was the pound-pound of a horse being pulled hither and thither, leaping
to a wild gallop, then the figure of Calamity bare-headed, riding
bareback and astride, cut the moonlight; and the ring of hoof beats
echoed back from the rocks of some one going furious, heedless up the
face of the Ridge towards the hog's back trail.

Eleanor called up the Mission School telephone: Mr. Williams had heard
nothing; he didn't believe there was any cause for alarm; the child was
patently and plainly an astounding little liar! About Calamity? Oh,
yes, Eleanor was not to be alarmed! She had gone off in those mad fits
ever since her baby died up on Saskatchewan. It had been very
distressing; was in winter time, and she wouldn't release the dead
child from her arms; they had to take it from her by force; she always
came back after a week or two of wandering! Would Eleanor like some
one to come over and stay in the Ranch House? And Eleanor being a true
descendant of the Man with the Iron Hand flaunted personal fear; and
went back to a sleepless but not unhappy night in her room. Why did
the news that Calamity's child had died bring such a sense of relief?

How simply does life deck out her tragedies! There is no prelude of
low-toned plaintive orchestral music tuned to expectancy. There is no
thunder barrel; or if there is a thunder barrel, you may know that the
tragedy is theatrical and hollow in proportion to the size of its
emptiness. And there is no graceful curtain-drop between it and real
life, permitting you to rise from your place and go home happy.

MacDonald was stepping into the bucket to descend the last shaft of the
mine when something on the edge of the _Brule_ arrested his glance; in
fact, two things: one was Calamity coming out from the trail of the
hog's back through the young cottonwoods and poplars, riding bareback
and looking very mad, indeed; the other, was O'Finnigan from Shanty
Town on foot, staggering and mad as whiskey could make him, coming up
the narrow rock trail from Smelter City.

"Go on," said MacDonald curtly to the others. "I'll keep the notes
safe up here, and give Sheriff Flood a hand at the hoist!"

All had gone well, exceedingly well, in the examination of the mine.
It had begun sharp at twelve o'clock when the day shift came out with
their dinner pails. It will be remembered the Ridge sloped down to a
burnt area, known as the _Brule_, overgrown with young poplars and
birches and yet yo