ted in the practical
present, the other foot was still moccasined and loath to forget the
days of war-paint and whiskey-traders, feathers and fears. Over the
crudities and hardships, the dirt and poverty, the years between had
hung a kindly curtain of glamor; so that McNair with his big soft
kerchiefs, his ranger's hat, his cow-puncher's saddle and trappings and
his "Two-Bar" brand was a figure to crane an Eastern neck.

Likeable enough chap--too much of a man to be treated as a joke to his
face, but by no means to be taken seriously--not on most occasions. In
the present instance, with feeling running as high as it was in some
quarters, that crazy idea of seizing a few elevators at the point of a
gun--! What in heaven's name would they do with them after they got
them? Nevertheless, McNair might find rattle-brained listeners enough
to cause a heap of trouble. There were always a few fellows ready for
excitement; they might go in for the fun of it, then before they knew
it the thing would curdle over night like a pan of milk in a
thunder-storm.

"He's just darn fool enough to try some funny work," muttered the
anxious driver of the grain wagon. "Jailing him only makes a hero of
him and that's the kind of thing the beggar glories in. The
son-of-a-gun!"

One by one throughout the afternoon the miles crept tediously beneath
the wagon. The sun which had steeped the stubble in gold all day had
turned the sky and was poising for its nightly dip below the horizon by
the time the long misty blue line of the Qu'Appelle hills began to
creep from the prairie. When the lone traveller at last could count
the deep shadowy coulees the sun had disappeared, but the riot of
after-fires still burned brightly in the west. He had passed his own
place hours before, but had stopped there only for a change of horses
and a brief rest; a parcel and an important message which he wished to
deliver in person at Fort Qu'Appelle without delay was extending his
day's journey.

Six hundred feet below the level of the plain the grassy slopes of the
Qu'Appelle Valley bowled to the blue lakes. Hugging the water's edge,
the buildings of the romantic old fort scattered in the twilight. The
winding trail stood out like a white thread that reached down the
valley towards the Catholic Mission of Lebret.

Before heading into the steep descent the farmer from over Abernethy
way slipped on his heavy cardigan jacket; for behind the rim of the
hi