s and flintlock
pistols that decorated the walls--relics of the old
romantic days when the two companies of French and English
adventurers traded into Hudson's Bay.

She had an idea. She would ask the sergeant of Mounted
Police in charge of the detachment of four men, whose
little post was within half-a-mile of the homestead, what
he thought of the situation, and he would have to tell
her. Sergeant Pasmore was one of those men of few words
who somehow seemed to know everything. A man of rare
courage she knew him to be, for had he not gained his
promotion by capturing the dangerous renegade Indian,
Thunder-child, single-handed? She knew that Thunderchild
had lately broken prison, and was somewhere in the
neighbourhood waiting to have his revenge upon the
sergeant. Sergeant Pasmore was a man both feared and
respected by all with whom he came in contact. He was
the embodiment of the law; he carried it, in fact, on
the horn of his saddle in the shape of his Winchester
rifle; a man who was supposed to be utterly devoid of
sentiment, but who had been known to perform more than
one kindly action. Her father liked him, and many a time
he had spent a long evening by the rancher's great
fireside.

As she thought of these things, she was suddenly startled
by three firm knocks at the door. Jacques rose from his
seat, and opening it a few inches, looked out into the
clear moonlight. He paused a moment, then asked--

"Who are you, and what you want?"

"How!" [Footnote: Form of salutation in common use among
the Indians and half-breeds.] responded a strange-voice.

"Aha! Child-of-Light!" exclaimed Jacques.

And into the room strode a splendid specimen of a red
man in all the glory of war paint and feathers.

CHAPTER II

TIDINGS OF ILL

"Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadow'd livery of the burnished sun."
_Merchant of Venice._

"How! How!" said the rancher, looking up at the tall
Indian. "You are welcome to my fireside, Child-of-Light.
Sit down."

He rose and gave him his hand. With a simple dignity the
fine-looking savage returned his salutation.

"The master is good," he said. "Child-of-Light still
remembers how in that bad winter so many years ago, when
the cotton-tails and rabbits had died from the disease
that takes them in the throat, and the wild animals that
live upon them died also because there was nought to eat,
and how when disease and famine tapped at the buffalo
robe that