COPYRIGHT PHOTO

North West Mounted Police, near Duck Lake, who aided in the long chase of the elusive killer.

Young Dust, also manacled, had
joined him in the police democrat.
Thus the cattle-stealing pair had
found themselves thrust uncere-
moniously into the one-roomed cell at
Duck Lake, and threatened with
menial “squaw” work on the Mounted
Police woodpile.

The Mounties Are Fooled

As dawn was breaking over the
conical lodges of the One Arrow Re-
serve, Spotted Calf, mother of Al-
mighty Voice, was intent on patching
a pair of moccasins. Behind her were

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piled bags of pemmican, buffalo-
robes and parfleche bags. She stif-
fened as the tattoo of pounding hoof-
beats smote her ears. The door-flap
was whipped aside and the red-coated
forms of Sergeant Colebrook and Cor-
poral Dickson entered. “Have you
seen Almighty Voice?’ demanded the
Sergeant.

“Neemoona!” came the guttural de-
nial.

For a second the probing eyes of
the Mounties swept the interior of the
tepee. Then, lulled by the nonchalant
attitude of the squaw, they dived back
into the open and mounted. While
the hoofbeats still echoed across the
prairie the steel muzzle of a rifle
emerged from between a couple of
pemmican sacks, followed by the
parrot nose and smouldering eyes of
Almighty Voice. “Those Shimagani-
shuk were lucky,” he spat contemptu-
ously into the fire. “If they’s come near
those bags I’d have shot them down
like dogs!”

For the next four days Colebrook,
Dickson, and _ police-scout, Dumont,
searched village, bluffs and coulees in
vain. “I know that son of Satan’s
around here,’ Colebrook finally turned
to Dumont, “and these damn Nitchies
are keeping him posted. Maybe if I

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pull out of here you might discover
something. I’ve an idea he may high-
tail it for Old Dust’s camp at Fort a
la Corne. Work on old Rump,” sug-
gested Colebrook as he swung his
horse’s head towards Duck Lake.
“He’s sore at the way Voice ditched
his daughter; perhaps if you’re alone
you'll get some dope from the old
man.”

Only a few hours after the sergeant
had returned to the barracks the door
swung open and the snow-sprinkled
figure of Dumont entered. The half-
breed seemed excited. “Voice va-
moosed with old Dust’s girl all right,”
he expectorated neatly into a cuspi-
dor. “He’s only got one hoss and its
right off the grass, so he won’t travel
fast. If we pull out right now this
snow’'ll make good trailin’.”

Tracking Down Almighty Voice

Already Colebrook was buttoning
up his buffalo coat. With a hasty
farewell to his wife he followed the
scout outside. Dawn found them driv-

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Page Eleven