stubble of beard belied his words, and
I had a hunch that he was Mr. Ellis,
the hangman.

“I’ve got a job at Fort Smith that'll
keep me until November 1,” he con-
fided. ‘“‘How’ll chances be to get out

Pi

right away after that:

“Rotten,” I told him. “You'll be
hung up till freeze-up in December.
Then it'll mean a ten-day’s trip by
dog-team.”

“Hell!” growled the “auditor.” “I’ve
got another case in Halifax on De-
cember 1. I’m not going to miss that.
It means $500.”

And, it didn’t require much stretch
of the imagination to assume that the
“case” was another hanging. At Fort
McMurray he wired Commissioner
Perry of the Mounted Police, cancel-
ing the trip northward, and hurried
back to civilization on the same train.

Hangman Becomes Socialite

With that perverted sense of humor
which has landed me in many jack-
pots, I introduced the hangman to
the socially-starved ladies of Fort Mc-
Murray as a “high-ranking Mounted
Police official, traveling incognito.”
Soon they were falling over each other
to capture this social “prize.” Prompt-
ly the hangman became the social lion
of the hour. In his honor leading
ladies of the backwoods settlement
organized a dance. Ellis rose to the
occasion as though to the manner
born. He tap-danced, sang rollicking
songs, and whirled the ladies with
great gusto over the dance floor. And
then the truth leaked out! “I'll kill
that damned husband of yours!”
hissed one of the ladies to my wife.
But I had already ducked for cover.

When our heavy-laden scow nosed
into Fort Fitzgerald a fortnight later
there was no hangman aboard and it
looked as though Albert was going to
get a break at last. With freeze-up
likely at any moment there seemed
little chance of another hangman be-
ing sent north in time to take the
place of Ellis, in which case the sen-
tence would lapse into imprisonment.

A week later my interpreter burst
in excitedly. “Okemow,” he shouted,
“dere’s a gas-boat. It’s comin’ down de
ribber!”

Unbelieving, I hurried outside.
Nosing her way through the pans of
floating ice the Nechemus sidled into
the dock and unloaded a lone white
man bent with age, his silvered locks
encircling a kind and benevolent face.
The gnome-like creature in ratskin
cap and mackinaw coat was Mr.
Wakelen, an 80-year-old farmer who
had been rushed north by special boat
to officiate at Albert’s obsequies.

“Who’s him?” inquired Albert as
the hangman gave him a friendly nod
in passing.

“Just a trapper, Albert,” “Slim” told

TWENTY-SECOND EDITION

the curious redskin. “Just a trapper.”
But his voice was thick with emotion,
and he avoided the Indian’s eye.

Albert grinned, his misgivings set
at rest by the assurance of his friend.

Were not the Mounted Police his
best friends? Hadn’t his two guards,
“Slim” and “Rags” kept him supplied
with tobacco and cigarettes? And,
hadn't the other whiteman’s wife saved
his life when he was dying with the
Red Death? Yes! Albert was quite
satisfied.

Next day Wakelen left for Fort
Smith to erect the scaffold. A mile
from the settlement two straight-boled
pines rose high into the autumn air.
Around them he reared a log wall,
unroofed, with flooring and a trap
and, 20 feet above the ground, a
cross-beam was lashed to the two
pines.

Sublimely unconscious of the prep-
arations, Albert boarded the police
wagon as November neared, squatted
atop a coil of rope in the rear and
complacently puffed at his pipe as he
was jolted across the portage. Placed
in a solitary cabin amongst the snow-
covered jackpines near the scaffold he
commenced to wonder what was afoot.
Not till two black-robed priests from
the Mission came to prepare his soul
for the Hereafter did he realize his
plight. Unbelieving and angry, he
stormed at the fathers. The police
were his friends, he told them.
They’d see that nothing happened.
“Get out of here!” he howled, and
beat his hands upon the wall.

The Hanging

In the dim light of the November
dawn a solemn procession wended its
way from the little snow-covered
cabin amongst the pines towards the
scaffold. Ahead, crucifix in hand,
walked a moccasined priest in holy
vestments, chanting a prayer. Behind
stumbled Albert, guarded by “Slim”
MacDonald and “Rags” Baker, both
white and strained. In the rear strode
Inspector Fletcher, Indian Agent
Card and Doctor McDonald.

“Oh! ‘Rags’! Oh! ‘Slim!’ ” cried the
Indian in an agony of despair. “You
no let ‘em kill me. Save me . . . save
KORG IN

Through the empurpled darkness
loomed the shadowy shape of the
scaffold. Affrightedly the Indian drew
back. Half leading, half carrying him,
the constables hoisted him up the
rungs of the rough ladder. One last
despairing appeal for another day to
live he made to the inspector, whose
drawn face shone dimly in the star-
light.

* * * * *

Late that night two white-faced
young Mounties dropped in to my
home at Fort Fitzgerald to tell us, in

voices thick with emotion of the
passing of Lebeaux. They were
Albert’s guards, “Slim” and “Rags’—
shaken to the very depths of their
souls by the scene they had witnessed
in the dim early hour of that No-
vember morning. Up at the barracks
the woman who had nursed Albert
back to life wept bitterly.

Today, at Fort Smith—in lonely
isolation, stand the two tall pines
around which the scaffold was erected.
When night descends the redmen
shun the spot for they will tell you
that the sound you hear moaning
through the spectral branches is not
the wind but the ghostly spirit of
Albert Lebeaux while, from afar,
Indian mothers point nervously to the
pines as a warning to their chil-
dren. * * (Copyright Reserved).

Motorists going abroad may now
drive their cars aboard an ocean liner,
park them in a garage and drive
ashore on the other side of the
Atlantic. The garage on the motor
liner Batory of the Gydnia American
Line is reached by a special ramp
from the dock. The usual practice in
shipping cars abroad is to lift them
with a derrick.

The judge wished to make sure

that the witness understood the
solemnity of the occasion.
“Do you know what that oath

means?” the judge asked.

“Sure I do,” the witness answered.
“That oath means if I swear to a lie
I gotta stick to it.”

No matter how poor and mean a
man is, his friendship is worth more
than his hate.

JOHNSON’S STORE and
SERVICE STATION

Groceries - Lunches
Refreshments

CLUCULZ LAKE, B.C.
P.O. Box 1196, Prince George, B.C.

BULKLEY VALLEY

CO-OP ASS’N

GENERAL MERCHANTS
— FARM PRODUCE — |
MEATS - HAY - GRAIN
EGG GRADING STATION
JOS. C. NEALE, Mgr. _ TELKWA, B.C.

FP, W. A. Mapleton

Patent Medicines, Stationery, School Sup-
plies, Fancy China, Chocolates, Films,
Tobaccos, Fishing Tackle, Sporting
Goods, Magazines

Toilet Accessories, Subscriptions taken for
all Periodicals, Gifts and Novelties,
Films Developed and Printed

TELKWA British Columbia

eee SSS
Page Fifteen