COPYRIGHT PHOTO

Constable Cashman, N.W.M.P. (second from left), taken at Norway House shortly before
his departure for the hunting grounds of the Saulteaux killers.

tered Cashman. “No one ahead of us

we've traveled fast—and still
they've found we're on their trail and
vamoosed.”

A crimson sun shouldered above
the jagged rim of the forest as they
drove into the abandoned village. The
trail of many snowshoes led south;
west. Whipping up their dogs they
followed in the wake of the retreating
Saulteaux, noting as they swung along
on creaking snowshoes tracks leading
off here and there—scouts going out
for reinforcements. As they neared
Deer Lake the main trail freshened.
New tracks curved in from the forest.
Smoke signals and runners were bring-
ing in tribesmen from outlying camps.
Pecequan, it seemed, wasn’t going to
surrender his rule without a fight.

Late in the fourth day after leaving
the deserted village spruce boughs
dotted the ice ahead. Net-holes! The
camp couldn’t be far away. Emitting
excited barks the dogs leapt into their
collars, the toboggans leaping over
the freshening trail. Rounding a
rocky point they saw ahead a sight
that made their hearts leap. The camp
of the outlaw Saulteaux—a score of

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Scowling Faces

Hurtling up the bank they were
surrounded by a horde of wirey red-
skins and looked into a sea of scowl-
ing faces and piercing, serpent-like
eyes. From their lodge doors squaws
raised shrill protests and spat at the
intruding red-coats, while dogs
snapped at their heels.

The camp was far larger than
Cashman had expected. There were
far more insolent, hawk-nosed bucks
around than he’d thought to find in a
winter camp. The Saulteaux were in
an ugly mood. Kirkness, who shared
their blood, was pale and nervous.

With set lips Cashman dived into a
long, smoke-filled council lodge,
packed to the walls with turbulent
Indians. Again he gazed at that motley
concourse. In the red glow of the
lodge fire Stone Age and Iron Age,
separated by the gulf of centuries,
faced each other with unrelenting
purpose. Disregarding the menace of
shining muskets, tightly gripped in
coppery fingers, Cashman delivered
his message.

The Great White Father had heard
of the killing of Sapwaste. He’d heard
of other killings, too. Those guilty
were to go back with the red-coated
Shimaginashuk to the white man’s
fort at Norway House.

Three score pairs of beady eyes
gazed unwinkingly at Jimmy Kirkness
as he interpreted the words into

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