two more. Somebody shouted harsh orders in
uncouth French; the dogs sped toward the fire and stopped. Their
driver, hurrying after them, began to loose the traces, while another
man walked up to Blake.

"We saw your fire and thought we'd make for it," he explained. "I see
your cooking outfit's still lying round."

"It's at your service," Blake responded. "I'm sorry we can't offer you
much supper, though there's a bit of a bannock and some flour."

"We'll soon fix that," the man declared. "Guess you're up against it,
but our grub's holding out." He turned to the driver. "Come and tend
to the cooking when you're through, Emile."

Though the order was given good-humoredly, there was a hint of
authority in his voice, and the man to whom he spoke quickened his
movements. Then another man came up, and while the dogs snapped at
each other, and rolled in the snow, the half-breed driver unloaded a
heavy provision bag and filled Harding's frying-pan.

"Don't spare it," said the first comer. "I guess these men are hungry;
fix up your best menoo."

Sitting down by the fire, shapeless in his whitened coat, with his
bronzed face half hidden by his big fur cap, he had nevertheless a
soldierly look.

"You're wondering who we are?" he asked genially.

"Oh, no," Blake smiled. "I can make a guess; there's a stamp on you I
recognize. You're from Regina."

"You've hit it first time. I'm Sergeant Lane, R.N.W.M.P. This"--he
indicated his companion--"is Private Walthew. We've been up on a
special patrol to Copper Lake, and left two of the boys there to make
some inquiries about the Indians. Now we're on the back trail."

He looked as if he expected the others to return his confidence, and
Blake had no hesitation about doing so. He knew the high reputation of
the Royal North-West Mounted Police, a force of well-mounted and
carefully chosen frontier cavalry. Its business is to keep order on a
vast stretch of plain, to watch over adventurous settlers who push out
ahead of the advancing farming community, and to keep a keen eye on the
reservation Indians. Men from widely different walks of life serve in
its ranks, and the private history of each squadron is rich in romance,
but one and all are called upon to scour the windy plains in the saddle
in the fierce summer heat and to make adventurous sled journeys across
the winter snow. Their patrols search the lonely North from Hudson Bay
to the Mackenzie, living in the o