In a tepee in Mistoos’ village Andy learned of the

missing white man.

Back at the barracks he pored over
the pages of his bank-book. Fifteen
years of arduous police work hadn't
brought him any fortune. On the con-
trary his balance was pitifully small.
Yet above everything, there was his
duty—and it beckoned like a flaming
beacon. He decided to pay for the
draining of the slough himself!

Early next morning Andy rode to
Shaw’s Point to see Lowe off to Ed-
monton aboard the steamer with his
prisoner. Two hours later he dis-
mounted at Mistoos’ camp. Soon
every able-bodied brave was behind
the business end of a shovel, helping
to drain the slough. Meanwhile Andy
followed a narrow trail to the cabin
of Cashmir Cardinal. When he left he

ARTHUR H. COX

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Mounted Police barracks at Lesser Slave Lake at the time of this

story. King was confined in cell in rear of centre building.

felt his time had not been wasted. For
Cashmir recalled the appearance of
the missing man with Indian exacti-
tude. He was tall, he said, with a
black beard, wore a black sombrero,
top boots, and a leather belt with a
silver buckle.

The draining of the slough pro-
ceeded with little reward for the ex-
pense. Then came two quick strokes
of luck. A perfect footprint was dis-
covered near the camp-site which
corresponded with the boot that had
contained the soggy bundle, while,
from the bottom of the slough was
recovered a mud-stained square of
metal. Cleaned and polished, Cashmir
recognized it as the buckle from the
belt the missing white man _ was
wearing.

Then Keewatin—God of the North
Wind—unleashed his furies. A howl-
ing blizzard roared down from the
Pole; Mounted Police brought out
their short buffalo coats, fur caps and
moosehide mittens. As he stoked his
sheet-iron stove Staff-Sergeant Ander-
son smiled grimly to himself. His
next move would be to Edmonton to
trace the man who’d owned the silver
buckle, the sovereign case and the
nugget tie-pin.

Meanwhile at the white-painted
headquarters of “N” Division in Ed-
monton, Constable Lowe reported to
Inspector Strickland. He wasn’t en-
tirely at his ease as he met the cold

scrutiny of the officer’s eyes, for calm
reflection told him that King’s arrest
had been made on the flimsiest of
evidence, and the whole affair might
prove a boomerang.

“Well constable,” demanded the
Inspector acidly, “what's this latest
storm in the Lesser Slave Lake tea-
cup? Why,” he tossed the sheaf of
papers impatiently on the desk,
“there isn’t enough evidence here to
arrest a chicken thief. Draining the
slough indeed!” There followed more
caustic references to mountains and
molehills and to persons un-named.
Andy’s popularity, at that particular
moment, seemed far below the zero
mark.

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Page Thirty-five