lls the sunset fires were dying and already the coolness of the
October night was making itself felt. At the mouth of a coulee he
spoke to a solitary Indian, standing motionless before a camp fire.
The appetizing odor of roasting wild fowl reminded him that he was more
than ready for the "bite to eat" which he would enjoy with the good
Father Hugonard at the Indian Mission--he of the dark, gentle eyes, the
quick understanding, the quiet tones. There would be much to talk
about.

So it proved. The hour was growing late when finally he bade good-bye
to his pleasant host and resumed his journey in the starlight,
refreshed and encouraged. For here in the seclusion of this peaceful
valley, since the days of the great buffalo herds, Father Hugonard had
ministered to the Indians, starved with them, worked patiently with
them through many seasons of flowers and snows. Nevertheless, out of
many discouragements and privations had this sterling man retained an
abiding faith in the triumph of righteousness in all things.

In the quiet beauty of the wonderful October night was little place for
the anxious thoughts of the day. Bitterness of spirit, the bickerings
of men, commercial Oppression and injustice--these were things far
removed from the planets of the Ages that sparkled like jewels in the
vault of Night. A vagrant breeze whispered in the valley sedges to the
placid lake. High in the air, invisible, migrating _wavies_ winged
into the south, the distant gabble of their passing falling weirdly
earthward.

The trail began to ascend sharply. Off to the right the sky was
growing rapidly lighter behind a distant hill and presently a lop of
yellow moon crept slowly over the edge and rose into the air like a
broken chalice, chasing the shadows to their retreats.

As he watched it the driver of the grain wagon recalled again the old
Indian legend that haunted this valley and had given it its name--how,
long ago, a young Indian chieftain was paddling his canoe through these
waters on his way to win a bride when suddenly above "the night wind's
melancholy song" he heard a voice calling him through the twilight.
"Qu'appelle? Qu'appelle?" he answered in French. "Who calls?" But
only his own voice came back in echoes while the gloom of night
deepened and a wan moon rose silently behind the distant hill. Then
when he reached the Indian encampment it was only to see the death
fires lighted on the shore, to hear the wail of w