oes much to steady wavering feet. Hers was the
influence that aroused loathing for the drunken debauches, the cheating,
the depraved living of the Indian lodges: hers, the influence that kept
the loathing from slipping into indifference, the indifference from
becoming participation. Indeed, I could wish a young man no better
talisman against the world, the flesh and the devil, than love for a
pure woman.

How we dragged through the hours of that night, of Christmas and the
days that followed, I do not attempt to set down here. Hamilton's
illness lasted a month. What with trading and keeping our scouts on the
search for Miriam and waiting on the sick man, I had enough to busy me
without brooding over my own woes. Hard as my life was, it was fortunate
I had no time for thoughts of self and so escaped the melancholy apathy
that so often benumbs the lonely man's activities. And when Eric became
convalescent, I had enough to do finding diversion for his mind. Keeping
record of our doings on birch-bark sheets, playing quoits with the
Mandanes and polo with a few fearless riders, helped to pass the long
weary days.

So the dismal winter wore away and spring was drizzling into summer.
Within a few weeks we should be turning our faces northward for the
forks of the Red and Assiniboine. The prospect of movement after long
stagnation cheered Hamilton and fanned what neither of us would
acknowledge--a faint hope that Miriam might yet be alive in the north. I
verily believe Eric would have started northward with restored courage
had not our plans been thwarted by the sinister handiwork of Le Grand
Diable.

CHAPTER XV

THE GOOD WHITE FATHER

For a week Hamilton and I had been busy in our respective lodges getting
peltries and personal belongings into shape for return to Red River. On
Saturday night, at least I counted it Saturday from the notches on my
doorpost, though Eric, grown morose and contradictory, maintained that
it was Sunday--we sat talking before the fire of my lodge. A dreary
raindrip pattered through the leaky roof and the soaked parchment tacked
across the window opening flapped monotonously against the pine logs.

Unfastening the moon-shaped medallion, which my uncle had given me, I
slowly spelled out the Nor'-Westers' motto--"Fortitude in Distress."

"For-ti-tude in Dis-tress," I repeated idly. "By Jove, Hamilton, we need
it, don't we?"

Eric's lips curled in scorn. Without answering, he impatiently