and I together, to see the boy. I am
really sorry for that boy. He can't help his father, can he?"

"Quite true," said the Inspector gravely.

"Let us go and find out all we can and next day make your attempt.
Besides, Allan," she cried under a sudden inspiration of memory, "you
can't possibly go. You forget your sister arrives at Calgary this week.
You must meet her."

"By Jove! Is that so? I had forgotten," said Cameron, turning to study
the calendar on the wall, a gorgeous work of art produced out of
the surplus revenues of a Life Insurance Company. "Let's see," he
calculated. "This week? Three days will take us in. We are still all
right. We have five. That gives us two days clear for this job. I feel
like making this try, Mandy," he continued earnestly. "We have this chap
practically within our grasp. He will be off guard. The Piegans are not
yet worked up to the point of resistance. Ten days from now our man may
be we can't tell where."

Mandy remained silent. The ritual of her sacrifice was not yet complete.

"I think you are right, Allan," at length she said slowly with a twisted
smile. "I'm afraid you are right. It's hard not to be in it, though.
But," she added, as if moved by a sudden thought, "I may be in it yet."

"You will certainly be with us in spirit, Mandy," he replied, patting
the firm brown hand that lay upon the table.

"Yes, truly, and in our hearts," added the Inspector with a bow.

But Mandy made no reply. Already she was turning over in her mind a
half-formed plan which she had no intention of sharing with these men,
who, after the manner of their kind, would doubtless block it.

Early morning found Cameron and the Inspector on the trail toward the
Piegan Reserve, riding easily, for they knew not what lay before them
nor what demand they might have to make upon their horses that day. The
Inspector rode a strongly built, stocky horse of no great speed but good
for an all-day run. Cameron's horse was a broncho, an unlovely
brute, awkward and ginger-colored--his name was Ginger--sad-eyed
and wicked-looking, but short-coupled and with flat, rangy legs that
promised speed. For his sad-eyed, awkward broncho Cameron professed a
deep affection and defended him stoutly against the Inspector's jibes.

"You can't kill him," he declared. "He'll go till he drops, and then
twelve miles more. He isn't beautiful to look at and his manners are
nothing to boast of, but he will hang upon the fence the h