They had struck off from the main trail between the two Indian villages, and were within a mile or two of Stonor’s camp. Their pace was slow, for the going was bad, and Stonor’s horse was utterly jaded. The trooper’s face was set in grim lines. He was thinking of the scene that waited ahead.

Imbrie, too, had the grace to look anxious and downcast. He had been exasperatingly chipper all the way, until it had occurred to him just now to ask Stonor what he had done with the women. Upon learning that they were waiting just ahead, his feathers drooped. A whine crept into his voice, and, without saying anything definite, he began to hedge in an odd way.

“The truth about this case hasn’t come out yet,” he said.

“I never thought it had,” said Stonor.

“Well, a man under arrest has the right to lie to protect his interests, at least until he has the opportunity to consult a lawyer.”

“Sure, and an officer has the right to draw his own inferences from the lies.”

“Hell! I don’t care what you think. As you said, you’re not going to try me.”

“When did you lie to me?”

“Well, if I thought it necessary to lie to you awhile ago, I’m not going to tell the truth now.”

“All right. Why bring the matter up?”

“I just wanted to warn you not to jump to conclusions.”

The trooper was dead tired, and dead sick of gazing at the smooth, evil face of his companion. “Oh, go to hell!” he said. “You talk too much!”

Imbrie subsided into a sullen silence.

Stonor thought: “For some reason he’s afraid of meeting Clare. I suppose that’s natural enough when he’s like this. He must know what’s the matter with him. Probably he hates everything connected with his better side. Well, if he doesn’t want Clare it may simplify matters.” Thus he was still making his theory work.

At last they came out from among the trees, and the little grassy valley of the Meander lay below them. There were the three little tents pitched on the other side of the stream, and the four horses quietly grazing in the bottom. Mary was baking bread at the fire. It was a picture of peace, and Stonor’s first anxiety for their safety was relieved.

He had not the heart to hail them; they would see soon enough. And almost immediately Mary did look up and see the two horsemen. She spoke over her shoulder, and Clare quickly appeared from her tent. The two women awaited them motionless.

Imbrie still rode ahead, hunched in his saddle. He glanced over his shoulder, and Stonor saw that a sickly yellow tint had crept under his skin. He looked at Stonor’s failing horse. Suddenly he clapped heels to his own beast, and, jerking the animal’s head round, circled Stonor and attempted to regain the trail behind him. He evidently counted on the fact that the policeman would be unable to follow.

To urge his spent beast to a run would only have been to provoke a fall. Stonor made no attempt to follow. Pulling his horse round, he whipped up his gun and fired into the air. It was sufficient. Imbrie pulled up. Stonor possessed himself of the other’s bridle-rein and turned him round again. They said nothing to each other.

They splashed across the shallow ford. On the other side Stonor curtly bade Imbrie to dismount and ungirth. He did likewise. Clare and Mary awaited their coming at a few paces’ distance. Clare’s eyes were fixed on Imbrie with a painful intensity. Curiosity and apprehension were blended in her gaze. Imbrie avoided looking at her as long as possible.

They turned out the weary beasts to the grass, and Stonor marched his prisoner up to Clare there was no use trying to hedge with what had to be gone through.

“Here is Imbrie,” he said laconically.

The man moistened his dry lips, and mustered a kind of bravado. “Hello, Clare!” he said flippantly.

“Do you recognize him?” asked Stonor dreading her answer.

“No I don’t know perhaps,” she stammered. “I feel that I have seen him before somewhere.”

Imbrie’s face underwent an extraordinary change. He stared at Clare dumbfounded.

“You’re sure,” murmured Clare uncertainly to Stonor.

“Oh, yes, this is the Kakisas’ White Medicine Man.”

Imbrie turned sharply to Stonor. “What’s the matter with her?” he demanded.

“She’s temporarily lost her memory.”

“Lost her memory!” echoed Imbrie incredulously. He stared at Clare with sharp, eager eyes that transfixed her like a spear. She turned away to escape it. Imbrie drew a long breath, the ruddy colour returned to his cheeks, the old impudent grin wreathed itself about his lips once more.

“Too bad!” he said, with a leer. “You don’t recognize your hubby!”

Clare shrank back, and involuntarily flung an arm up over her face.

Stonor saw red. “Hold your tongue!” he cried, suddenly beside himself.

Imbrie cringed from the clenched fist. “Can’t a man speak to his wife?” he snarled.

“Speak to her with respect, or I’ll smash you!”

“You daren’t! You’ve got to treat me well. It’s regulations.”

“Damn the regulations! You mind what I tell you!”

Imbrie looked from one to another with insufferable malice. “Ah! So that’s the way the wind lies,” he drawled.

Stonor turned on his heel and walked away, grinding his teeth in the effort to get a grip on himself.

Imbrie was never one to forego such an advantage. He looked from one to another with bright, spiteful eyes. When Stonor came back he said:

“You must excuse me if I gave you a turn. To tell the truth, a man forgets how attractive his wife is. I’m sorry I had to turn up, old man. Perhaps you didn’t know that she had a Mrs. to her name. She took back her maiden name, they told me.”

“I knew it very well,” said Stonor. “Since before we started to look for you.”

“Well, if you knew it, that’s your look-out,” said Imbrie. “You can’t say I didn’t do my best to keep out of your way.”

This was intolerable. Stonor suddenly bethought himself what to do. In a low voice he bade Mary bring him the tracking-line. Imbrie, who stood stroking his chin and surveying them with the air of master of the situation, lost countenance when he saw the rope. Stonor cut off an end of it.

“What’s that for?” demanded Imbrie.

“Turn round and put your hands behind you,” said the policeman.

Imbrie defiantly folded his arms.

Stonor smiled. “If you resist my orders,” he said softly, “there is no need for me to hold my hand. Put your hands behind you!” he suddenly rasped.

Imbrie thought better to obey. Stonor bound his wrists firmly together. He then led Imbrie a hundred yards from their camp, and, making him sit in the grass, tied his ankles and invited him to meditate.

“I’ll get square with you for this, old man!” snarled Imbrie. “You had no right to tie me up!”

“I didn’t like the style of your conversation,” said Stonor coolly.

“You’re damn right, you didn’t! You snivelling preacher! You snooper after other men’s wives! Oh, I’ve got you where I want you now! Any charge you bring against me will look foolish when I tell them ”

“Tell them what?”

“Tell them you’re after her!”

Stonor walked away and left the man.

Clare still stood in the same place like a carven woman. She waited for him with wide, harassed eyes. As he came to her she said simply:

“This is worse than I expected.”

“The man is not right in his head!” said Stonor. “There is something queer. Don’t pay any attention to him. Don’t think of him.”

“But I must think of him; I can’t escape it. What do you mean by not right?”

“A screw loose somewhere. What they call a case of double personality, perhaps. It is the only way to reconcile what you told me about him and what we see.”

Clare’s glance was turned inward in the endeavour to solve the riddle of her own blind spot. She said slowly: “I have known him somewhere; I am sure of that. But he is strange to me. He makes my blood run cold. I cannot explain it.”

“Do not brood on it,” urged Stonor.

She transferred her thoughts to Stonor. “You look utterly worn out. Will you sleep now?”

“Yes. We won’t leave here until morning. My horse must have a good rest.”

“You’d wait for him, but not for yourself!”

“Tole ought to be along in the morning to help pack, and to guard the prisoner.”

Before Stonor had a chance to lie down, Imbrie called him. There was a propitiatory note in his voice.

The trooper went to him. “What do you want?” he asked sternly.

“Say, I’m sorry I riled you, Sergeant,” said Imbrie with a grin. “I was a bit carried off my feet by the situation. I’ll be more careful hereafter. Untie this damned rope, will you?”

Stonor slowly shook his head. “I think we’re both better off with a little distance between us.”

Imbrie repented of his honeyed tones. His lip curled back. But he made an effort to control himself. “Aren’t you afraid your spotless reputation will suffer?” he asked, sneering.

“Not a bit!” said Stonor promptly.

Imbrie was taken aback. “Well can I speak to my wife for a minute?” he asked sullenly.

Stonor observed, wincing, how he loved to bring out the word “wife.” “That’s up to her,” he answered. “I’ll put it to her.”

Returning to Clare, he said: “He wants to speak to you.”

She shrank involuntarily. “What should I do, Martin?”

“I see nothing to be gained by it,” said Stonor quickly.

“But if, as you say, in a way he’s sick, perhaps I ought ”

“He’s not too sick to have a devil in him. Leave him alone!”

She shook her head. She was gaining in firmness. “It won’t hurt me to hear what he has to say. It may throw some light on the situation.”

“I doubt it,” said Stonor. “His object is to raise as much dust as possible. But go ahead. If he’s insulting, leave him instantly. And don’t let him know what I suspect him of.”

She went, and Stonor walked up and down in the grass in a fever until she returned. She was with Imbrie some little time. Stonor could not guess of what they talked. Clare’s white composed face, and Imbrie’s invariable grin, told him nothing.

The instant she came towards him he burst out: “He didn’t annoy you?”

She shook her head. “No, he seemed quite anxious to please. He apologized for what he said before.”

Stonor said, blushing and scowling: “Perhaps you do not care to tell me what you ”

“Certainly!” she said, with a quick look. “Don’t be silly, Martin. It was just what you might expect. Nothing important. He asked me dozens of questions as to what we did down the river.”

“You did not tell him?”

“How could I? Apparently he is greatly puzzled by my condition. He seems not fully to believe, or at least he pretends not to believe, that I cannot remember. He tried to work on my feelings to get you to liberate him. And of course he was most anxious to know what he was wanted for. I told him I could not interfere in your affairs, that’s all.”

Stonor nodded.

“Martin,” she said, with the withdrawn look that he had marked before, “I cannot remember anything, yet I am conscious of a deep resentment against this man. At some time in the past he has injured me cruelly, I am sure. Yet I told you I had injured him, didn’t I?” She passed a hand across her face. “It is very puzzling.”

“Don’t worry!” he said cheerily. “It’s bound to be made clear in the end.”

“You wish to do all the worrying, don’t you?” she said, with a wry smile.

He could not meet her dear eyes. “Worry nothing!” he cried. “I only have one idea in my mind, and that is to get some sleep!” He bustled to get his blankets.

They awoke him for the evening meal. After eating, he inspected his camp, sent Clare to bed, moved Imbrie closer, instructed Mary to keep watch that he did not succeed in freeing himself, and went back to sleep again. Mary was to call him at dawn, and they would take the trail at sunrise.

In the middle of the night he was brought leaping to his feet by a cry out of the dark: a cry that was neither from wolf, coyote, nor screech-owl. Wakened from a deep sleep, his consciousness was aware only of something dreadful. Outside the tent Mary ran to him: her teeth were chattering with terror: she could not speak. Clare crept from her tent. Both women instinctively drew close to their protector.

“What was it?” Clare asked, tremblingly.

A shriek answered her; a dreadful urgent cry of agony that made the whole night shudder. It came from a little way down the trail, from the edge of the woods perhaps, not more than a quarter of a mile away.

“A human voice!” gasped Clare.

“A woman’s!” muttered Stonor grimly.

Again it shattered the stillness, this time more dreadful, for they heard words in their own tongue. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” Then a horrible pause, and with added urgency: “Help! Help!”

“By God! English words!” cried Stonor, astounded.

“Go to her! Go to her!” cried Clare, urging him with her hands.

On the other hand, Mary, falling to her knees, clung to him, fairly gibbering in the extremity of her terror.

Stonor was suspicious, yet every instinct of manliness drew him towards these cries. Under that pull it was impossible to think clearly. He shook Mary off, and started to run. He took three steps and pulled himself up short.

“Look at Imbrie,” he muttered. “Strange he hasn’t wakened.”

It was true the prisoner still lay motionless, entirely covered with his blanket.

“It’s a trick!” said Stonor. “There could be no English woman near here. It’s a trick to draw me out of camp!”

“But none of the Kakisas could speak English,” said Clare.

“I don’t know,” muttered Stonor, in an agony of indecision. “My first duty is here. Look at Mary. She thinks it’s a trick.”

Mary was lying on the ground, muttering a Kakisa word over and over.

“What is it?” Stonor harshly demanded.

“Spirits!” she gasped.

Stonor turned away, flinging his arms up. “Good God! Ghosts again!” he cried, in exasperation.

The dreadful cries were raised again. “Help! Help! He’s killing me!”

“I can’t stand it!” cried Clare. “I must go myself!”

“Stay where you are!” commanded Stonor. “It is too strange a thing to happen so close to our camp if it was not staged for our benefit!”

Just the same, it was not easy for him to hold himself. When the cries were raised again a deep groan was forced from him:

“If I only had another man!”

“Go! Mary and I will be all right!” said Clare.

“Don’ go! Don’ go!” wailed Mary from the ground.

Stonor shouted into the darkness. “Come this way! Help is here!”

The cries were redoubled.

Imbrie suddenly awoke, and rolled clear of his blanket. “What’s that?” he cried, with an admirable assumption of surprise. “A woman’s voice! A white woman! Why don’t you go to her?”

It was a little too well done; Stonor felt partly reassured.

Imbrie appeared to be struggling desperately in his bonds. “For God’s sake, man!” he cried. “If you won’t go, cut me loose! I can’t stand it!”

“I am sure now,” said Stonor, in a voice of relief. “This was what he fixed up with Myengeen this morning. I ought to have been prepared for it. Mary, help me make up the fire. A blaze will help chase the horrors.”

“Oh, you coward!” taunted Imbrie. “If I had my hands free! This is the famous nerve of the police!”

Stonor could afford to laugh at this. His courage was tried.

The voice came with a fresh note of despair. “He’s taking me away! He’s taking me away! Oh, come! come!” Sure enough the sounds began to recede.

But the spell was broken now. They were only conscious of relief at the prospect of an end to the grim farce.

“Damn clever work here,” said Stonor. “She says the very things that ought to pull the hardest.”

“Where could they have got the English words?” said Clare.

“Search me! It’s another mystery to add to what’s facing us.”

Meanwhile the flames were beginning to lick the twigs that Mary placed with trembling hands.

“If we make a big fire won’t it reveal us to them?” said Clare nervously.

“They won’t shoot,” said Stonor contemptuously. “Stage business is more their line; conjure-tricks.”

Imbrie, seeing that the game was up, had given over trying to taunt Stonor, and lay watching them with an unabashed grin. He seemed rather proud of his scheme, though it had failed.

“Can I smoke?” he said.

“Mary, fill his pipe, and stick it in his mouth,” said Stonor.

They heaped up a big fire, and at Stonor’s initiative, sat around it clearly revealed in the glare. He knew his Indians. At first Clare trembled, thinking of the possible hostile eyes gazing at them from beyond the radius of light, but Stonor’s coolness was infectious. He joked and laughed, and, toasting slices of bacon, handed them round.

“We can eat all we want to-night,” he said. “Tole will be along with a fresh supply to-morrow.”

Imbrie lay about fifteen paces from the fire, near enough to make himself unpleasant, if not to hear what was said. “Mighty brave man by the fire,” he sneered.

Stonor answered mildly. “One more remark like that, my friend, and I’ll have to retire you again from good society.”

Imbrie held his tongue thereafter.

Clare, wishing to show Stonor that she too could set an example of coolness, said: “Let’s sing something.”

But Stonor shook his head. “That would look as if we were trying to keep our courage up,” he said, smiling, “and of course it is up. But let Mary tell us a story to pass the time.”

Mary, having reflected that it was her own people and not ghostly visitants that had made the hideous interruption in the night, had regained her outward stolidity. She was not in the humour for telling stories, though.

“My moût’ too dry,” she said.

“Go ahead,” coaxed Stonor. “You know your own folks better than I do. You know that if we sit here by the fire, eating, talking, and laughing like a pleasant company, it will put respect into their hearts. They’ll have no appetite for further devilry.”

“Can’t tell stories,” she said. “Too late, too dark, too scare. Words won’t come.”

“Just tell us why the rabbits have a black spot on their backs. That’s a short one.”

After a little more urging Mary began in her stolid way:

“One tam Old Man him travel in the bush. Hear ver’ queer singin’. Never hear not’ing like that before. Look all round see where it come. Wah! he see cottontail rabbits singing and making medicine. They mak’ fire. Got plenty hot ashes. They lie down in those ashes and sing, and another rabbit cover them up with ashes. They not stay there ver’ long for cause those ashes moch hot.

“Old Man say: ’Little brothers, that is wonderful how you lie down in those hot ashes without burning. Show me how to do it.’

“Rabbits say: ’Come on, Old Man. We show you how. You got sing our song, only stay in ashes little while.’ So Old Man begin to sing, and he lie down, and they cover him with ashes. Him not burn at all.

“He say: ‘That is ver’ nice. You sure got ver’ strong medicine. Now I want do it myself. You lie down, and I cover you up.’

“So rabbits all lie down in ashes, and Old Man cover them up. Then he put the whole fire over them. Only one old rabbit get out. Old Man catch her and go put her back, but she say: ’Pity me, my children soon be born.’

“Old Man say: ’All right, I let you go, so there is plenty more rabbits bam-bye. But I will cook these nicely and have a feast.’ And he put more wood on the fire. When those rabbits cooked nice, he cut red willow bush and lay them on to cool. Grease soak into those branches; that is why when you hold red willow to the fire you see grease on the bark. You can see too, since that time, how rabbits got burnt place on their back. That is where the one that got away was singed.

“Old Man sit down waitin’ for rabbits to cool a little. His mouth is wet for to taste them. Coyote come along limpin’ ver’ bad. Say: ’Pity me, Old Man, you got plenty cooked rabbits, give me one.’

“Old Man say: ’Go along! You too lazy catch your dinner, I not help you!’

“Coyote say: ’My leg broke. I can’t catch not’ing. I starving. Just give me half a rabbit.’

“Old Man say: ’I don’t care if you die. I work hard to cook all these rabbits. I will not give away. But I tell you what we do. We run a race to that big hill way off there. If you beat me I give you a rabbit.’

“Coyote say: ‘All right.’ So they start run. Old Man run ver’ fast. Coyote limp along close behind. Then coyote turn round and run back very fast. Him not lame at all. Tak’ Old Man long tam to get back. Jus’ before he get there coyote swallow las’ rabbit, and trot away over the prairie with his tail up.

“That is the end.”

Stonor laughed. “That’s the kind of story I like. No cut and dried moral!”

Mary never could be got to see anything funny in the stories she told. Just what her attitude was towards them the whites could not guess.

“Give us another about Old Man,” Stonor went on. “A longer one. Tell how Old Man made medicine. A crackerjack!”

Clare looked at him wonderingly. If he were aware of the weirdness of their situation no sign betrayed it. The crackling flames mounted straight in the air, the smoke made a pillar reaching into the darkness. Fifteen paces from Stonor lay his prisoner, staring unwinkingly at him with eyes that glittered with hatred; and from all around them in the darkness perhaps scores of their enemies were watching.

Mary stolidly began again:

“It was long tam ago before the white man come. The people not have horses then. Kakisas hunt on the great prairie that touch the sky all around. Many buffalo had been killed. The camp was full of meat. Great sheets hung in the lodges and on the racks outside to smoke. Now the meat was all cut up and the women were working on the hides. Cure some for robes. Scrape hair from some for leather ”

The story got no further. From across the little stream they heard a muffled thunder of hoofs in the grass.

Stonor sprang up. “My horses!” he cried. “Stampeded, by God! The cowardly devils!”

Imbrie laughed.

Stonor snatched up his gun. “Back from the fire!” he cried to the women.
“I’m going to shoot!”

He splashed across the ford, and, climbing the bank, dropped on his knee in the grass. The horses swerved, and galloped off at a tangent. They were barely visible to eyes that had just left the fire. Stonor counted seven animals, and he had but six with Imbrie’s. On the seventh there was the suggestion of a crouching figure. Stonor fired at the horse.

The animal collapsed with a thud. Stonor ran to where he lay twitching in the grass. It was a strange horse to him. The rider had escaped. But he could not have got far. The temptation to follow was strong, but Stonor, remembering his prisoner and the women who depended on him, refused to be drawn. He returned to where Clare and Mary awaited him at a little distance from the fire. Meanwhile the horses galloped away out of hearing into the bush beyond the little meadow. Imbrie was still secure in his bonds. Stonor kept a close watch on him.

They had not long to wait before dawn began to weave colour in the sky. Light revealed nothing living but themselves in the little valley, or around its rim. The horse Stonor had shot still lay where he had dropped. Stonor returned to him, taking Mary. The animal was dead, with a bullet behind its shoulder. It was a blue roan, an ugly brute with a chewed ear. It had borne a saddle, but its owner had succeeded in retrieving that under cover of darkness. The man’s tracks were visible, leading off towards the side trail.

“Mary, whose horse is that?” Stonor asked.

She shrugged and spread out her hands. As she had been living at Fort Enterprise for years, and saw her own people but seldom, he had no choice but to believe that she did not know. They returned to Clare.

Stonor said: “I shall have to leave you for awhile. There’s no help for it. I’m expecting Tole Grampierre this morning, but I can’t tell for sure how fast he will travel, and in the meantime the horses may be getting further away every minute. If you are afraid to stay, I suppose you can come with me though I may have to tramp for miles.”

Clare kept her chin up. “I’ll stay here. If you have to go far I’d only be a drag on you. I shan’t be afraid.”

The harassed policeman gave her a grateful glance. “I’ll leave you my revolver. There’s no use arming Mary, because I couldn’t ask her to fire on her own people. I do not think there is the slightest danger of your being attacked. If the Indians, seeing me go, come around, pay no attention to them. Show no fear and you are safe. If they want Imbrie let them take him. I’ll get him later. It only means a little delay. He cannot escape me up here.”

“You must eat before you start,” said Clare anxiously.

“I’ll take cold food. Can’t wait for hot bread.”

As Stonor started off Imbrie cried mockingly: “So long, Redbreast!” Stonor doubted very much if he would find him on his return. But there was no help for it. One has to make the best of a bad situation.

After traversing the little meadow the stampeded horses had taken to the trail in the direction of Fort Enterprise. Stonor took heart, hoping that Tole might meet them and drive them back. But, reliable as Tole was, of course he could not count on him to the hour; nor had he any assurance that the horses would stay in the trail. He kept on.

The horses’ tracks made clear reading. For several miles Stonor followed through the bush at a dog-trot. Then he came to another little open glade and saw that they had stopped to feed. He gained on them here. A short distance further he suddenly came upon his bay in the trail, the horse that had carried him to Swan Lake and back. As he had expected, she was hopelessly foundered, a pitiable sight. He regretfully put a bullet through her brain.

Near here the remaining horses had swerved from the trail and turned northward, looking for water perhaps. Stonor pinned a note to a tree, briefly telling Tole what had happened, and bidding him hasten forward with all speed.

Stonor followed the hoof-prints then through the trackless bush, painfully slow going over the stones and the fallen trunks, with many a pitfall concealed under the smooth moss. After an hour of this he finally came upon them all five standing dejectedly about in a narrow opening, as if ashamed of their escapade and perfectly willing to be caught.

Mounting Miles Aroon, he drove the others before him. To avoid the risk of breaking their legs he had to let them make their own slow pace over the down timber, and it was a sore trial to his patience. He had already been gone two hours. When finally he struck the trail again he saw that his note to Tole was still where he had left it. He let it stay, on the chance of its bringing him on a little quicker. He put his horses to the trail at a smart pace. They all clattered through the bush, making dizzying turns around the tree-trunks.

As he approached the little meadow by the Meander his heart rose slowly in his throat. He had been more anxious for their safety than he would let himself believe. As he came to the edge of the trees his eyes were ready to leap to the spot where he had left his charges. A shock awaited them. Of the three little tents there was but one remaining, and no sign of life around it. He furiously urged his horse to the place.

Mary and Clare were gone with Imbrie. The camp site was trampled by scores of hoofs. The Indians had taken nothing, however, but the two little tents and the personal belongings of the women an odd scrupulousness in the face of the greater offence. All the tracks made off across the meadow towards the side trail back to the Swan.