watched the Tall One sewing leather
over the stock of his gun. Napasise,”
he grinned, “thought how foolish it
was, as how could it make the gun
shoot straighter. He pushed a big
needle through the leather with a
glove that hadn’t any fingers.”

“And the Tall One,” interrupted
Napasise, “had a big shining buckle
on his belt, and wherever he went he
was followed by a yellow dog that
seemed to love his master.”

“Where were they going?” inquired
the Sergeant.

“Otanark — the settlement,” re-
sponded the bright-eyed Moonias.
“The second night the Tall One dis-
appeared and” he added significantly,
“when Char-lee left three suns later he
had to drag the Tall One’s dog. It
didn’t want to leave the camp-fire.”

The sergeant followed the chief to

the camping-place of the whites.
“Mistay picotay!” Mistoos motioned
towards the fireplace... “Plenty
ashes, huh?”
'A thick bed of ashes covered the
site of the campfire. Already Andy
was on his knees sifting them through
his fingers, wondering at the large
accumulation since the nights had
been warm and only a small fire
would be needed. His groping fingers
encountered something hard—a piece
of bone. Another followed another.
He put them carefully in his pocket.
They might be from a moose, again
they might prove sinister clues.
Probably, he thought, the men had
quarelled and separated, you couldn’t
believe all the gossip you heard
amongst the tepees.

Snakey Eyes Watch the Sergeant

Some instinct caused him to glance
at the wall of shimmering willows. A
tawny hand disappeared swiftly but
he was conscious of a pair of snakey
eyes watching him intently. Next
moment they were gone.

The glimmer of water through the
willows took him to a slough where
the men had evidently obtained their
water. Prowling amongst the reeds he
prodded here and there with a stick
while Mistoos ordered his son to run
over to the tepee and bring a rake.

Slipping off his long boots the ser-
geant rolled up his trousers and
waded knee deep in the water, feeling
about in the slimy mud with his toes
while Mistoos dragged the bottom
with a rake. Suddenly the chief
emitted an exultant whoop and held
aloft a battered kettle. “A-ogo!—dat’s
it. Dat’s de kettle de white man used,”
the Indian lads were yelling.

Returning to the fireplace the
sergeant scrutinized the earth, the
grass and even the moss amongst the
willows, with an expert eye. Outlined
in the damp mould were moccasin
prints, a few days old, leading from
the tepees to the camp and back

TWENTY-THIRD EDITION

again. Why, he wondered, had this
Indian, whoever it was, approached
the white man’s camp by stealth and
sneaked back in a similar manner—
and did people know more about the
missing Shagonash than they were
prepared to tell?

Returning to the settlement he was
guided by a Cree remark dropped in
the trading store, to the log cabin of
the half-breed hunter Moise Gladu.
Andy’s ice-blue eyes made a swift in-
ventory of everything within. “Vell
Moise,” he smiled, “you sure get lots
of traps. Figure on going trapping?”

“Non Monsieur,’ Moise shook his
shaggy head. “Dem traps belong to
Charlie King. He’s come from Edmon-
ton. Now he’s figure on going back
by de stemaire and wants for sell
dem.”

There was a tug at the latch-string
and a pleasant-faced man in a cowboy
hat entered. By the slight twist to his
body the sergeant knew instinctively
that he was Char-lee King.

“Howdy!” the stranger nodded and
the sergeant found himself looking
into a pair of friendly grey eyes. Chat-
ting affably and without arousing his
suspicions the sergeant led the con-
versation to King’s trip in from Ed-
monton. The man spoke frankly. He’d
met a stranger, who called himself
Leman, near the sand hills and they'd
camped together on the reserve. A
couple of days later Leman had set
out for Sturgeon Lake afoot on a
prospecting trip while he remained
there to rest his horses.

King seemed a harmless, easy-going
fellow without a hint of the des-
perado about him and the sergeant
found his suspicions evaporating like
snow before the summer sun. Again
he thought of that moccasin track
amongst the willows and the furtive,
watching Indian.

Search Every Stopping Place.
Speak to Every Indian
Returning to the barracks at Buf-
falo Bay, Andy sent for Constable
Lowe. “Better saddle up,” he told him,
“and leave for Sturgeon Lake.” In a
few swift words he described King’s
partner. ‘‘Search every stopping place
and speak to every Indian along the
trail—and report back here as quick
as you know how,” he ordered.
When, a few days later, Lowe, dust-
stained and weary, reported back with
word that no white man answering
Leman’s description had been seen
along the trail the sergeant sauntered
up the trail to the Hudson’s Bay post.
“I vant a warrant for Charlie
King!” he told McDermott, the fac-
tor.
The factor raised his shaggy eye-
brows. “And what’s the charge?”
“Murder!” growled the sergeant.
McDermott started. “A’richt, Andy.
Hae it ony way ye like, but ah’m
thinkin’ ye’re crazy as a loon!” His

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Page Thirty-three