*
By

Elie st GODSELE
F.R.G.S.

*

ENEATH the flickering majesty
of the Aurora Borealis Fort
Providence, Northwest ‘Terri-

tories, lay in splendid isolation, sepa-
rated by a thousand miles of snow-
enshrouded forests from the end-of-
steel at Fort McMurray. It was De-
cember, 1920, and the throb of tom-
toms from the Indian cabins denoted
the arrival of Indian hunters from the
Land of Little Sticks.

Within the log-walled trading post
Factor Balsillie was busy bartering
the pelts of marten, beaver, bear and
silver foxes from a band of mahogany-
faced Slavey hunters. Balsillie was
pleased. The news was good—fur was
plentiful this season! The door
creaked open on frost-rimmed hinges.
Enveloped in a cloud of frosty vapor
a wirey, pleasant-faced Indian entered.
Hunter at the mission of the Oblate
Fathers, Albert Lebeaux had dropped
in to learn the latest gossip of the
Silent Places. With envious eyes he
watched the ever accumulating pile of
trade goods pass across the counter in
exchange for the glossy peltries. Then,
as redskin reserve thawed, his tongue
was soon clucking in the queer gut-
turals that made up the Slavey
language.

Next morning a dozen dog-teams
were drawn up within the courtyard.
Then, to a fusilade of cracking whips,
and the guttural shouts of snowshoed
drivers, the brigade of hunters
careened through the gate of the
palisade, to be swallowed up in the
dark recesses of the forest.

A few days later a lone Indian
appeared with his young squaw at the
trading post, bought a few supplies
and, to the swish of creaking snow-
shoes, followed the furrowed trail left
by the sleds of the Slavey hunters.
Albert Lebeaux had quit the. Mission
to do some trapping on his own!

At Fort Simpson, sub-Arctic capital
of the Far North, 200 miles to the
TWENTY-SECOND EDITION

|
How Sergeant “‘Nitchie”’ |
Canadian Mounted Police solved a weird mystery.
And how Canada’s frontier force carried the white
man's law to the tepees of primitive Y ellow-Knife |
and Slavey Indians. |

Thorne of the Royal

northward, I was seated in the
Mounted Police Barracks chatting
with Sergeant “‘Nitchie’ ‘Thorne,

gazing from time to time through the
frost-whitened windows in the hope
of glimpsing, through the snow
flurries that whirled across the
frozen Mackenzie, the belated dog-
team bringing the winter packet from
the world of civilization we called the
Outside. Suddenly Thorne threw on
his ahtegi and dashed outside. “Dog-
team coming!” he cried as he hurried
back. “Looks like the mail sled. Now
we'll know what’s going on Outside.”

Cold and
Thorne of the

“Nitchie™
untangled

sardonic, Sergeant
Mounted Police,

threads that led a murderer to the gallows.

|
|

Philip Godsell, a trader of the

veteran
Hudson's Bay Company, was tn the Mac-
kenzie River country at the time of these

occurrences; attended the trial at Fort
Providence, and was intimately acquainted
with all the leading characters in this country.

An hour later a tired dog-team,
driven by a leathery-faced halt-breed,
wallowed through the drifts into the
courtyard of the fort. Traders, priests
and trappers assembled like magic
from all over. Willing hands helped
unlash the sled and carry the sacks
inside. Soon all of us were absorbed
in our mail, some of it six months old.

“We Leave at Daylight”

That evening Sergeant ‘Thorne sat
in his red-roofed barracks, going over
his mail again. Time and again he
read over one letter with knitted
brows. Finally he sent for his in-
terpreter. “We leave for Fort Provi-
dence at daylight,” the sergeant told
him. “Have my team ready, and dog-
feed for ten days.”

While the Northern Lights were
still performing their ghostly dance
in the starry sky two men and a dog-
team pulled silently out of the
barrack’s yard. Slipping on his snow-
shoes, Joe tramped ahead while
Thorne crunched behind the sled.

A week later the sergeant thawed
Page Eleven