
animadversions, and propensities," explained the constable. "According
to the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis--"

Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never studied geology none.
Don't know this hypotenuse you're pow-wowin' about any more'n my paint
hawss does. Come again in one syllables."

"Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately--that is, any more than
usual?"

The junior partner of C.N. Morse & Company considered. "Why, yes,
seems to me I have--heap much swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin'
and tomahawk swingin'."

"Why?"

"Whiskey, likely."

"Where do they get it?"

Tom looked at the soldier quizzically. "Your guess is good as mine,"
he drawled.