North American Trucking and Distributing Co. Ltd. VANS—TRAILERS—TANKERS Operating the Largest Fleet of Trucks North of Edmonton DAWSON CREEK B.C. WILSON FREIGHTWAYS Limited Operations: Motor Transport and Excavating Lumbering: Peace River Block and Alberta Planing Mill Dawson Creek CONTRACTING H. S. Patrick J. Gordon Wilson Supt. General Manager DAWSON CREEK B.C. PATRONIZE OUR ADVERTISERS Phone 48 Dawson Implements Limited Massey-HarrisFarm Implements WASHING MACHINES STOVES - TWINE Hudson and Hillman Cars * DAWSON CREEK B.C. SMITHERS BAKERY * SMITHERS wr BULKLEY HOTE Owned and Monaged by Butchart & Tait LICENSED SMITHERS FULLY MODERN Page Twelve BRITISH COLUMBIA ing a team hitched to a buckboard, with one led horse, following the rutted trail through the poplars to- wards Fort a la Corne, 50 miles away. “Look!” Dumont pointed to the tracks of an unshod horse and mocca- sin prints in the snow. “Voice’s tracks . . . the gal’s ridin’ the cayuse.” “Psst!” warned Dumont, pulling suddenly at the reins. From ahead came the sharp snap of a breaking twig. The frosted willows parted, re- vealing a mounted figure wearing a black felt hat and buckskin coat. It was Joseph MacKay, one of the police scouts from Prince Albert. “Here Joe,” Colebrook leapt from the rig, “take this damn buckboard and let me have your horse. Voice has been hugging the bush and we're losing time driving.” The exchange made, the dimming light soon forced Dumont and the sergeant to make night camp in a grove of poplars. The first exploratory shafts of dawn saw them on the trail again. They had ridden only a short dis- tance when they were startled by the whip-like report of a muzzle-loader. “Almighty Voice” Speaking with a single voice they spurred their horses onward through the wet snow until they debouched into a _ whitened meadow. Seated upon a pony was the daughter of Old Dust. Beyond, Almighty Voice was desperately ram- ming a new charge down the barrel of his muzzleloader, a_ prairie- chicken at his feet. Already the sergeant was moving towards the re- treating Indian, urging him to sur- render. “Don’t” Dumont emitted a fright- ened cry. “Don’t Colebrook, he'll kill you!” “Awoosyay Shimaganis—Keep back, Long Knife, or I'll shoot you!” There came an ominous click as the Indian hissed the warning and drew back the gun-hammer. Dropping on one knee Voice took deliberate aim, his beady eye gleaming murderously along the shining barrel. With cool deliberation the Sergeant moved forward, still urging the Indian Advice—What a man gives when he gets too old to set a bad example. Average Girl — One who thinks she is “above the aver- age.” Gentleman—One who steps on_ his cigarette butt so it won't burn the car- ache pet. Secret—Something that is hushed about hither and STEAM HEATED yon. to surrender. Dumont’s face was grey. The girl on the horse was sobbing. “For God’s sake,” came the terrified warning of the guide, “come back man, he’ll kill you!” Still retreating before the inexor- able advance of the Mountie, the Indian dropped on one knee again. “Awoostay Shimaganis!” The Indian’s lips set grimly. “Sawina — Don’t!” whimpered the girl. A spear of yellow flame leapt viciously from the muzzle of the gun. A Mountie Is Killed Clutching at his throat, Colebrook reared in the saddle, teetered for a moment and slumped to the ground, his life-blood crimsoning the snow. With a cry of horror Dumont swung his horse about and spurred through the woods as Almighty Voice, his gun still smoking, leapt into the willows and disappeared. Across the white immensity of the prairies news of the killing spread like wildfire. Banner headlines in every newspaper of the West told of the ruthless murder of the popular Mountie and demanded the swift apprehension of the killer. Rumor followed hard on rumor. Almighty Voice had been killed in a quarrel across the border; he was hunting with the Stonies in the Rockies. Like a will-o-the-whisp he was reported here, there and every- where, simultaneously at spots hun- dreds of miles apart. Each new rumor sent buffalo-coated men riding horse- back through biting cold and blinding blizzards in pursuit of the fugitive. But to locate a trained athlete in an area of some 600,000 square miles of forest, mountains and prairie, was something like looking for the pro- verbial needle in the haystack. A year slipped by . . . and still no word. Then on the evening of May 27, 1897, nineteen months after the shooting of Sergeant Colebrook, Cor- poral Bowridge at Batoche detach- ment, 10 miles east of Duck Lake, DAWSON HOTEL “The House of Personal Service” FULLY MODERN DINING ROOM B.C. Dawson Creek THE SHOULDER STRAP