“The Sun Dance Trail is the trail he must take to do his work. That was my patrol last year—I know it best. God knows I don't want this—” his breath came quick—“I am not afraid—but—but there's—We have been together for such a little while, you know.” He could get no farther for a moment or two, then added quietly, “But somehow I know—yes and she knows—bless her brave heart—it is my job. I must stay with it.”
By the time they had reached the hotel Cameron was glad enough to go to his bed.
“You need not tell your wife, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“Tell her? Certainly!” said Cameron. “She is with me in this. I play fair with her. Don't you fear, she is up to it.”
And so she was, and, though her face grew white as she listened to the tale, never for a moment did her courage falter.
“Doctor, is Allan all right? Tell me,” she said, her big blue eyes holding his in a steady gaze.
“Right enough, but he must have a long sleep. You must not let him stir at five.”
“Then,” said Mandy, “I shall go to meet the train, Allan.”
“But you don't know Moira.”
“No, but I shall find her out.”
“Of course,” said Dr. Martin in a deprecating tone, “I know Miss Cameron, but—”
“Of course you do,” cried Mandy. “Why, that is splendid! You will go and Allan need not be disturbed. She will understand. Not a word, now, Allan. We will look after this, the doctor and I, eh, Doctor?”
“Why—eh—yes—yes certainly, of course. Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” echoed Mandy briskly. “She will understand.”
And thus it was arranged. Under the influence of a powder left by Dr. Martin, Cameron, after an hour's tossing, fell into a heavy sleep.
“I am so glad you are here,” said Mandy to the doctor, as he looked in upon her. “You are sure there is no injury?”
“No, nothing serious. Shock, that's all. A day's quiet will fix him up.”
“I am so thankful,” said Mandy, heaving a deep sigh of relief, “and I am so glad that you are here. And it is so nice that you know Moira.”
“You are not going to the train?” said the doctor.
“No, no, there is no need, and I don't like to leave him. Besides you don't need me.”
“N-o-o, no, not at all—certainly not,” said the doctor with growing confidence. “Good-night. I shall show her to her room.”
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I shall meet you when you come. Thank you so much. So glad you are here,” she added with a tremulous smile.
The doctor passed down the stairs.
“By Jove, she's a brick!” he said to himself. “She has about all she can stand just now. Glad I am here, eh? Well, I guess I am too. But what about this thing? It's up to me now to do the Wild West welcome act, and I'm scared—plain scared to death. She won't know me from a goat. Let's see. I've got two hours yet to work up my ginger. I'll have a pipe to start with.”
He passed into the bar, where, finding himself alone, he curled up in a big leather chair and gave himself up to his pipe and his dreams. The dingy bar-room gave place to a little sunny glen in the Highlands of Scotland, in which nestled a little cluster of stone-built cottages, moss-grown and rose-covered. Far down in the bottom of the Glen a tiny loch gleamed like a jewel. Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified, and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet, in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather. Through many pipes he pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.
“Oh, pshaw!” he grumbled to himself at last, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “She has forgotten me. It was only one single day. But what a day!”
He lit a fresh pipe and began anew to dream of that wonderful day, that day which was the one unfading point of light in all his Old Country stay. Not even the day when he stood to receive his parchment and the special commendation of the Senatus and of his own professor for his excellent work lived with him like that day in the Glen. Every detail of the picture he could recall and ever in the foreground the maiden. With deliberate purpose he settled himself in his chair and set himself to fill in those fine and delicate touches that were necessary to make perfect the foreground of his picture, the pale olive face with its bewildering frame of golden waves and curls, the clear brown eyes, now soft and tender, now flashing with wrath, and the voice with its soft Highland cadence.
“By Jove, I'm dotty! Clean dotty! I'll make an ass of myself, sure thing, when I see her to-day.” He sprang from his chair and shook himself together. “Besides, she has forgotten all about me.” He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to train-time. He opened the door and looked out. The chill morning air struck him sharply in the face. He turned quickly, snatched his overcoat from a nail in the hall and put it on.
At this point Billy, who combined in his own person the offices of ostler, porter and clerk, appeared, his lantern shining with a dim yellow glare in the gray light of the dawn.
“No. 1 is about due, Doc,” he said.
“She is, eh? I say, Billy,” said the Doctor, “want to do something for me?” He pushed a dollar at Billy over the counter.
“Name it, Doc, without further insult,” replied Billy, shoving the dollar back with a lordly scorn.
“All right, Billy, you're a white little soul. Now listen. I want your ladies' parlor aired.”
“Aired?” gasped Billy.
“Yes, open the windows. Put on a fire. I have a lady coming—I have—that is—Sergeant Cameron's sister is coming—”
“Say no more,” said Billy with a wink. “I get you, Doc. But what about the open window, Doc? It's rather cold.”
“Open it up and put on a fire. Those Old Country people are mad about fresh air.”
“All right, Doc,” replied Billy with another knowing wink. “The best is none too good for her, eh?”
“Look here, now, Billy—” the doctor's tone grew severe—“let's have no nonsense. This is Sergeant Cameron's sister. He is knocked out, unable to meet her. I am taking his place. Do you get me? Now be quick. If you have any think juice in that block of yours turn it on.”
Billy twisted one ear as if turning a cock, and tapped his forehead with his knuckles.
“Doc,” he said solemnly, “she's workin' like a watch, full jewel, patent lever.”
“All right. Now get on to this. Sitting-room aired, good fire going, windows open and a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee? Say, Doc, there ain't time. What about tea?”
“You know well enough, Billy, you haven't got any but that infernal green stuff fit to tan the stomach of a brass monkey.”
“There's another can, Doc. I know where it is. Leave it to me.”
“All right, Billy, I trust you. They are death on tea in the Old Country. And toast, Billy. What about toast?”
“Toast? Toast, eh? Well, all right, Doc. Toast it is. Trust yours truly. You keep her out a-viewin' the scenery for half an hour.”
“And Billy, a big pitcher of hot water. They can't live without hot water in the morning, those Old Country people.”
“Sure thing, Doc. A tub if you like.”
“No, a pitcher will do.”
At this point a long drawn whistle sounded through the still morning air.
“There she goes, Doc. She has struck the grade. Say, Doc—”
But his words fell upon empty space. The doctor had already disappeared.
“Say, he's a sprinter,” said Billy to himself. “He ain't takin' no chances on bein' late. Shouldn't be surprised if the Doc got there all right.”
He darted upstairs and looked around the ladies' parlor. The air was heavy with mingled odors of the bar and the kitchen. A spittoon occupied a prominent place in the center of the room. The tables were dusty, the furniture in confusion. The ladies' parlor was perfectly familiar to Billy, but this morning he viewed it with new eyes.
“Say, the Doc ain't fair. He's too swift in his movements,” he muttered to himself as he proceeded to fling things into their places. He raised the windows, opened the stove door and looked in. The ashes of many fires half filling the box met his eyes with silent reproach. “Say, the Doc ain't fair,” he muttered again. “Them ashes ought to have been out of there long ago.” This fact none knew better than himself, inasmuch as there was no other from whom this duty might properly be expected. Yet it brought some small relief to vent his disgust upon this offending accumulation of many days' neglect. There was not a moment to lose. He was due in ten minutes to meet the possible guests for the Royal at the train. He seized a pail left in the hall by the none too tidy housemaid and with his hands scooped into it the ashes from the stove, and, leaving a cloud of dust to settle everywhere upon tables and chairs, ran down with his pail and back again with kindling and firewood and had a fire going in an extraordinarily short time. He then caught up an ancient antimacassar, used it as a duster upon chairs and tables, flung it back again in its place over the rickety sofa and rushed for the station to find that the train had already pulled in, had come to a standstill and was disgorging its passengers upon the platform.
“Roy—al Ho—tel!” shouted Billy. “Best in town! All the comforts and conveniences! Yes, sir! Take your grip, sir? Just give me them checks! That's all right, leave 'em to me. I'll get your baggage all right.”
He saw the doctor wandering distractedly up and down the platform.
“Hello, Doc, got your lady? Not on the Pullman, eh? Take a look in the First Class. Say, Doc,” he added in a lower voice, coming near to the doctor, “what's that behind you?”
The doctor turned sharply and saw a young lady whose long clinging black dress made her seem taller than she was. She wore a little black hat with a single feather on one side, which gave it a sort of tam o' shanter effect. She came forward with hand outstretched.
“I know you, Mr. Martin,” she said in a voice that indicated immense relief.
“You?” he cried. “Is it you? And to think I didn't know you. And to think you should remember me.”
“Remember! Well do I remember you—and that day in the Cuagh Oir—but you have forgotten all about that day.” A little flush appeared on her pale cheek.
“Forgotten?” cried Martin.
“But you didn't know me,” she added with a slight severity in her tone.
“I was not looking for you.”
“Not looking for me?” cried the girl. “Then who—?” She paused in a sudden confusion, and with a little haughty lift of her head said, “Where is Allan, my brother?”
But the doctor ignored her question. He was gazing at her in stupid amazement.
“I was looking for a little girl,” he said, “in a blue serge dress and tangled hair, brown, and all curls, with brown eyes and—”
“And you found a grown up woman with all the silly curls in their proper place—much older—very much older. It is a habit we have in Scotland of growing older.”
“Older?”
“Yes, older, and more sober and sensible—and plainer.”
“Plainer?” The doctor's mind was evidently not working with its usual ease and swiftness, partly from amazement at the transformation that had resulted in this tall slender young lady standing before him with her stately air, and partly from rage at himself and his unutterable stupidity.
“But you have not answered me,” said the girl, obviously taken aback at the doctor's manner. “Where is my brother? He was to meet me. This is Cal—gar—ry, is it not?”
“It's Calgary all right,” cried the doctor, glad to find in this fact a solid resting place for his mind.
“And my brother? There is nothing wrong?” The alarm in her voice brought him to himself.
“Wrong? Not a bit. At least, not much.”
“Not much? Tell me at once, please.” With an imperious air the young lady lifted her head and impaled the doctor with her flashing brown eyes.
“Well,” said the doctor in halting confusion, “you see, he met with an accident.”
“An accident?” she cried. “You are hiding something from me, Mr. Martin. My brother is ill, or—”
“No, no, not he. An Indian hit him on the head,” said the doctor, rendered desperate by her face.
“An Indian?” Her cry, her white face, the quick clutch of her hands at her heart, roused the doctor's professional instincts and banished his confusion.
“He is perfectly all right, I assure you, Miss Cameron. Only it was better that he should have his sleep out. He was most anxious to meet you, but as his medical adviser I urged him to remain quiet and offered to come in his place. His wife is with him. A day's rest, believe me, will make him quite fit.” The doctor's manner was briskly professional and helped to quiet the girl's alarm.
“Can I see him?” she asked.
“Most certainly, in a few hours when he wakes and when you are rested. Here, Billy, take Miss Cameron's checks. Look sharp.”
“Say, Doc,” said Billy in an undertone, “about that tea and toast—”
“What the deuce—?” said the doctor impatiently. “Oh, yes—all right! Only look lively.”
“Keep her a-viewin' the scenery, Doc, a bit,” continued Billy under his breath.
“Oh, get a move on, Billy! What are you monkeying about?” said the doctor quite crossly. He was anxious to escape from a position that had become intolerable to him. For months he had been looking forward to this meeting and now he had bungled it. In the first place he had begun by not knowing the girl who for three years and more had been in his dreams day and night, then he had carried himself like a schoolboy in her presence, and lastly had frightened her almost to death by his clumsy announcement of her brother's accident. The young lady at his side, with the quick intuition of her Celtic nature, felt his mood, and, not knowing the cause, became politely distant.
On their walk to the hotel Dr. Martin pointed out the wonderful pearly gray light stealing across the plain and beginning to brighten on the tops of the rampart hills that surrounded the town.
“You will see the Rockies in an hour, Miss Cameron, in the far west there,” he said. But there was no enthusiasm in his voice.
“Ah, yes, how beautiful!” said the young lady. But her tone, too, was lifeless.
Desperately the doctor strove to make conversation during their short walk and with infinite relief did he welcome the appearance of Mandy at her bedroom door waiting their approach.
“Your brother's wife, Miss Cameron,” said he.
For a single moment they stood searching each other's souls. Then by some secret intuition known only to the female mind they reached a conclusion, an entirely satisfactory conclusion, too, for at once they were in each other's arms.
“You are Moira?” cried Mandy.
“Yes,” said the girl in an eager, tremulous voice. “And my brother? Is he well?”
“Well? Of course he is—perfectly fine. He is sleeping now. We will not wake him. He has had none too good a night.”
“No, no,” cried Moira, “don't wake him. Oh, I am so glad. You see, I was afraid.”
“Afraid? Why were you afraid?” inquired Mandy, looking indignantly at the doctor, who stood back, a picture of self condemnation.
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Cameron, blame me. I deserve it all. I bungled the whole thing this morning and frightened Miss Cameron nearly into a fit, for no other reason than that I am all ass. Now I shall retire. Pray deal gently with me. Good-by!” he added abruptly, lifted his hat and was gone.
“What's the matter with him?” said Mandy, looking at her sister-in-law.
“I do not know, I am sure,” replied Moira indifferently. “Is there anything the matter?”
“He is not like himself a bit. But come, my dear, take off your things. As the doctor says, a sleep for a couple of hours will do you good. After that you will see Allan. You are looking very weary, dear, and no wonder, no wonder,” said Mandy, “with all that journey and—and all you have gone through.” She gathered the girl into her strong arms. “My, I could just pick you up like a babe!” She held her close and kissed her.
The caressing touch was too much for the girl. With a rush the tears came.
“Och, oh,” she cried, lapsing into her Highland speech, “it iss ashamed of myself I am, but no one has done that to me for many a day since—since—my father—”
“There, there, you poor darling,” said Mandy, comforting her as if she were a child, “you will not want for love here in this country. Cry away, it will do you good.” There was a sound of feet on the stairs. “Hush, hush, Billy is coming.” She swept the girl into her bedroom as Billy appeared.
“Oh, I am just silly,” said Moira impatiently, as she wiped her eyes. “But you are so good, and I will never be forgetting your kindness to me this day.”
“Hot water,” said Billy, tapping at the door.
“Hot water! What for?” cried Mandy.
“For the young lady. The doctor said she was used to it.”
“The doctor? Well, that is very thoughtful. Do you want hot water, Moira?”
“Yes, the very thing I do want to get the dust out of my eyes and the grime off my face.”
“And the tea is in the ladies' parlor,” added Billy.
“Tea!” cried Mandy, “the very thing!”
“The doctor said tea and toast.”
“The doctor again!”
“Sure thing! Said they were all stuck on tea in the Old Country.”
“Oh, he did, eh? Will you have tea, Moira?”
“No tea, thank you. I shall lie down, I think, for a little.”
“All right, dear, we will see you at breakfast. Don't worry. I shall call you.”
Again she kissed the girl and left her to sleep. She found Billy standing in the ladies' parlor with a perplexed and disappointed look on his face.
“The Doc said she'd sure want some tea,” he said.
“And you made the tea yourself?” inquired Mandy.
“Sure thing! The Doc—”
“Well, Billy, I'd just love a cup of tea if you don't mind wasting it on me.”
“Sure thing, ma'm! The Doc won't mind, bein' as she turned it down.”
“Where is Dr. Martin gone, Billy? He needs a cup of tea; he's been up all night. He must be feeling tough.”
“Judgin' by his langwidge I should surmise yes,” said Billy judicially.
“Would you get him, Billy, and bring him here?”
“Get him? S'pose I could. But as to bringin' him here, I'd prefer wild cats myself. The last I seen of him he was hikin' for the Rockies with a blue haze round his hair.”
“But what in the world is wrong with him, Billy?” said Mandy anxiously. “I've never seen him this way.”
“No, nor me,” said Billy. “The Doc's a pretty level headed cuss. There's somethin' workin' on him, if you ask me.”
“Billy, you get him and tell him we want to see him at breakfast, will you?”
Billy shook his head.
“Tell him, Billy, I want him to see my husband then.”
“Sure thing! That'll catch him, I guess. He's dead stuck on his work.”
And it did catch him, for, after breakfast was over, clean-shaven, calm and controlled, and in his very best professional style, Dr. Martin made his morning call on his patient. Rigidly he eliminated from his manner anything beyond a severe professional interest. Mandy, who for two years had served with him as nurse, and who thought she knew his every mood, was much perplexed. Do what she could, she was unable to break through the barrier of his professional reserve. He was kindly courteous and perfectly correct.
“I would suggest a quiet day for him, Mrs. Cameron,” was his verdict after examining the patient. “He will be quite able to get up in the afternoon and go about, but not to set off on a hundred and fifty mile drive. A quiet day, sleep, cheerful company, such as you can furnish here, will fix him up.”
“Doctor, we will secure the quiet day if you will furnish the cheerful company,” said Mandy, beaming on him.
“I have a very busy day before me, and as for cheerful company, with you two ladies he will have all the company that is good for him.”
“CHEERFUL company, you said, Doctor. If you desert us how can we be cheerful?”
“Exactly for that reason,” replied the doctor.
“Say, Martin,” interposed Cameron, “take them out for a drive this afternoon and leave me in peace.”
“A drive!” cried Mandy, “with one hundred and fifty miles behind me and another hundred and fifty miles before me!”
“A ride then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you used to be fond of riding.”
“And am still,” cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.
“A ride!” cried Mandy. “Great! This is the country for riding. But have you a habit?”
“My habit is in one of my boxes,” replied Moira.
“I can get a habit,” said the doctor, “and two of them.”
“That's settled, then,” cried Mandy. “I am not very keen. We shall do some shopping, Allan, you and I this afternoon and you two can go off to the hills. The hills! th—ink of that, Moira, for a highlander!” She glanced at Moira's face and read refusal there. “But I insist you must go. A whole week in an awful stuffy train. This is the very thing for you.”
“Yes, the very thing, Moira,” cried her brother. “We will have a long talk this morning then in the afternoon we will do some business here, Mandy and I, and you can go up the Bow.”
“The Bow?”
“The Bow River. A glorious ride. Nothing like it even in Scotland, and that's saying a good deal,” said her brother with emphasis.
This arrangement appeared to give complete satisfaction to all parties except those most immediately interested, but there seemed to be no very sufficient reason with either to decline, hence they agreed.
Having once agreed to the proposal of a ride up the Bow, the doctor lost no time in making the necessary preparations. Half an hour later he found himself in the stable consulting with Billy. His mood was gloomy and his language reflected his mood. Gladly would he have escaped what to him, he felt, would be a trying and prolonged ordeal. But he could not do this without exciting the surprise of his friends and possibly wounding the sensitive girl whom he would gladly give his life to serve. He resolved that at all costs he would go through with the thing.
“I'll give her a good time, by Jingo! if I bust something,” he muttered as he walked up and down the stable picking out his mounts. “But for a compound, double-opposed, self-adjusting jackass, I'm your choice. Lost my first chance. Threw it clean away and queered myself with her first shot. I say, Billy,” he called, “come here.”
“What's up, Doc?” said Billy.
“Kick me, Billy,” said the doctor solemnly.
“Well now, Doc, I—”
“Kick me, Billy, good and swift.”
“Don't believe I could give no satisfaction, Doc. But there's that Hiram mule, he's a high class artist. You might back up to him.”
“No use being kicked, Billy, by something that wouldn't appreciate it,” said Martin.
“Don't guess that way, Doc. He's an ornery cuss, he'd appreciate it all right, that old mule. But Doc, what's eatin' you?”
“Oh, nothing, Billy, except that I'm an ass, an infernal ass.”
“An ass, eh? Then I guess I couldn't give you no satisfaction. You better try that mule.”
“Well, Billy, the horses at two,” said the doctor briskly, “the broncho and that dandy little pinto.”
“All serene, Doc. Hope you'll have a good time. Brace up, Doc, it's comin' to you.” Billy's wink conveyed infinitely more than his words.
“Look here, Billy, you cut that all out,” said the doctor.
“All right, Doc, if that's the way you feel. You'll see no monkey-work on me. I'll make a preacher look like a sideshow.”
And truly Billy's manner was irreproachable as he stood with the ponies at the hotel door and helped their riders to mount. There was an almost sad gravity in his demeanor that suggested a mind preoccupied with solemn and unworldly thoughts with which the doctor and his affairs had not even the remotest association.
As Cameron who, with his wife, watched their departure from the balcony above, waved them farewell, he cried, “Keep your eyes skinned for an Indian, Martin. Bring him in if you find him.”
“I've got no gun on me,” replied the doctor, “and if I get sight of him, you hear me, I'll make for the timber quick. No heroic captures for me this trip.”
“What is all this about the Indian, Dr. Martin?” inquired the girl at his side as they cantered down the street.
“Didn't your brother tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, I've done enough to you with that Indian already to-day.”
“To me?”
“Didn't I like a fool frighten you nearly to death with him?”
“Well, I was startled. I was silly to show it. But an Indian to an Old Country person familiar with Fenimore Cooper, well—”
“Oh, I was a proper idiot all round this morning,” grumbled the doctor. “I didn't know what I was doing.”
The brown eyes were open wide upon him.
“You see,” continued the doctor desperately, “I'd looked forward to meeting you for so long.” The brown eyes grew wider. “And then to think that I actually didn't know you.”
“You didn't look at me,” cried Moira.
“No, I was looking for the girl I saw that day, almost three years ago, in the Glen. I have never forgotten that day.”
“No, nor I,” replied the girl softly. “That is how I knew you. It was a terrible day to us all in the Glen, my brother going to leave us and under that dreadful cloud, and you came with the letter that cleared it all away. Oh, it was like the coming of an angel from heaven, and I have often thought, Mr. Martin—Dr. Martin you are now, of course—that I never thanked you as I ought that day. I was thinking of Allan. I have often wished to do it. I should like to do it now.”
“Get at it,” cried the doctor with great emphasis, “I need it. It might help me a bit. I behaved so stupidly this morning. The truth is, I was completely knocked out, flabbergasted.”
“Was that it?” cried Moira with a bright smile. “I thought—” A faint color tinged her pale cheek and she paused a moment. “But tell me about the Indian. My brother just made little of it. It is his way with me. He thinks me just a little girl not to be trusted with things.”
“He doesn't know you, then,” said the doctor.
She laughed gayly. “And do you?”
“I know you better than that, at least.”
“What can you know about me?”
“I know you are to be trusted with that or with anything else that calls for nerve. Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian. Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it will be better going.”
The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up. But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of the girl's hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned on her head the little brown curls were peeping in a way that quite shook the heart of Dr. Martin.
“Now you look a little more like yourself,” he cried, his eyes fastened upon the curls with unmistakable admiration, “more like the girl I remember.”
“Oh,” she said, “it is my bonnet. I put on this old thing for the ride.”
“No,” said the doctor, “you wore no bonnet that day. It is your face, your hair, you are not quite—so—so proper.”
“My hair!” Her hands went up to her head. “Oh, my silly curls, I suppose. They are my bane.” (“My joy,” the doctor nearly had said.) “But now for the Indian story.”
Then the doctor grew grave.
“It is not a pleasant thing to greet a guest with,” he said, “but you must know it and I may as well give it to you. And, mind you, this is altogether a new thing with us.”
For the next half hour as they rode westward toward the big hills, steadily climbing as they went, the story of the disturbance in the north country, of the unrest among the Indians, of the part played in it by the Indian Copperhead, and of the appeal by the Superintendent to Cameron for assistance, furnished the topic for conversation. The girl listened with serious face, but there was no fear in the brown eyes, nor tremor in the quiet voice, as they talked it over.
“Now let us forget it for a while,” cried the doctor. “The Police have rarely, if ever, failed to get their man. That is their boast. And they will get this chap, too. And as for the row on the Saskatchewan, I don't take much stock in that. Now we're coming to a view in a few minutes, one of the finest I have seen anywhere.”
For half a mile farther they loped along the trail that led them to the top of a hill that stood a little higher than the others round about. Upon the hilltop they drew rein.
“What do you think of that for a view?” said the doctor.
Before them stretched the wide valley of the Bow for many miles, sweeping up toward the mountains, with rounded hills on either side, and far beyond the hills the majestic masses of the Rockies some fifty miles away, snow-capped, some of them, and here and there upon their faces the great glaciers that looked like patches of snow. Through this wide valley wound the swift flowing Bow, and up from it on either side the hills, rough with rocks and ragged masses of pine, climbed till they seemed to reach the very bases of the mountains beyond. Over all the blue arch of sky spanned the wide valley and seemed to rest upon the great ranges on either side, like the dome of a vast cathedral.
Silent, with lips parted and eyes alight with wonder, Moira sat and gazed upon the glory of that splendid scene.
“What do you think—” began the doctor.
She put out her hand and touched his arm.
“Please don't speak,” she breathed, “this is not for words, but for worship.”
Long she continued to gaze in rapt silence upon the picture spread out before her. It was, indeed, a place for worship. She pointed to a hill some distance in front of them.
“You have been beyond that?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“Yes, I have been all through this country. I know it well. From the top of that hill we get a magnificent sweep toward the south.”
“Let us go!” she cried.
Down the hillside they scrambled, across a little valley and up the farther side, following the trail that wound along the hill but declined to make the top. As they rounded the shoulder of the little mountain Moira cried:
“It would be a great view from the top there beyond the trees. Can we reach it?”
“Are you good for a climb?” replied the doctor. “We could tie the horses.”
For answer she flung herself from her pinto and, gathering up her habit, began eagerly to climb. By the time the doctor had tethered the ponies she was half way to the top. Putting forth all his energy he raced after her, and together they parted a screen of brushwood and stepped out on a clear rock that overhung the deep canyon that broadened into a great valley sweeping toward the south.
“Beats Scotland, eh?” cried the doctor, as they stepped out together.
She laid her hand upon his arm and drew him back into the bushes.
“Hush,” she whispered. Surprised into silence, he stood gazing at her. Her face was white and her eyes gleaming. “An Indian down there,” she whispered.
“An Indian? Where? Show me.”
“He was looking up at us. Come this way. I think he heard us.”
She led him by a little detour and on their hands and knees they crept through the brushwood. They reached the open rock and peered down through a screen of bushes into the canyon below.
“There he is,” cried Moira.
Across the little stream that flowed at the bottom of the canyon, and not more than a hundred yards away, stood an Indian, tall, straight and rigidly attent, obviously listening and gazing steadily at the point where they had first stood. For many minutes he stood thus rigid while they watched him. Then his attitude relaxed. He sat down upon the rocky ledge that sloped up from the stream toward a great overhanging crag behind him, laid his rifle beside him and, calmly filling his pipe, began to smoke. Intently they followed his every movement.
“I do believe it is our Indian,” whispered the doctor.
“Oh, if we could only get him!” replied the girl.
The doctor glanced swiftly at her. Her face was pale but firm set with resolve. Quickly he revolved in his mind the possibilities.
“If I only had a gun,” he said to himself, “I'd risk it.”
“What is he going to do?”
The Indian was breaking off some dead twigs from the standing pines about him.
“He's going to light a fire,” replied the doctor, “perhaps camp for the night.”
“Then,” cried the girl in an excited whisper, “we could get him.”
The doctor smiled at her. The Indian soon had his fire going and, unrolling his blanket pack, he took thence what looked like a lump of meat, cut some strips from it and hung them from pointed sticks over the fire. He proceeded to gather some poles from the dead wood lying about.
“What now is he going to do?” inquired Moira.
“Wait,” replied the doctor.
The Indian proceeded to place the poles in order against the rock, keeping his eye on the toasting meat the while and now and again turning it before the fire. Then he began to cut branches of spruce and balsam.
“By the living Jingo!” cried the doctor, greatly excited, “I declare he's going to camp.”
“To sleep?” said Moira.
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “He had no sleep last night.”
“Then,” cried the girl, “we can get him.”
The doctor gazed at her in admiration.
“You are a brick,” he said. “How can we get him? He'd double me up like a jack-knife. Remember I only played quarter,” he added.
“No, no,” she cried quickly, “you stay here to watch him. Let me go back for the Police.”
“I say,” cried the doctor, “you are a wonder. There's something in that.” He thought rapidly, then said, “No, it won't do. I can't allow you to risk it.”
“Risk? Risk what?”
A year ago the doctor would not have hesitated a moment to allow her to go, but now he thought of the roving bands of Indians and the possibility of the girl falling into their hands.
“No, Miss Cameron, it will not do.”
“But think,” she cried, “we might get him and save Allan all the trouble and perhaps his life. You must not stop me. You cannot stop me. I am going. You wait and watch. Don't move. I can find my way.”
He seized her by the arm.
“Wait,” he said, “let me think.”
“What danger can there be?” she pleaded. “It is broad daylight. The road is good. I cannot possibly lose my way. I am used to riding alone among the hills at home.”
“Ah, yes, at home,” said the doctor gloomily.
“But there is no danger,” she persisted. “I am not afraid. Besides, you cannot keep me.” She stood up among the bushes looking down at him with a face so fiercely resolved that he was constrained to say, “By Jove! I don't believe I could. But I can go with you.”
“You would not do that,” she cried, stamping her foot, “if I forbade you. It is your duty to stay here and watch that Indian. It is mine to go and get the Police. Good-by.”
He rose to follow her.
“No,” she said, “I forbid you to come. You are not doing right. You are to stay. We will save my brother.”
She glided through the bushes from his sight and was gone.
“Am I a fool or what?” said the doctor to himself. “She is taking a chance, but after all it is worth while.”
It was now the middle of the afternoon and it would take Moira an hour and a half over that rocky winding trail to make the ten miles that lay before her. Ten minutes more would see the Police started on their return. The doctor settled himself down to his three hours' wait, keeping his eye fixed upon the Indian. The latter was now busy with his meal, which he ate ravenously.
“The beggar has me tied up tight,” muttered the doctor ruefully. “My grub is on my saddle, and I guess I dare not smoke till he lights up himself.”
A hand touched his arm. Instantly he was on his feet. It was Moira.
“Great Caesar, you scared me! Thought it was the whole Blackfoot tribe.”
“You will be the better for something to eat,” she said simply, handing him the lunch basket. “Good-by.”
“Hold up!” he cried. But she was gone.
“Say, she's a regular—” He paused and thought for a moment. “She's an angel, that's what—and a mighty sight better than most of them. She's a—” He turned back to his watch, leaving his thought unspoken. In the presence of the greater passions words are woefully inadequate.
The Indian was still eating as ravenously as ever.
“He's filling up, I guess. He ought to be full soon at that rate. Wish he'd get his pipe agoing.”
In due time the Indian finished eating, rolled up the fragments carefully in a rag, and then proceeded to construct with the poles and brush which he had cut, a penthouse against the rock. At one end his little shelter thus constructed ran into a spruce tree whose thick branches reached right to the ground. When he had completed this shelter to his satisfaction he sat down again on the rock beside his smoldering fire and pulled out his pipe.
“Thanks be!” said the doctor to himself fervently. “Go on, old boy, hit her up.”
A pipe and then another the Indian smoked, then, taking his gun, blanket and pack, he crawled into his brush wigwam out of sight.
“There, you old beggar!” said the doctor with a sigh of relief. “You are safe for an hour or two, thank goodness. You had no sleep last night and you've got to make up for it now. Sleep tight, old boy. We'll give you a call.” The doctor hugged himself with supreme satisfaction and continued to smoke with his eye fixed upon the hole into which the Indian had disappeared.
Through the long hours he sat and smoked while he formulated the plan of attack which he proposed to develop when his reinforcements should arrive.
“We will work up behind him from away down the valley, a couple of us will cover him from the front and the others go right in.”
He continued with great care to make and revise his plans, and while in the midst of his final revision a movement in the bushes behind him startled him to his feet. The bushes parted and the face of Moira appeared with that of her brother over her shoulder.
“Is he still there?” she whispered eagerly.
“Asleep, snug as a bug. Never moved,” said the doctor exultantly, and proceeded to explain his plan of attack. “How many have you?” he asked Cameron.
“Crisp and a constable.”
“Just two?” said the doctor.
“Two,” replied Cameron briefly. “That's plenty. Here they are.” He stepped back through the bushes and brought forward Crisp and the constable. “Now, then, here's our plan,” he said. “You, Crisp, will go down the canyon, cross the stream and work up on the other side right to that rock. When you arrive at the rock the constable and I will go in. The doctor will cover him from this side.”
“Fine!” said the doctor. “Fine, except that I propose to go in myself with you. He's a devil to fight. I could see that last night.”
Cameron hesitated.
“There's really no use, you know, Doctor. The constable and I can handle him.”
Moira stood looking eagerly from one to the other.
“All right,” said the doctor, “'nuff said. Only I'm going in. If you want to come along, suit yourself.”
“Oh, do be careful,” said Moira, clasping her hands. “Oh, I'm afraid.”
“Afraid?” said the doctor, looking at her quickly. “You? Not much fear in you, I guess.”
“Come on, then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you stay here and keep your eye on him. You are safe enough here.”
She pressed her lips tight together till they made a thin red line in her white face.
“Can you let me have a gun?” she asked.
“A gun?” exclaimed the doctor.
“Oh, she can shoot—rabbits, at least,” said her brother with a smile. “I shall bring you one, Moira, but remember, handle it carefully.”
With a gun across her knees Moira sat and watched the development of the attack. For many minutes there was no sign or sound, till she began to wonder if a change had been made in the plan. At length some distance down the canyon and on the other side Sergeant Crisp was seen working his way with painful care step by step toward the rock of rendezvous. There was no sign of her brother or Dr. Martin. It was for them she watched with an intensity of anxiety which she could not explain to herself. At length Sergeant Crisp reached the crag against whose base the penthouse leaned in which the sleeping Indian lay. Immediately she saw her brother, quickly followed by Dr. Martin, leap the little stream, run lightly up the sloping rock and join Crisp at the crag. Still there was no sign from the Indian. She saw her brother motion the Sergeant round to the farther corner of the penthouse where it ran into the spruce tree, while he himself, with a revolver in each hand, dropped on one knee and peered under the leaning poles. With a loud exclamation he sprang to his feet.
“He's gone!” he shouted. “Stand where you are!” Like a hound on a scent he ran to the back of the spruce tree and on his knees examined the earth there. In a few moments his search was rewarded. He struck the trail and followed it round the rock and through the woods till he came to the hard beaten track. Then he came back, pale with rage and disappointment. “He's gone!” he said.
“I swear he never came out of that hole!” said Dr. Martin. “I kept my eye on it every minute of the last three hours.”
“There's another hole,” said Crisp, “under the tree here.”
Cameron said not a word. His disappointment was too keen. Together they retraced their steps across the little stream. On the farther bank they found Moira, who had raced down to meet them.
“He's gone?” she cried.
“Gone!” echoed her brother. “Gone for this time—but—some day—some day,” he added below his breath.
But many things were to happen before that day came.