his arms silently for the handcuffs.

The next day two men were lost on the prairies. One was Sergeant
Gellatly; the other was Little Hammer. The horses they rode travelled so
close that the leg of the Indian crowded the leg of the white man; and
the wilder the storm grew, the closer still they rode. A 'poudre' day,
with its steely air and fatal frost, was an ill thing in the world; but
these entangling blasts, these wild curtains of snow, were desolating
even unto death. The sun above was smothered; the earth beneath was
trackless; the compass stood for loss all round.

What could Sergeant Gellatly expect, riding with a murderer on his left
hand: a heathen that had sent a knife through the heart of one of the
lords of the North? What should the gods do but frown, or the elements
be at, but howling on their path? What should one hope for but that
vengeance should be taken out of the hands of mortals, and be delivered
to the angry spirits?

But if the gods were angry at the Indian, why should Sergeant Gellatly
only sway to and fro, and now laugh recklessly, and now fall sleepily
forward on the neck of his horse; while the Indian rode straight, and
neither wavered nor wandered in mind, but at last slipped from his horse
and walked beside the other? It was at this moment that the soldier
heard, "Sergeant Gellatly, Sergeant Gellatly," called through the blast;
and he thought it came from the skies, or from some other world. "Me
darlin'," he said, "have y' come to me?" But the voice called again:
"Sergeant Gellatly, keep awake! keep awake! You sleep, you die; that's
it. Holy. Yes. How!" Then he knew that it was Little Hammer calling
in his ear, and shaking him; that the Indian was dragging him from his
horse ... his revolver, where was it? he had forgotten... he nodded...
nodded. But Little Hammer said: "Walk, hell! you walk, yes;" and Little
Hammer struck him again and again; but one arm of the Indian was under
his shoulder and around him, and the voice was anxious and kind. Slowly
it came to him that Little Hammer was keeping him alive against the will
of the spirits--but why should they strike him instead of the Indian?
Was there any sun in the world? Had there ever been? or fire or heat
anywhere, or anything but wind and snow in all God's universe?... Yes,
there were bells ringing--soft bells of a village church; and there was
incense burning--most sweet it was! and the coals in the censer--how
beautiful, how comfortin