"Crack-crack!" Twice a bullet sang savagely past Cameron's ears.

"Quicker!" shouted Raven, circling round the bunch of ponies with wild cries and oaths like a man gone mad. Again and again the revolver spat wickedly and here and there a pony plunged recklessly forward, nicked in the ear by one of those venomous singing pellets. Helpless to defend himself and expecting every moment to feel the sting of a bullet somewhere in his body, Cameron hurried his pony with all his might down the trail, dragging the pack animals after him. In huddled confusion the terrified brutes followed after him in a mad rush, for hard upon their rear, like a beast devil-possessed, Nighthawk pressed, biting, kicking, squealing, to the accompaniment of his rider's oaths and yells and pistol shots. Down the long sloping trail to the very end of the valley the mad rush continued. There the ascent checked the fury of the speed and forced a quieter pace. But through the afternoon there was no weakening of the pressure from the rear till the evening shadows and the frequent falling of the worn-out beasts forced a slackening of the pace and finally a halt.

Sick with horror and loathing, Cameron dismounted and unsaddled his broncho. He had hardly finished this operation when Little Thunder rode up upon a strange pony, leading a beautiful white broncho behind.

Cameron could not repress an exclamation of disgust as the Indian drew near him.

"Beautiful beast that," said Raven carelessly, pointing to the white pony.

Cameron turned his eyes upon the pony and stood transfixed with horror.

"My G.o.d!" he exclaimed. "Look at that!" Across the beautiful white shoulders and reaching down clear to the fetlock there ran a broad stain, dull red and horrible. Then through his teeth, hard clenched together, these words came forth: "Some day, by G.o.d's help, I shall wipe out that stain."

The trader shrugged his shoulders carelessly, but made no reply.

CHAPTER V

SERGEANT CRISP

The horror of the day followed Cameron through the night and awoke with him next morning. Every time his eyes found the Indian his teeth came together in a grinding rage as he repeated his vow, "Some day I shall bring you to justice. So help me G.o.d!"

Against Raven somehow he could not maintain the same heat of rage. That he was a party to the murder of the Stonies there was little reason to doubt, but as all next day they lay in the sunny glade resting the ponies, or went loping easily along the winding trails making ever towards the Southwest, the trader's cheerful face, his endless tales, and his invincible good humour stole from Cameron's heart, in spite of his firm resolve, the fierceness of his wrath. But the resolve was none the less resolute that one day he would bring this man to justice.

As they journeyed on, the woods became more open and the trees larger.

Mid-day found them resting by a little lake, from which a stream flowed into the upper reaches of the Columbia River.

"We shall make the Crow's Nest trail by to-morrow night," said Raven, "where we shall part; not to your very great sorrow, I fancy, either."

The evening before Cameron would have said, "No, but to my great joy,"

and it vexed him that he could not bring himself to say so to-day with any great show of sincerity. There was a charm about this man that he could not resist.

"And yet," continued Raven, allowing his eyes to rest dreamily upon the lake, "in other circ.u.mstances I might have found in you an excellent friend, and a most rare and valuable find that is."

"That it is!" agreed Cameron, thinking of his old football captain, "but one cannot make friends with a--"

"It is an ugly word, I know," said Raven. "But, after all, what is a bunch of furs more or less to those Indians?"

"Furs?" exclaimed Cameron in horror. "What are the lives of these men?"

"Oh," replied Raven carelessly, "these Indians are always getting killed one way or another. It is all in the day's work with them. They pick each other off without query or qualm. Besides, Little Thunder has a grudge of very old standing against the Stonies, whom he heartily despises, and he doubtless enjoys considerable satisfaction from the thought that he has partially paid it. It will be his turn next, like as not, for they won't let this thing sleep. Or perhaps mine!" he added after a pause. "The man is doubtless on the trail at this present minute who will finally get me."

"Then why expose yourself to such a fate?" said Cameron. "Surely in this country a man can live an honest life and prosper."

"Honest life? I doubt it! What is an honest life? Does any Indian trader lead an honest life? Do the Hudson Bay traders, or I. G. Baker's people, or any of them do the honest thing by the Indian they trade with? In the long run it is a question of the police. What escapes the police is honest. The crime, after all, is in getting caught."

"Oh, that is too old!" said Cameron. "You know you are talking rot."

"Quite right! It is rot," a.s.sented Raven. "The whole business is rot.

'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher.' Oh, I know the Book, you see. I was not born a--a--an outlaw." The grey-brown eyes had in them a wistful look. "Bah!" he exclaimed, springing to his feet and shaking himself. "The sight of your Edinburgh face and the sound of your Edinburgh speech and your old country ways and manners have got on my recollection works, and I believe that accounts for you being alive to-day, old man."

He whistled to his horse. Nighthawk came trotting and whinneying to him.

"I have one friend in the world, old boy," he said, throwing his arm over the black, glossy neck and searching his pocket for a biscuit. "And even you," he added bitterly, "I fear do not love me for naught."

Saddling his horse, he mounted and calling Little Thunder to him said:

"Take the bunch on as far as the Big Canyon and wait there for me. I am going back a bit. It is better to be sure than sorry. Cameron, your best route lies with us. Your twenty-four hours' parole is already up.

To-morrow, perhaps to-night, I shall put you on the Macleod trail. You are a free man, but don't try to make any breaks when I am gone. My friend here is extremely prompt with his weapons. Farewell! Get a move on, Little Thunder! Cameron will bring up the rear."

He added some further words in the Indian tongue, his voice taking a stern tone. Little Thunder grunted a surly and unwilling acquiescence, and, waving his hand to Cameron, the trader wheeled his horse up the trail.

In spite of himself Cameron could not forbear a feeling of pity and admiration as he watched the lithe, upright figure swaying up the trail, his every movement in unison with that of the beautiful demon he bestrode. But with all his pity and admiration he was none the less resolved that he would do what in him lay to bring these two to justice.

"This ugly devil at least shall swing!" he said to himself as he turned his eyes upon Little Thunder getting his pack ponies out upon the trail.

This accomplished, the Indian, pointing onward, said gruffly,

"You go in front--me back."

"Not much!" cried Cameron. "You heard the orders from your chief. You go in front. I bring up the rear. I do not know the trail."

"Huh! Trail good," grunted Little Thunder, the red-rimmed eyes gleaming malevolently. "You go front--me back." He waved his hand impatiently toward the trail. Following the direction of his hand, Cameron's eyes fell upon the stock of his own rifle protruding from a pack upon one of the ponies. For a moment the protruding stock held his eyes fascinated.

"Huh!" said the Indian, noting Cameron's glance, and slipping off his pony. In an instant both men were racing for the pack and approaching each other at a sharp angle. Arrived at striking distance, the Indian leaped at Cameron, with his knife, as was his wont, ready to strike.

The appearance of the Indian springing at him seemed to set some of the grey matter in Cameron's brain moving along old tracks. Like a flash he dropped to his knees in an old football tackle, caught the Indian by the legs and tossed him high over his shoulders, then, springing to his feet, he jerked the rifle free from the pack and stood waiting for Little Thunder's attack.

But the Indian lay without sound or motion. Cameron used his opportunity to look for his cartridge belt, which, after a few minutes' anxious search, he discovered in the pack. He buckled the belt about him, made sure his Winchester held a sh.e.l.l, and stood waiting.

That he should be waiting thus with the deliberate purpose of shooting down a fellow human being filled him with a sense of unreality. But the events of the last forty-eight hours had created an entirely new environment, and with extraordinary facility his mind had adjusted itself to this environment, and though two days before he would have shrunk in horror from the possibility of taking a human life, he knew as he stood there that at the first sign of attack he should shoot the Indian down like a wild beast.

Slowly Little Thunder raised himself to a sitting posture and looked about in dazed surprise. As his mind regained its normal condition there deepened in his eyes a look of cunning hatred. With difficulty he rose to his feet and stood facing Cameron. Cameron waited quietly, watching his every move.

"You go in front!" at length commanded Cameron. "And no nonsense, mind you," he added, tapping his rifle, "or I shoot quick."

The Indian might not have understood all Cameron's words, but he was in no doubt as to his meaning. It was characteristic of his race that he should know when he was beaten and stoically accept defeat for the time being. Without further word or look he led off his pack ponies, while Cameron took his place at the rear.

But progress was slow. Little Thunder was either incapable of rapid motion or sullenly indifferent to any necessity for it. Besides, there was no demoniacal dynamic forcing the beasts on from the rear. They had not been more than three hours on the trail when Cameron heard behind him the thundering of hoofs. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw coming down upon him Raven, riding as if pursued by a thousand demons. The condition of his horse showed that the race had been long and hard; his black satin skin was dripping as if he had come through a river, his eyes were bloodshot and starting from his head, his mouth was wide open and from it in large clots the foam had fallen upon his neck and chest.

Past Cameron and down upon Little Thunder Raven rushed like a whirlwind, yelling with wild oaths the while,

"Get on! Get on! What are you loafing about here for?"

A few vehement directions to the Indian and he came thundering back upon Cameron.

"What have you been doing?" he cried with an oath. "Why are you not miles on? Get on! Move! Move!! Move!!!" At every yell he hurled his frenzied broncho upon the ponies which brought up the rear, and in a few minutes had the whole cavalcade madly careering down the sloping trail.

Wilder and wilder grew the pace. Turning a sharp corner round a jutting rock a pack pony stumbled and went crashing fifty feet to the rock below. "On! On!" yelled Raven, emptying his gun into the struggling animal as he pa.s.sed. More and more difficult became the road until at length it was impossible to keep up the pace.