venture-loving, handsome sister. What of her? It was terrible. So
full of promise, so full of possibilities. Look at her. She was clad
in a big gingham apron. No doubt her beautiful, artistic hands were
all messed up with the stains of scrubbing out a Meeting House, which,
in turn, right back to the miserable Indian days, had served the
purposes of saloon, a trader's store, the home of a bloodthirsty
badman, and before that goodness knows what. Now it was a house of
worship for people, beside whom the scum of the earth was as the froth
of whipped cream. It was--outrageous. It was so terrible to her that
she felt as if she must cry, or--or laugh.

The issue remained in doubt for some moments. Then, just as she
reached the pretentious portals of Mrs. John Day's home, her real
nature asserted itself, and a radiant smile lit her pretty face as she
passed within.

CHAPTER IX

THE "STRAY"-HUNTER

The real man is nearest the surface after a long period of idle
solitude.

So it was with Stanley Fyles, riding over the even, sandy trail of the
prairies which stretched away south of the Assiniboine River. His
sunburnt face was sternly reposeful, and in his usually keen gray eyes
was that open staring light which belongs to the man who gropes his
way over Nature's trackless wastes, and whose mind is ever asking the
question of direction. But there was no question of such a nature in
his mind now. His look was the look of habit, when the call of the
trail is heard.

He sat his horse with the easy grace of a man whose life is mostly
spent in the saddle. His loose shoulders and powerful frame swayed
with that magical rhythm which gives most ease to both horse and
rider. His was the seat of a horseman whose poise is the poise of
perfect balance rather than the set attitude of the riding school.

The bit hung lightly in the horse's mouth, but lightly as the reins
were held in the man's hand there was a firmness and decision in the
feeling of them that communicated the necessary confidence between
horse and rider.

Stanley Fyles was as nearly a perfect horseman as the prairie could
produce.

Just now the man beneath the officer's habit was revealed. His
military training was set aside, perhaps all thought of it had been
left behind with his uniform, and just the "man" was reassumed with
the simple prairie kit he had adopted for the work in hand.

To look at him now he might have been a ranch hand out on the work of