t had no means of confuting the
man on the spot. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

"A week or so. I didn't keep track."

"What is your business here?"

"I'm looking for a job."

"Among the Beavers? Why didn't you come to the trading-post?"

"I was coming, but they tell me John Gaviller's a hard man to work fer.
Thought I better keep clear of him."

"Gaviller's the only employer of labour hereabouts. If you don't like
him you'll have to look elsewhere."

"I can take up land, can't I?"

"Not here. This is treaty land. Plenty of good surveyed homesteads
around the post."

"Thanks. I prefer to pick my own location."

"I'll give you your choice. You can either come down to the post where I
can keep an eye on your doings, or go back up the river where you came
from."

"Do you call this a free country?"

"Never mind that. You're getting off easy. If you'd rather, I'll put you
under arrest and carry you down to the post for trial."

"On what charge?"

"Furnishing whisky to the Indians."

"It's a lie!" cried the man, hoping to provoke Stonor into revealing the
extent of his information.

But the policeman shrugged, and remained mum.

The other suddenly changed his front. "All right, I'll go if I have to,"
he said, with a conciliatory air. "To-morrow."

"You'll leave within an hour," said Stonor, consulting his watch. "I'll
see you off. Better get your things together."

The man still lingered, and Stonor saw an unspoken question in his eye,
a desire to ingratiate himself. Now Stonor, under his stern port as an
officer of the law, was intensely curious about the fellow. With his
good looks, his impudent assurance, his command of English, he was a
notable figure in that remote district. The policeman permitted himself
to unbend a little.

"What are you travelling in?" he asked.

"Dug-out." Encouraged by the policeman's altered manner, the self-styled
Hooliam went on, with an air of taking Stonor into his confidence:
"These niggers here are a funny lot, aren't they? Still believe in
magic."

"In what way?"

"Why, they're always talking about a White Medicine Man who lives beside
a river off to the north-west. Ernest Imbrie they call him. Do you know
him?"

"No."

"He's been to the post, hasn't he?"

"No."

"Well, how did he get into the country?"

"I don't know."

"These people say he works magic."

"Well, if anyone wants to believe that--!"

"What do they say about him down at t