e hay, with her
bare legs, and the gray dust settling thickly upon her red dress and
vivid pink sunbonnet.

CHAPTER IV

MONK BETHUNE

"When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,
When the devil got well, the devil a monk was he."

Pippin Larue chanted tipsily, as he strummed softly the strings of a
muffled banjo. And Raoul Bethune, with the flush of liquor upon his
pale cheeks, joined in the laugh that followed, and replenished his
glass from the black bottle he had contrived to smuggle from the
hospital stores when he had been returned to his room in the
dormitory. And "Monk" Bethune he was solemnly rechristened by the
half-dozen admiring satellites who had foregathered to celebrate his
recovery from an illness. All this was long ago. Monk Bethune's
dormitory life had terminated abruptly--for the good of the school,
but the name had fastened itself upon him after the manner of names
that fit. It followed him to far places, and certain red-coated
policemen, who knew and respected his father, the Hudson Bay Company's
old factor on Lake o' God's Wrath, hated him for what he had become.
They knew him for an inveterate gambler who spent money freely and
boasted openly of his winnings. He was soft of voice and mild of
manner and aside from his passion for gambling, his conduct so far as
was known was irreproachable. But, there were wise and knowing ones
among the officers of the law, who deemed it worth their while to make
careful and unobtrusive comparison between the man's winnings and his
expenditures. These were the men who knew that certain Indians were
being systematically supplied with whisky, and that there were certain
horses in Canada whose brands, upon close inspection, showed signs of
having been skillfully "doctored," and which bore unmistakable
evidence of having come from the ranges to the southward of the
international boundary.

But, try as they might, no slightest circumstance of evidence could
they unearth against Bethune, who was wont to disappear from his usual
haunts for days and weeks at a time, to reappear smiling and
debonaire, as unexpectedly as he had gone. Knowing that the men of the
Mounted suspected him, he laughed at them openly. Once, upon a street
in Regina, Corporal Downey lost his temper.

"You'll make a mistake sometime, Monk, and then it will be our turn to
laugh."

"Oh-ho! So until I make a mistake, I am safe, eh? That is good news,
Downey--good news! S