ther Douglas is as my own child,"
said the chief simply, "and her life I will put before
mine. But Indians on the war-path are as the We'h-ti-koo,
[Footnote: Indians of unsound mind who become cannibals.]
who are possessed of devils, whose onward rush is as the
waters of the mighty Saskatchewan river when it has forced
the ice jam."

"And so, Child-of-Light, what would you have us do?"
asked Douglas. "Do you think if possible for my daughter
and the women to reach the Fort at Battleford?"

But a sharp tapping at the door stopped the answer of
the chief.

Rory shot back the bolt and threw open the door. A
fur-clad figure entered; the white frost glistened on
his buffalo-coat and bear-skin cap as if they were tipped
with ermine. He walked without a word into the light and
looked around--an admirable man, truly, about six feet
in height, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and without
a spare ounce of flesh--a typical Rider of the Plains,
and a soldier, every inch of him. In the thousands upon
thousands of square miles in which these dauntless military
police have to enforce law and order, the inhabitants
know that never yet has the arm of justice not proved
long enough to bring an offender to book. On one occasion
a policeman disappeared into the wilderness after some
one who was wanted. As in three months he neither came
back, nor was heard of, he was struck off the strength
of the force. But one day, as the men stood on parade in
the barrack square, he came back in rags and on foot,
more like a starved tramp than a soldier. But with him
he brought his prisoner. That was the man, Sergeant
Pasmore, who stood before them.

He inclined his head to Dorothy, and nodded to the men
around the fire, but when he saw Child-of-Light he extended
his left hand.

The Indian looked straight into the sergeant's eyes.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Ough! Ough! I see; you
have met Thunderchild?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Yes," he said, with apparent unconcern, "Thunderchild
managed to put a bullet through my arm. You may give me
a hand off with my coat, Jacques. Luckily, the wound's
not bad enough to prevent my firing a gun."

When they removed his overcoat they found that the sleeve
of the tunic had been cut away, and that his arm had been
roughly bandaged. The girl was gazing at it in a peculiarly
concentrated fashion.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Douglas," he said, hastily
turning away from her. "I had forgotten it looke