“Say! Raven,” he asked, “are those
Indians—or deer?” As he spoke the
objects were swallowed in a long
cucumber-shaped poplar bluff below.

Opinions were divided. Raven
thought they were deer. Some of the
troops thought they were Indians.

“Keep behind,” ordered Allen,
shaking the reins, “‘I’ll ride ahead and
take a look.”

Sweeping swiftly down the gentle
slope, Raven and Allen were swal-
lowed amongst the shimmering pop-
lars of the cucumber-shaped bluff
they'd noticed. Suddenly Allen’s
mount tossed back its ears and
snorted. A shadowy movement in the
undergrowth caught the tail of the
inspector’s eye. There followed a
thunderous report, a flash of orange
flame and he pitched headlong to the
ground, his arm shattered by a bullet.
As Raven returned the fire there
seemed to come from the underbrush
a smothered cry, then silence. Crawl-
ing painfully through the matted
willows Allen found himself con-
fronted by the menacing muzzle of a
gun. “Throw me your cartridges,”
hissed a guttural voice in Cree.” or
I'll blow your head off!”

Staring Death in the Face

In a flash it occurred to Allen that
the hidden Indians must be short of
ammunition, which his belt alone
could replenish. His mouth set grimly
as the snakey orbs of Almighty Voice
eyed him malevolently along the
barrel. Determined not to surrender
the cartridge-belt at any cost, Allen
continued to stare death calmly in the
face. From behind him roared another
explosion followed by a crashing
through the undergrowth and,
snatched up by three red-coated con-

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stables, he was swept out into the
open. Up the slope, under a hail of
bullets, they helped the wounded
men. Suddenly Raven uttered a groan
and slumped from his horse. Severely
wounded, Raven and Allen were at
last brought to the ridge-top, placed

Sounding Sky and Spotted Calf, father and

mother of the outlaw. The mother filled

the valley with her death-song as Mounties

trained their cannon on the hiding-place of
her son.

in a buckboard and hurried to the
hospital at Prince Albert.

Night was creeping over the valley
when, to the jingling of accoutre-
ments, an armed posse from Duck
Lake rode grimly into the orange
circle of firelight. Headed by Doctor
Stewart, it comprised Postmaster
Ernest Grundy and Constables Pozer,
Davidson, Bell and Cook.

“Guess we’d better rush the bluff,”
suggested Corporal Hockin, realizing
that even with the additional rein-
forcements there still wouldn’t be
sufficient men to throw a cordon
around the bluff wherein the fugi-
tives were hiding, and prevent them
escaping in the dark. Narrowly they
scrutinized the bluff. A hundred and
fifty yards in length and a third in
width, it was composed of birch, pop-
lar and closely matted underbrush,
difficult to penetrate. At the western
end the desperadoes had no doubt
concealed themselves in a rifle-pit dug
hastily with butcher-knives.

“Ready!” shouted Hockin, his foot
in the stirrup. Pozer, Grundy, Cook,
Davidson and two other constables

leapt into their saddles, their guns
across the pommels. “Charge!”

Thundering down the slope, they
charged directly at the west end of the
bluff, their rifles spitting flame. Into
the bluff and through the matted
undergrowth they surged, disregard-
ir.g branches that plucked at hats and
clothing. Not a shot was fired. All
was silent as the grave.

A Deadly Fight

With his troop careening behind
him, Hockin wheeled his horse and
charged back through the poplars.
Crack! Yellow flame erupted in their
faces. Acrid gun-smoke stung their
nostrils. Horses, reared, screamed and
snorted. With a strangled cry Con-
stable Kerr pitched forward—dead.
Crack! Again the willows belched
flame and smoke. Emitting a choked
groan, Grundy pitched sideways from
his rearing mount. A third burst of
flame, and Hocking clutched at his
stomach and pitched to the ground,
staining the willows with blood.
Leaping forward, Hume caught him
and supported the dying Mountie
through a barrage of bullets to the
bluff’s edge.

Dumbfounded by the sudden trag-
edy, disregarding the leaden bullets
that whined like wasps around him,
Louis Marion sent his team careening
down the slope and yanked them to
their haunches beside the expiring
Hockin. While Davidson held
Hockin’s head and Hume covered the
retreat with belching revolver they
drove back up the slope under a
sporadic hail of gunfire. Bullets
whined wickedly about them. One
splintered a spoke. Another struck
Davidson in the heel. Miraculously
they topped the ridge without further

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Fort St. John B.C.

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