the
heart of the fire. Then, too, not one of them but knew the cruel moods
of the great Northland.

A wonderful companionship existed between these men. It was something
more than the companionship of the long trail. They had fought the
battle of life together for eight long years, enduring perils and
hardships which had brought them an understanding and mutual regard
which no difference in colour, or education could lessen. For all the
distinction of the police officer's rank and his white man's learning,
for all the Indians were dark-skinned, uncultured products of the great
white outlands, they were three friends held by bonds which only the
hearts of real men could weld.

The territory over which Steve Allenwood exercised his police control
was well-nigh limitless from a "one-man" point of view. From his
headquarters, which lay within the confines of the Allowa Indian Reserve
on the Caribou River, it reached away to the north as far as the Arctic
Circle. To the west, only the barrier of the great McKenzie River marked
its limits. To the south, there was nothing beyond the Reserve claiming
his official capacity, except the newly grown township of Deadwater, two
miles away. Eastwards? Well, East was East. So far as Inspector
Allenwood knew his district had no limits in that direction, unless it
were the rugged coast line of the Hudson's Bay itself.

His task left Steve Allenwood without complaint. It was never his way to
complain. Doubtless there were moments in his life when he realized the
overwhelming nature of it all. But he no more yielded to it than he
would yield to the overwhelming nature of a winter storm. That was the
man. Patient; alive with invincible courage and dispassionate
determination. Square, calm, strong, like the professional gambler he
always seemed to have a winning card to play at the right moment. And
none knew better than his scouts how often that card had meant the
difference between a pipe over the warm camp-fire and the cold comfort
of an icy grave.

Julyman was troubled at the unease he observed in the white man's eyes.
It had been there on and off for some days now. It had been there more
markedly earlier in the evening when the white man had helped his girl
wife into the rig in which Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, was
driving Dr. and Mrs. Ross, and their two daughters, to the dance which
was being given down at the township by the bachelors of Deadwater.
Since then the look ha