pe round his waist, leaving his arms free, while the
two ends were held on either side by a couple of men.
His late guard, the big breed, who could not have been
such a bad fellow, discovered his pipe, tobacco, and
matches in one pocket, but withdrew his hand quickly.

"Nozing thar," he declared.

Whether or not he thought the prisoner might soon require
them on his way to the Happy Hunting Grounds is a matter
of speculation.

They took his pocket-knife and keys, and in the inner
pocket of his jacket they found the usual regimental
papers and weekly reports pertaining to the Police
Detachment. These are alike as peas throughout the
Territories, and not of the slightest value or interest,
save to those directly concerned, but to Riel it was a
great find. He spread them out, scanned a few lines here
and there, opened his eyes wide, pursed his lips, and
then, as if it were superfluous pursuing the matter
further, waved his hand in a melodramatic fashion, and
cried--

"It is enough! He is of the Police. He has also been
found spying in camp, and the penalty for that is death.
I hear he is one of the men who ran down and shot Heinault,
who was one of the people. Let him be taken to the same
spot and shot also. He took the blood of the metis--let
the metis now take his! Away with him!"

Such a wild yelling, whooping, and brandishing of guns
took place at these words that Pasmore thought there
would be little necessity to take him to the spot where
"Wild Joe" of tender memory slept. When an antiquated
fowling-piece actually did go off, and shot an Indian in
the legs, the uproar was inconceivable. Pasmore thought
of Rory's dogs having a sporting five minutes, and smiled,
despite the gravity of the situation. But order was
restored, and with Riel and two of his so-called "generals"
in the lead, and a straggling crowd of human beings and
dogs following, the prisoner was led slowly towards the
spot fixed for his execution.

Past the piles of smouldering ashes, and tracks strewn,
with all sorts of destroyed merchandise, they went. They
had looted the stores to their hearts' content, and were
now rioting in an excess of what to them was good living;
but where those short-sighted creatures expected to get
fresh supplies from is a question they probably never
once put to themselves.

Silent and powerless in King Frost's embrace lay the
great river. How like beautiful filagree work some of
the pine-boughs looked agains