of
numberless lost souls.

Inside, West snored heavily, his ill-shaped head drooping on the big
barrel chest of the man. Jessie slept while Whaley kept guard. Later
she would watch in her turn.

There were moments when the gale died down, but only to roar again
with a frenzy of increased violence.

The gray day broke and found the blizzard at its height.

CHAPTER XXV

FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST

Beresford, in front of the C.N. Morse & Company trading-post, watched
his horse paw at the snow in search of grass underneath. It was a sign
that the animal was prairie-bred. On the plains near the border grass
cures as it stands, retaining its nutriment as hay. The native pony
pushes the snow aside with its forefoot and finds its feed. But in the
timber country of the North grass grows long and coarse. When its sap
dries out, it rots.

The officer was thinking that he had better put both horse and cariole
up for the winter. It was time now for dogs and sled. Even in summer
this was not a country for horses. There were so many lakes that a
birch-bark canoe covered the miles faster.

Darkness was sweeping down over the land, and with it the first flakes
of a coming storm. Beresford had expected this, for earlier in the day
he had seen two bright mock suns in the sky. The Indians had told
him that these sun dogs were warnings of severe cold and probably a
blizzard.

Out of the edge of the forest a man on snowshoes came. He was moving
fast. Beresford, watching him idly, noticed that he toed in. Therefore
he was probably a Cree trapper. But the Crees were usually indolent
travelers. They did not cover ground as this man was doing.

The man was an Indian. The soldier presently certified his first guess
as to that. But not until the native was almost at the store did he
recognize him as Onistah.

The Blackfoot wasted no time in leading up to what he had to say.
"Sleeping Dawn she prisoner of Bully West and Whaley. She say bring
her father. She tell me bring him quick"

Beresford's body lost its easy grace instantly and became rigid. His
voice rang with sharp authority.

"Where is she?"

"She at Jasper's cabin on Cache Creek. She frightened."

As though the mention of Sleeping Dawn's name had reached him by some
process of telepathy, Tom Morse had come out and stood in the door of
the store. The trooper wheeled to him.

"Get me a dog-team, Tom. That fellow West has got Jessie McRae with
him on Cache Creek. We'