he had rolled a
cigarette, and then instead of going to sleep he began talking to
Piegan, asking what seemed to me a lot of rather trifling questions. I
was nearly worn out, and their conversation was nowise interesting to
me, so listening to the monotonous drone of their voices and the steady
beat of falling rain, I went to sleep.

Before a great while I wakened; to speak truthfully, the ungentle voice
of Piegan Smith brought me out of dreamland with a guilty start. MacRae
was still sitting up in bed, and from that part of his speech which
filtered into my ears I gathered that he was recounting to Piegan the
tale of our adventures during the past week. I thought that odd, for Mac
was a close-mouthed beggar as a general thing; but there was no valid
reason why he should not proclaim the story from the hill-tops if he
chose, so I rolled over and pulled the blankets above my head--to
protect my ear-drums if Piegan's astonishment should again find verbal
expression.

The cook's battle-cry of "Grub _pi-i-ile_" wakened me next. A thin line
of yellowish-red in the east betokened the birth of another day, a day
born in elemental turmoil, for the fierce wind was no whit abated, nor
the sullen, driving rain.

"I've enlisted a recruit," MacRae told me in an undertone, as we ate
breakfast. "It struck me that if we had somebody along that we could
trust to ride into that Police camp with his mouth shut and his ears and
eyes open, we might find out something that would show us how the land
lay; even if he accomplished nothing else, he could learn if those
fellows are still with the troop."

"That was why you were making that talk to Piegan last night, was it?" I
said. "Well, from what little I've seen and heard of him, he'd be a
whole team if he's willing to throw in with us and take a chance." Which
was perfectly true. Old Piegan had the reputation, on both sides of the
line, of loving to jump into a one-sided fight for the pure joy of
evening up the odds. He was a boisterous, rough-spoken mortal, but his
heart was big, and set in the right place. And, though I didn't know it
then, he had a grouch against Hicks, who had once upon a time run him
into Fort Walsh in irons on an unjustified suspicion of whisky-running.
That was really what started Piegan in the smuggling business--a desire
to play even, after getting what he called a "damn rough deal."

"He's willing enough," Mac assured me. "Aside from the fact that most
any wh