rs!" . . . He mounted once more. "Well! there's no
denying you are one hell of a sergeant!"

That worthy one grinned at him tolerantly. "Get yez gone!" he spat back,
"an' du not linger tu play craps on th' thrail either--th' tu av yez!"

Long and grimly, with his bald head sunk between his huge shoulders, he
gazed after the departing riders. "Eyah! 'tis best so!" he murmured
softly, "a showdown--wid no ould shtiff av a non-com like meself tu butt
in. . . . An', onless I am mistuk that same will come this very morn,
from th' luks av things. . . . Sind th' young wan is as handy wid his
dhooks as Brankley sez he is! . . . Thin--an' on'y thin will there be
peace in th' fam'ly."

He re-lit his pipe and, shading his eyes from the snow-glare focussed
them on two rapidly vanishing black specks. "I wud that I cud see ut!"
he sighed, plaintively, "I wud that I cud see ut!"

It was a glorious day, sunny and clear, with the temperature sufficiently
low to prevent the hard-packed snow from balling up the horses' feet.
The trail ran fairly level along a lower shelf of the timber-lined
foothills, which on their right hand sloped gradually to the banks of the
Bow River in a series of rolling "downs." Sharply outlined against the
blue ether the Sou' Western chain of the mighty "Rockies" reared their
rosily-white peaks in all their morning glory--silent guardians of the
winter landscape.

Deep down in his soul young Redmond harboured a silent, dreamy adoration
for the beauty of such scenes as this. Under different conditions he
would have enjoyed this ride immensely. But now--with his mind a
seething bitter chaos consequent upon his companion's incomprehensible
behavior towards him, he rode in a sort of brooding reverie. Yorke was
equally morose. Not a word had fallen from their lips since they left
the detachment.

Right under the horses' noses a big white jack-rabbit suddenly darted
across the snow-banked ruts of the well-worn trail, pursuing its leaping
erratic course towards a patch of brush on the river side.
Simultaneously the animals shied, with an inward trend, cannoning their
respective riders together. Yorke reined away sharply and glared.

"Get over'" he said curtly, "don't crowd me!"

He spoke as a Cossack hetman might to his sotnia, and, at his tone and
attitude, something snapped within Redmond. To his already overflowing
cup of resentment it was the last straw. His promise to Slavin he flung
to the