"democrat," a light wagon with springs; and
Kate's "shaganappies," Tom and Jerry--native ponies, the toughest
horse flesh to be found in the world--were hitched to it. Kate and I
were properly accoutred for our trip and looked--but I try to forget
how we looked! The memory is not flattering.

We drove off in the gayest of spirits. Our difficulties began at the
start, for we had to drive a mile before we could find a place to ford
the creek. Beyond that, however, we had a passable trail for three
miles to the little outpost of the Mounted Police, where five or six
men were stationed on detachment duty.

"Sergeant Baker is a friend of mine," said Kate. "He'll be only too
glad to lend me all we require."

The sergeant was a friend of Kate's, but he looked at her as if he
thought she was crazy when she told him where we were going.

"You'd better take a canoe instead of a team," he said sarcastically.
"I've a good notion to arrest you both as horse thieves and prevent
you from going on such a mad expedition."

"You know nothing short of arrest would stop me," said Kate, nodding
at him with laughing eyes, "and you really won't go to such an
extreme, I know. So please be nice, even if it comes hard, and lend us
some things. I've come a-borrying."

"I won't lend you a thing," declared the sergeant. "I won't aid and
abet you in any such freak as this. Go home now, like a good girl."

"I'm not going home," said Kate. "I'm not a 'good girl'--I'm a wicked
old maid, and I'm going to Bothwell. If you won't lend us a tent we'll
go without--and sleep in the open--and our deaths will lie forever at
your door. I'll come back and haunt you, if you don't lend me a tent.
I'll camp on your very threshold and you won't be able to go out of
your door without falling over my spook."

"I've more fear of being accountable for your death if I do let you
go," said Sergeant Baker dubiously. "However, I see that nothing but
physical force will prevent you. What do you want?"

"I want," said Kate, "a cavalry tent, a sheet-iron camp stove, and a
good Indian guide--old Peter Crow for choice. He's such a
respectable-looking old fellow, and his wife often works for us."

The sergeant gave us the tent and stove, and sent a man down to the
Reserve for Peter Crow. Moreover, he vindicated his title of friend by
making us take a dozen prairie chickens and a large ham--besides any
quantity of advice. We didn't want the advice but we hugely welcomed