laughed aloud.

"Stonor, were you ever real crazy about a woman?"

The trooper shook his head--almost regretfully, one might have said.
"The right one never came my way, Tole."

"You don't like the girls around here."

"Yes, I do. Nice girls. Pretty, too. But well, you see, they're not the
same colour as me."

"Just the same, they are crazy about you."

"Nonsense!"

"Yes, they are. Call you 'Gold-piece.' Us fellows got no chance if you
want them."

"Tell me about the stories you read, Tole."

Tole refused to be diverted from his subject. "Stonor, I think you would
like to be real crazy about a woman."

"Maybe," said the other dreamily. "Perhaps life would seem less empty
then."

"Would you go bury yourself among the Indians for a woman?"

"I hardly think so," said Stonor, smiling. "Though you never can tell
what you might do. But if I got turned down, I suppose I'd want to be as
busy as possible to help forget it."

"Well, I think that Imbrie is crazy for sure."

"It takes all kinds to make a world. If I can get permission I'm going
out to see him next summer."

CHAPTER II

HOOLIAM

When the spring days came around, Stonor, whose business it was to keep
watch on such things, began to perceive an undercurrent of waywardness
among the Indians and breeds of the post. Teachers know how an epidemic
of naughtiness will sweep a class; this was much the same thing. There
was no actual outbreak; it was chiefly evinced in defiant looks and an
impudent swagger. It was difficult to trace back, for the red people
hang together solidly; a man with even a trace of red blood will rarely
admit a white man into the secrets of the race. Under questioning they
maintain a bland front that it is almost impossible to break down.
Stonor had long ago learned the folly of trying to get at what he wanted
by direct questioning.

He finally, as he thought, succeeded in locating the source of the
infection at Carcajou Point. Parties from the post rode up there with
suspicious frequency, and came back with a noticeably lowered moral
tone, licking their lips, so to speak. All the signs pointed to whisky.

At dawn of a morning in May, Stonor, without having advertised his
intention, set off for Carcajou on horseback. The land trail cut across
a wide sweep of the river, and on horseback one could make it in a day,
whereas it was a three days' paddle up-stream. Unfortunately he couldn't
take them by surprise, for Carcaj