lovers, arms entwined, scarcely knew that darkness
was falling.

In the shack the Indian listened to the fading exhaust of the speeder.
His eyes were roving about the room. He was smiling. For the second
time in a year he was within the walls of a home; for the first time
free to look about. A curious pathetic longing twisted his face. He
began to tip-toe about the room, laying a reverent finger everywhere.
The covers of the coloured magazines he lifted and let fall, pressed
the gaudy cushions that strewed the couch, touched the cheap ornaments
Tressa had woven into the picture with happy hand, stared into the
home-framed pictures. Over the vase of wild flowers he stooped with a
reminiscent smile; and thoughtfully for several minutes he rocked
Tressa's own chair.

"Mira shud have 'em all. . . . An' she's got nothin' but a hole in the
ground with a halfbreed. . . . An' yet I ain't done nothin' . . .
nothin'!"

Absorbed as he was in his dreams, he did not forget the open doorway
with its view from the distant camp. Stooping beyond its range, he
pushed through to the kitchen. It was pitch dark there, yet his eyes
seemed to take in everything. A distant sound from far down the track
sent him running to the stable door. It was locked. Inside he could
hear the quiet munching of the two horses. His powerful fingers closed
over the padlock. A mere twist and nothing lay between Mira and the
home that should be hers. The chug of the returning speeder roared
nearer.

Blue Pete put a hand to his head and turned away.

Up through the night came the beating car, everything wide open, and
stopped before the door. Into the shaft of light from the open doorway
Torrance and Sergeant Mahon ran.

"Chief, Chief, where are you?"

From out over the trestle a voice replied.

"Indian gone."

Torrance dashed out on the grade and tried in vain to pierce the
darkness. "Here--here, you blithering idiot! The police want you."

No reply--not even a sound.

"You smug-faced redskin! I wonder how much you're mixed in this."

"Indian no come more." The voice drifted from far away in the darkness
on the trestle.

Sergeant Mahon lifted his head like a hound on the scent, then with a
perplexed smile re-entered the shack.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CONSCIENCE OF A BOHUNK

Tressa Torrance's outlook on life was a comfortable one, born of her
own sunny nature. Its foundation was love, the keystone of its arch
peace.