e
crowd drew off, separating into groups and gathering about the various
fires. For the time the danger was over.

Between them Dr. Martin and the Chief carried the boy into the tent and
laid him on his bed.

"What sort of beasts have you got out there anyway?" said the doctor,
facing the Chief abruptly.

"Him drink bad whisky," answered the Chief, tipping up his hand. "Him
crazee," touching his head with his forefinger.

"Crazy! Well, I should say. What they want is a few ounces of lead."

The Chief made no reply, but stood with his eyes turned admiringly upon
Moira's face.

"Squaw--him good," he said, pointing to the girl. "No 'fraid--much
brave--good."

"You are right enough there, Chief," replied the doctor heartily.

"Him you squaw?" inquired the Chief, pointing to Moira.

"Well--eh? No, not exactly," replied the doctor, much confused, "that
is--not yet I mean--"

"Huh! Him good squaw. Him good man," replied the Chief, pointing first
to Moira, then to the doctor.

Moira hurried to the tent door.

"They are all gone," she exclaimed. "Thank God! How awful they are!"

"Huh!" replied the Chief, moving out past her. "Him drink, him
crazee--no drink, no crazee." At the door he paused, and, looking back,
said once more with increased emphasis, "Huh! Him good squaw," and
finally disappeared.

"By Jove!" said the doctor with a delighted chuckle. "The old boy is a
man of some discernment I can see. But the kid and you saved the day,
Miss Moira."

"Oh, what nonsense you are talking. It was truly awful, and how
splendidly you--you--"

"Well, I caught him rather a neat one, I confess. I wonder if the brute
is sleeping yet. But you did the trick finally, Miss Moira."

"Huh," grunted Mandy derisively, "Good man--good squaw, eh?"

CHAPTER XV

THE OUTLAW

The bitter weather following an autumn of unusual mildness had set in
with the New Year and had continued without a break for fifteen days. A
heavy fall of snow with a blizzard blowing sixty miles an hour had made
the trails almost impassable, indeed quite so to any but to those bent
on desperate business or to Her Majesty's North West Mounted Police. To
these gallant riders all trails stood open at all seasons of the year,
no matter what snow might fall or blizzard blow, so long as duty called
them forth.

The trail from the fort to the Big Horn Ranch, however, was so
wind-swept that the snow was blown away, which made the going fairly
easy, an