Chapter III: Part 3

"Men of Broadstone, listen to me! The issue you are called upon to decide is an all important one, inasmuch as it affects not you only but the country at large. You have to decide which of two men is the most fitting to represent your interests in the Parliament of the nation. And it is with regard to one of these that I am chiefly concerned this evening. Your Radical friends have brought forward one they describe as 'The Working-Man's Friend'" (a voice, "So he is!"--Loud cheers). "Well, I shall be content if you will decide that question when I have finished. Nearly thirty years ago I entered the service in London of the firm of which he is a member, serving them faithfully and well, as letters in my possession will show. During that period they paid me well, and treated me fairly, and to that extent I have no fault to find with them. Whilst in their service I was the means of detecting successively six men who were robbing them. Two were at once sent away; one fled, and was never again heard of; one died whilst inquiry was pending; and the other two, at my instigation, were forgiven and retained.

"But what happened to me? At the end of nearly thirty years, I was given a month's notice to leave, and on inquiring the reason was told they had no fault to find with me, but they wanted to make certain changes which rendered this course necessary.

"Another man, who had served as long as I had done, and with an equally clean bill of health, was similarly treated. And when the gentleman who now wants to pose as the Working-Man's Friend was spoken to, as to the injustice of retaining a man in their employ who had been detected robbing them, and sending away honest men, with no flaw in their characters, at an age, and after such a lengthened period of service, when it would be quite impossible for them to obtain employment elsewhere,--I say, when your Working-Man's Friend was told this, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said 'he was sorry'!

"How did he manifest it? I asked him to reinstate me, but he declared that could not be done. I suggested that he ought to pension me! But the idea was not entertained.

"Two men in London were retained who were known to be 'lushers,' and did eventually drink themselves to death. One was frequently so intoxicated during business that he has been seen to sprawl his length across the showroom, and to be picked up almost helpless. After receiving notice to leave he managed to overcome the scruples of the firm, so that he was eventually retained, and gradually lapsed into his old ways, which ultimately were the death of him. This, I suppose, is what he calls being the Working-Man's Friend! I could mention other cases, but it seems to me that these are--or ought to be--enough to show that the man who wishes to be thought your friend has such a doubtful record that you will do well, before you decide to give him your votes, to put a few questions to him concerning the facts I have so imperfectly endeavoured to present to your notice."

When Roberts sat down, after comparing and commenting upon the political programme of the two candidates, it was with a round of applause uninterrupted by any opposing sound, and it was soon evident that an impression had been produced most unfavourable for the Radical candidate.

Much capital was subsequently made of the facts and statements uttered by Roberts, and an unusual amount of election literature was the outcome.

Efforts were made by the other side to deny the facts as stated, but without success.

He was prevented by the circumstances of the case from publishing the names of the individuals referred to, but particulars of these were supplied by him to the candidate, rendering it possible to verify the truth or falsity of his statement.

His efforts during the progress of the election, together with those of the party he was associated with, resulted in the triumphant return of the Tory candidate by a big majority, much to the chagrin and bitter disappointment of Mr. Quinion and his friends.

Privately, he was heard to say that had he anticipated the advent of Roberts into the fray, he would never have come forward to contest the seat, and Roberts' coming was not made known until it was too late for him to withdraw.

Flushed with the result of his efforts at Broadstone, Roberts returned to town, hoping, although scarcely expecting, that he might hear something from Mr. Quinion with regard to the statements he had made whilst on the stump.

He knew him to be a man who prided himself on his public reputation for fair dealing, and as this had been seriously impugned, he would not have been surprised had he received such a communication.

But the Oracle remained dumb, and Roberts' prospects did not improve; so that in a little while it threatened to become a serious question in what way he was to keep the wolf from the door.

He was told, however, on reliable authority, that one of the members of the firm had been heard to say he was very sorry they had been induced to make the changes complained of--it was no doubt a mistake, but it was too late now to rectify, as they dare not contemplate recalling their acts or retracing their steps. For good or ill, a certain course had been marked out, and it must be pursued.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*CONVALESCENTS.*

"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven." _All's Well that Ends Well_, Act I. sc. i.

During the months which had intervened since we last followed the fortunes of our friends at the Ranch, events had been moving forward most favourably.

Fellows had so far recovered that he was now able to resume work, and but for the scars of the burns received, which were still visible on face and hands, there was little outwardly to denote the terrible sufferings he had gone through.

The young woman who had suffered so severely in the fatal railway collision was just capable of getting about, but the doctor said it would yet be some time before she acquired the full use of her limbs.

To lighten the arduous duties of Mrs. Ranger, which the care and attention needed by the invalids had necessarily thrown upon her, the services of Russell's daughter, so opportunely rescued by Fellows, were called in, and proved a most invaluable aid.

Miss Russell, to whom Sir Walter Scott's descriptive line might well have been applied, "Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile," was a remarkably intelligent young woman, scarcely nineteen, who three years before, on the death of her mother, had emigrated with her father, and found employment at Farmer Ranger's Ranch. She was not regarded as a field-hand, but employed in domestic and home duties, which, properly attended to, were sufficient to occupy the major portion of her time, leaving little to be wasted in idleness.

A fresh hut or shanty had very speedily been raised upon the site of the one destroyed by the fire, and Russell had resumed his old habits.

The attention which her father's home required, and the duties she was called upon to discharge at the homestead, fully occupied all the hours of the day at her disposal, besides making frequent inroads upon those which should have been reserved for repose.

Yet, notwithstanding these demands, she still found it possible to have an occasional chat with Fellows, a strong friendship having sprung up between the two during the period of her attendance, whilst he was being nursed back to convalescence, and which promised to ripen into a closer attachment still.

A dwelling had been raised for the Bartons some few yards from the homestead itself, in which they had been comfortably installed, whilst awaiting the result of their correspondence with Arnold in London.

When the letter from Arnold arrived, the contents of which has already been indicated, it created a profound feeling of disappointment and regret.

From the tenor of his previous communications they had been led to hope for a very different result, and in anticipation of a rather early forward movement had allowed their imagination freer play than was perhaps good for them. The disappointment was, therefore, all the keener when this letter reached them, which at one blow shattered the structures their fancy had been at such pains to elaborate.

After carefully considering their position, and the funds still at their disposal, they held a consultation with Ranger as to the course it would be best to adopt. That advice was readily given.

"A little capital," said he, "makes the start easier, and saves valuable time. But I have known many men do without it. Hundreds have arrived in these parts without any capital whatever, and by first working for wages have prospered and become substantial farmers. My advice to you, therefore, would be, don't be in a hurry, but continue to keep your eyes and ears open, and in the event of any suitable homestead being obtainable, let me know, and we may be able to so arrange matters as to secure it for you. And whatever you do, don't let the Klondyke craze divert your mind from that which is possible and within comparatively easy reach."

The two men thanked Ranger very heartily for his advice, and promised to think over what he had said.

"I don't understand how Jim managed to make such a fool of us as well as himself," remarked the elder Barton, when, seated smoking their pipes at the door of their hut, in the cool of the evening, they discussed the events of the day.

"Nor I," said his brother.

"Very likely, however, his wife wouldn't hear of his going away."

"That may have had a great deal to do with it."

"It's very disappointing, as it seems to me we shall be forced to act upon Ranger's advice."

"Which, of course, means that we must give up all idea of getting out to the Klondyke."

"Does that follow, Charley, as a matter of course?"

"I think so, Jack; for if we get settled here on our own location, it will not be so easy to throw that up and run off."

Farmer Ranger's education as a youth had been sadly neglected, and in later years he missed much of that enjoyment which is theirs who have a well-trained or a stored mind.

As a boy he was sent to the village school, where he was introduced into some of the mysteries of the three "R's," but the death of his father, when he was quite young, compelled his mother to send him into the fields to maintain the home over their heads. Subsequently, for a brief period, he went to the parish school on Sunday, where, after the appointed lesson in the Bible had been read, the remainder of the time was usually given up to some goody-goody story, which the children regarded as the most interesting feature.

As may be judged, his secular and religious knowledge were of a very limited character, and when he left school it was with no very exalted conceptions of the value of the education he had received.

One habit, however, was formed by his attendance at the parish school,--which grew with his growth,--and that was the daily reading of the Bible. Whatever else was neglected, this he was never known to omit. He had never been in the habit of attending church or chapel, and since his arrival in the regions of the "Wild West" such a thing as a clergyman, or a preacher of any description, was a rarity. But he was a man of good moral principles, one who never sought to obtain the best of a bargain by any underhand methods, ever ready to do unto others as he wished others to do to him.

He loved his neighbour as himself, nor stayed to inquire "Who is my neighbour?" He had but to be shown the need, to render all the help it was in his power to give.

His wife, having been a farmer's daughter, had proved herself in every way adapted for the kind of life they had adopted.

"Well, so long as we continue to work for the farmer, we had better be as economical as possible; save all we can, and then, when the time or opportunity arrives, and a suitable homestead is to be had, we can determine whether to put what we possess into it and settle down to a farmer's life, or if we shall endeavour to make a push and get through to the Yukon."

"Meanwhile, I don't think we could do better than stay where we are and work for Ranger, who seems a thoroughly honest fellow."

Ranger had been located at Qu'Appelle about eight seasons.

Originally a farm-bailiff for a small landed proprietor in North Devon, he had, together with his wife and a son and daughter, determined to try his fortune in the North-West of America. After realising the little property he possessed, he found that he had in hard cash close upon one hundred and twenty pounds.

Being attracted by the general features and local surroundings of the lovely valley of the Qu'Appelle, he was fortunately able, in those early days, to secure a section of land owned by the railway company, not very distant from the railway, by which means increased facilities were afforded for marketing his produce.

Commencing with what is known as a quarter section--one hundred and sixty acres--he had gradually increased his holding, until now he was the proprietor of six hundred and forty acres of some of the finest land to be found in America.

At no period over-burdened with serviceable and experienced hands, he was generally open to avail himself of a favourable offer of help when it presented itself.

The Bartons, with their Old World experience, were additions he was very ready to welcome, and to find them suitable remunerative occupation.

Harvesting, which begins about the middle of August and ends early in September, was nearly over; and the young woman rescued from the railway accident had made such good progress towards convalescence that she was now able to get about and make herself useful.

The farmer and his wife had frequently, of late, taken the opportunity of discussing with her of an evening, when the work of the day was over, the future and its prospects, without being able to arrive at any very satisfactory conclusion.

Her case was a peculiarly sad one. When the accident overtook her, of which she was so unfortunate a sufferer, she was travelling in the company of an uncle and his two sons, who contemplated settling in the neighbouring province of Alberta.

She was anticipating being married shortly to one of her cousins, in the event of everything turning out favourable; but to her inexpressible grief she was informed, as soon as recovery had sufficiently advanced to render such a communication safe, that all three had been killed; so that she was now alone, in a strange land, without a friend save those who had so kindly acted the part of "Good Samaritan."

Although for a time the consequences of such a revelation seemed likely to be serious, youth and a good constitution in the end triumphed, and she began to regain a little of that buoyancy and activity which those who had known her would have expected her to display.

But the memory of those dear to her, of whom she had been so suddenly and painfully bereaved, could not be so easily effaced; and the languor of her manners, and the melancholy expression which in hours of idleness would steal over her, sufficiently served to mark the influence which reflection was bound to exert, and the grief too deep for utterance which remained.

The railway company had arranged to make ample provision for her, so that little concern was felt on that score; but for the present it was undecided what course it would be best for her to pursue.

In the unsettled, or only half settled, districts of the great North-West, where woman, if not a minus quantity, is very often in many parts a _rara avis_, the advent of one is always regarded with marked attention and considerable interest.

Under any circumstances Mary Truman would have been a welcome guest at Farmer Ranger's, whilst from the unfortunate nature of her surroundings she was now made to feel doubly welcome.

To the elder Barton, it was very easy to be seen, she had become an object of peculiar interest, but her sorrow and suffering were yet of too recent a date to admit of much safe speculation with regard to the future.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*NAT LANGHAM'S.*

"You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house."
_Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act III. sc. iv.

It is not so many years ago that the lands through which the lines of the Great Trunk Railway of Canada run, after leaving Winnipeg, away up to Calgary in the "Rockies," were the happy hunting-grounds of the Cree and Blackfeet Indians. Now the traveller sees little besides a number of small towns and thriving settlements, all along the line.

Occasionally a nondescript representative of the almost extinct races may be observed, disillusioning the mind of the beholder of whatever romantic notions he may have imbibed from the pages of Fenimore Cooper. But away in the hills, or out on the more distant prairies, where even if the pioneer has ventured the settler has not yet attempted to follow, encampments of these "children of nature" still exist.

And it is only at extremely rare intervals that we hear of them being upon the "war path."

Like the buffalo he was wont to hunt, or the aboriginal Australian, the North-American Indian promises soon to be but a figure of history.

Amongst the foot-hills of the "Rockies," as well as in the glens and valleys amid the higher peaks, and secluded amongst the hills and woods which abound in the far interior, down through the provinces of Alberta, Assiniboia, Saskatchewan, to Manitoba, roving bands of lawless men are to be found, guided occasionally by one or more of what are known as "half-breeds" or native scouts, who, if not the last of their race, are more frequently for some delinquency the outcasts of their tribes.

The cattle-lifting frays of these bands of desperadoes are dreaded events in the lives of the peaceably disposed settlers, their tracks being generally marked by the destruction and ruin of happy homesteads, and the murder of their defenceless occupants.

Only recently a raid had been made on a settlement at the foot of the Beaver Hills, some distance to the north of Ranger's homestead, but sufficiently near to set him on the alert, and give rise to some anxiety for his own safety as well as the lives of the many dependent upon him.

The mounted police--a thoroughly efficient and well-organised body--had been scouring the country in all directions, in hopes of striking the trail of this band of marauders, but hitherto to little effect.

Nat Langham's Store, in the neighbourhood of the Pleasant Hills, was a well-known place of resort for the miners and lumber-men for miles round. He was said to have been a prize-fighter in his time, and thither all the loafers and idlers and the ne'er-do-wells, which ever hang on to the skirts of a community, were in the habit of gathering.

Drinking, betting, and gambling were the order of the day--and night too. And many were the scenes of riot and bloodshed which had been witnessed at his store.

Being the only store where liquor could be obtained, and play of a certain kind indulged in, it was freely resorted to by most of that class whose tastes led them in the direction of what was known as conviviality and sport.

The police, when in search of information, or for doubtful or dangerous characters, were frequent visitors at his shanty.

The recent raid in the vicinity of the Beaver Hills had woke up the slumbering zeal of the authorities to increased activity and watchfulness, and their attention of late to this particular locality had been of a very marked character.

One of the most successful of the small but energetic little band of the police stationed at Wolseley was a man named "Puffey," from a habit he had acquired of inflating his cheeks, until they stood up in hillocks on each side of a little red snub nose, looking for all the world like a well-rounded Burgundy bottle with its red sealed cork flanked by the dark ruby of the glass.

Although the butt of his companions, he was a good-tempered little fellow, ever ready to render effective aid when called upon, but whose kindness of heart often threatened to override his judgment, or to play havoc with the discretion which at times it was needful to exercise. He was a man in the prime of life, not more than thirty-four or thirty-five years of age; strong, wiry, and active, with a pair of small, keen grey eyes, whose steady gaze were capable of reading character, to the confusion of many an ill-conditioned ruffian and the upsetting of his well-considered plans.

Formerly a member of the detective force in England, on migrating to the States, after a short but not very successful career in New York, he had crossed the border, and soon found ready employment in the ranks of the mounted police, where his reputation had been steadily growing for some years past.

It was a dull chilly day towards the close of September, as late one afternoon he dismounted at the door of Langham's shanty, and giving his horse into the charge of a slim youth, who had emerged from the dwelling on hearing the sounds of an approaching horseman, with the laconic remark of "Stable him, my lad," entered through the public-room, where Nat Langham was to be seen behind a roughly constructed bar, possessing none of those outward attractions which are found so alluring to the denizens of our big cities and towns.

The conversation, which had been noisy and general, was hushed as soon as it began to be whispered who the new-comer was.

Casting a careless glance around, but a glance which enabled him to rapidly survey the assembled groups, with a nod to Langham he passed on into a small room on the right of the bar, in which were seated a few of the more select spirits of the neighbourhood.

The men were engaged in the exciting game of "Poker," and as they glanced up for a moment on his entry, one of them shouted--

"Hullo, Puffey! What's up?"

"Not much yet," the officer replied.

"Who do you want?" was the next inquiry.

"No one here."

"That's all right. Have a drink?" was the prompt rejoinder.

That he was well known might have been inferred from the fact of all three offering him glasses. Having drunk with them on the score of good fellowship, and called for the glasses to be refilled, he sat down at an unoccupied corner of the table, and lighting a small briar pipe, which by its appearance looked to have been in constant demand for some time, he prepared to watch the game going on.

Two of the men were apparently stockmen, and hailed from a Ranch a few miles distant; the other was an engineer in the employ of the railway company.

"Puffey," or to give him his proper name as it appeared on the books of the force, John Stone, sat for some time apparently watching the play of the three men, but in reality listening to the sounds proceeding from the bar, which could be plainly heard in the room in which they were seated.

Presently, arousing himself, and addressing the players, he inquired--

"Seen anyone looking round lately, Sam?"

"A couple of trappers came over from Indian Head two days ago."

"Where did they hail from?"

"The Wood Hills."

"What sort did they look?"

"One was a dark man, with great black eyes, a large beard, and a nose like a Jew's; he was about my own height, five foot ten or thereabouts. His companion was rather shorter, looked pale and sickly, as if a meal or two would not be thrown away upon him; and both were under forty years old."

"Bravo, Sam! you'll make a good 'tec in time."

"Why, do you know them?" said Sam, with a surprised look.

"Know them? I should think I do! Your description fits the men I want to a T."

The three men stopped their game, whilst he who had been addressed as Sam, and had saluted the officer as "Puffey," inquired--

"Who are they?"

For answer, Stone asked, "Did you hear about the murder at the Beaver Hills?"

"Yes; my mate was telling me all about it only last night."

"Old Robson and his two sons made a plucky stand, but the band was too strong for them."

"Were all three of them killed?"

"They set fire to the homestead, and when the flames at length compelled them to fly they were shot down like rabbits."

"What became of the two women?"

"They were fortunately away on a visit to a friend at Wolseley, and did not return that night."

"They succeeded in driving away about forty head of cattle, which have been traced into the neighbourhood of the Touchwood Hills."

"But," said Sam, after a pause, "what has this to do with the two men we were talking about?"

"Everything," responded Stone. "Perhaps you have heard of the Warple Band?"

"To be sure I have."

"Well, the Warple Band are believed to have been for some time located in the 'Touchwood'; and now I feel certain about it, for the description you gave of the two men who were here answers exactly to that which I have obtained of the two leaders, from one of whom it gets its name."

"Do you think so?"

"I don't think at all about it--I'm certain!" added Stone, as he brought his fist down on the table with a thump.

"Well, what will be your next move then?"

"Ah! that remains to be seen," he added, with a far-away look in his eyes.

"Well, certainly appearances are deceiving, for I should never have taken the two fellows, who, as I told you, looked like trappers, to be the desperate characters you say they are."

"No; and yet they are wanted for some of the foulest and darkest of crimes."

"What are you going to do to-night?" asked Sam.

"I shall return at once to Wolseley and report."

Calling to Langham, he bade that worthy have his horse saddled and brought round at once; and, having settled his score, bade good-night to the friends he was leaving, and taking a good look round the drinking-bar as he passed through, he mounted his horse, and rode off into the fast gathering darkness.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE WARPLE BAND.*

"These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways, Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome."-- _Richard II._, Act. II. sc. iii.

In the course of the ensuing week the farmers and ranchers for miles round had notice from the police of the district of their intention to raid the Touchwood Hills, in search of a nest of robbers believed to be hiding there.

The settlers were directed to assemble at a point named, at a certain hour, on a given day, with all the able-bodied men they could muster capable of bearing arms, and to be prepared for what might probably prove a stiffish job.

Early in the morning of the day appointed, a special train, which started from Winnipeg the previous day, and calling at the various stations on its way up had entrained detachments of mounted police, reached M'Lean Station with a force of fifty horsemen, which was at once sent forward across the prairie to the place of rendezvous.

After advancing about ten miles, they halted on the banks of a running stream, so as to give the farmers who were expected to join them an opportunity of coming on.

Some they found already at the place appointed, and others, by twos and threes, kept dropping in, until by noon they had assembled about one hundred and twenty all told.

The farmers, with their men, were in many cases as well mounted as the police; their uniform and discipline differed, but in other respects they looked equal to any amount of fatigue, and capable of holding their own and rendering good service to the force they were about to accompany.

Twenty-five of the police were sent on a little in advance, followed by their ambulance waggons and staff, under the command of Captain Lean; the yeomanry--for such they might be termed--formed the centre, followed by their waggons, which were made to serve for ambulance purposes, and were placed under the direction of Fellows from Ranger's Ranch, who, by training and experience acquired as an officer in a Volunteer corps in England, it was considered, might safely be entrusted with that important command. The rear was brought up by the remainder of the police; the whole force being commanded by Major Scott, a man who had seen much service in the "States," was well acquainted with Indian tactics, and had frequently been employed in border forays, and that guerilla style of fighting, the men they were now in search of were likely to indulge in.

Having accomplished another fifteen miles of their journey, they halted at the edge of a wood and prepared to make such dispositions for a night on the plains as their resources would admit of, due precautions being taken to guard against a night surprise, which, however, did not take place.

They were stirring with sunrise; and after watering and feeding their horses, and supplying their own wants, they saddled up, and with military precision were ready to start by eight o'clock, in the same order as on the previous day.

No incident of importance occurred to mark their progress, and as the second day began to close in they reckoned to be within about ten miles of their destination.

Arrived on the bank of a small river, which, besides affording water for both man and beast, in other respects seemed suitable for camping purposes, a halt was sounded, fires lighted, and preparations soon in progress for a good meal and a night's repose.

Up to the present they had met with little difficulty in following in the trail of the raiders, which was well marked.

The Major's plan, as communicated to his lieutenants, was, if the trail continued, to advance up to the foothills of the Touchstone, and then, at suitable points to be selected, plant small bodies of the force at his disposal round the base of the hill, which at a fixed hour were to advance up the slopes, passing over intervening valleys or depressions, to the centre, where the whole would be expected to assemble.

Before eight o'clock the next morning the little force was on the move, silent, and alert for the developments of the next few hours.

After the lapse of about three hours they came to a spot covered with thick clumps of trees, bordering a lake nearly a mile in extent from east to west. The intervening spaces were uneven and billowy, running into deep depressions covered with heavy luxuriant grasses. The hill they were making for was plainly visible in the distance, and had been for some time.

Major Scott, halting his force here, resolved to await the return of a scout sent on in advance two days previous, with orders to penetrate into the recesses of the hill, and learn, if possible, the number and location of the enemy. Vedettes were assigned to positions, and no precautions neglected which might prevent a possible, yet not an expected, surprise.

Scarcely had these dispositions been arranged, when the return of the scout was announced, and in a few minutes, without much ceremony, he made his way into the presence of the Major, who was seated on an upturned camp-kettle.

"Well, sonny, what success?" he cried out.

"You shall hear, Major. It was a dark night when I reached the foot-hills, which, for my purpose, was fortunate. Making my way as cautiously as possible through the pines and cedars, and the masses of thickly-growing fern which are abundant there, in a short while I found myself overlooking a grass-covered glade of some extent, at the extremity of which the face of the hill seemed to rise sheer and steep for hundreds of feet. Seated round a bivouac fire, engaged in an animated conversation, were a dozen men, with their blankets over their shoulders. They were rough-bearded looking fellows with one exception, and he had all the appearance of a half-breed; and no doubt was, as I took him to be, the guide of the band. Their feet were encased in moccasins, and provided with big rowelled spurs. A similar number of horses were not far distant, hobbled, Indian fashion, with strips of hide.

"From the conversation, which reached me but indistinctly, I gathered that four of the band were doing duty as sentries, making sixteen in all. They were all fully armed with pistols and knives and Winchesters. No signs of cattle were visible. They did not seem to be under any fear of a surprise; and as there appeared to be little further to learn I hastened back as rapidly as possible."

The band was smaller than the Major had expected, he therefore resolved to move forward at once.

Dividing his force into four sections, he directed one to proceed to the west, and another to the east, and each to penetrate the hill until they met. A third section was directed to skirt the hill until they faced its northern side, and then, in like manner, ascend, until they met the two flanking columns, when they would unite and advance south until they came across the band, or met his column, which would move up in time to join them.

Whilst the three columns were making a detour round the hill to reach the posts assigned, the Major resolved to wait where he was at present, until daylight was on the wane, to give time for each to be well advanced before he attempted to move forward, and so possibly the better escape detection by any watchful eye which might be on the look-out for the unexpected.

The day wore to its close. The sky was obscured with dense masses of heavy clouds, indicating a coming storm. The waning moon would not make its appearance yet for some hours. The occasional rumble of distant thunder was to be heard, whilst vivid flashes of lightning from time to time lit up the wide expanse, only to render the succeeding darkness the more intense.

Favoured by the elements, Major Scott cautiously but steadily advanced his little force until they were close up to the ascent of the hill, but well screened by the wild luxuriance of the vegetation, the growth of ages, as yet undisturbed by the demands or needs of man, or the onward march of those civilising forces which are ever working for the advancement of the race.

Pulling their blankets around them, his men bivouacked where they had halted, to snatch a few hours' repose, in order that they might be the better prepared to face what was before them.

A little more than an hour had passed when the distant sounds of rifle-firing came echoing down the hill, which no sooner reached the slumbering groups than Major Scott gave the signal, and his bugler sounded the call to arms, and in a very brief space of time his little party was up, saddled, and in motion at a brisk trot.

Guided by the information which their scout had brought them,--and who was now to the front, with the Major, leading,--they soon reached the spot described by him, where he had seen the band encamped.

Save the dying embers of a solitary fire, the darkness was too profound to render objects visible at a distance. Nor could they detect the sounds of any life present, except those which came from their own party.

As the men moved across the plain, the horse of one stumbled over an object in the darkness, which its rider, on dismounting, found was the body of a man apparently lifeless, indicating that the firing which had aroused them must have been in this locality, and that the place could only recently have been abandoned.

In a few moments their attention was arrested by the sounds of approaching horsemen, and an occasional shot being fired.

That familiarity with darkness which renders objects at first all but invisible gradually distinguishable through the gloom, had enabled Scott and his contingent with some degree of certainty to fix their surroundings, as well as to form a tolerable conception of their position.

Directing a trooper to sound a bugle blast, it was answered by one from the advancing party, and in a short while they could distinguish the figures of men and horses as they came round a bend of the hill to the left of where they had halted.

In answer to the Major's challenge, these forces were soon discovered to be the two divisions which had ascended to the hill on its eastern and western slopes.

It appeared that, warned of the danger with which they were threatened, the band had fled before they could reach them, but from sheltered clefts in the hills above they had kept up a desultory fire upon their pursuers, without exposing themselves to danger.

It would have been useless in the darkness to endeavour to search for a concealed foe well acquainted with the ground, to which they were comparative strangers, exposing themselves to chance shots which they might possibly be in no condition to return.

They were compelled, however, to await the arrival of the fourth division of their force, which, advancing by the northern slope, owing to the longer distance to be covered, might yet be some time before reaching the appointed rendezvous.

An hour went by, when from the other side of the hill there came faint sounds of a rifle discharge, repeated at more frequent intervals.

Turning in the direction from which they proceeded, and putting their horses to the trot, Major Scott's division, reinforced by the other two bands, made such haste as the nature of the ground to be traversed, and the dim light to guide them, would permit, in order to reach their comrades, who appeared to have met with the band of outlaws.

Aided by rifts in the clouds overhead, through which "the stars in their courses" occasionally looked down, rendering objects slightly less obscure than during the earlier hours of the night, they were able to make fair progress.

But the country being so well covered with clumps of pine and maple, spruce and cedar, and the dense bush and scrub, with hundreds of interlacing creeping plants making up a tangled mass difficult to penetrate, speed had frequently to be slackened until a passage could be found, or forced, through the obstructions which nature with such prodigality and lavishness had spread in their path.

Emerging at length on to a spacious plateau, they found themselves facing a series of well-wooded terraces, from which, however, they were separated by a deep ravine, now dry, but in the rainy season the source of drainage from the hills to the plains.

As they came into the open they saw before them, in the dim and uncertain light of early day, Red Dick and his lawless band of followers spread out at the edge of the plateau, taking pot-shots at their pursuers, just discernible on the terraced slopes the other side of the ravine.

Bold and reckless as Dick's band was reputed to be, they felt that they were now in what might be called "a tight fix."

With an impassable gorge in front, and a rapidly advancing force in their rear, their only chance left was to gain a narrow winding pathway in the face of the hill which led down into the bed of the ravine.

The alternative was to throw up the sponge and to allow themselves to be taken prisoners, but as that meant certain death, since their many crimes had long since placed them beyond all claims to mercy, they determined to make a virtue of necessity, and run. Two were shot down in attempting to reach the descending path; one missed his footing and was dashed headlong to the bottom; whilst the fourth was fatally wounded by a shot from the opposite side of the ravine.

Parties of mounted men were at once despatched to try and intercept the escape of the fugitives at each end of the bed of the torrent.

They were successful to the extent of making two captures, but when it was discovered that one of these was no less a personage than the redoubtable Red Dick himself, the entire party felt that all their efforts had been well rewarded.

When the roll was called, five of the constabulary were reported killed and eleven wounded; whilst of the farmers one had been killed and seven wounded.

With the capture of the leader of this desperate band, the chief object of the foray had been attained; it was therefore considered useless to delay the return in the hope of securing the remainder of the outlaws.

The return was accomplished without incident, and the two prisoners safely lodged at Regina, to await instructions from Ottawa.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*A CONFESSION.*

"My life upon her faith."--_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.

To the average man, woman is a riddle. Her ways are past finding out.

Without doubt, the noble deeds of women are not always those which are blazoned forth to the public eye in books and pamphlets, or by means of the press.

The quiet, unobtrusive host of duties they perform in the midst of unheard-of difficulties; their patient endurance of suffering; the privations they are willing to undergo for those they love; the obscurity and loneliness in which much of their lives are passed, yet the unmurmuring and ungrudging way in which devoted service is given: all this is known to the few, and has yet to be revealed.

It was probably due to one or more of these phases or traits of character, which the illness of Fellows had developed in Jessie Russell, that had caused the feeling of friendship he imagined he entertained for her to reveal itself to him as that of a much warmer and tenderer attachment, which might more properly be attributed to one of those well-directed shafts from Cupid's artillery which the little god, with so much precision, is so well able and so ready to discharge.

Fellows was in love with Jessie Russell. He had to admit that to himself, and he was longing to confess it to her.

But whenever the occasion presented itself--and opportunities occurred in abundance--remorse restrained him and kept him silent. Dare he link her future with one whose past was a record of shame and crime? If she cared for him--as he sometimes flattered himself she did--need he trouble her with that which could not possibly do her any good, and might do much harm?

Whatever may have been the follies and sins of his past life, his moral perceptions were still keen enough to see that such a course of conduct would be most dishonouring and dishonourable to the woman he professed to have a supreme regard for.

Thoughts such as these naturally cast a shadow over his life; he avoided the society of his fellows, or, when circumstances compelled him to associate with them, he was moody, taciturn, and reserved, so that in the house or in the field his converse or communications were of the briefest, and marked by no feature to lead to its continuance.

His habits and general demeanour had not escaped the notice of Mrs. Ranger, and, with that womanly intuitiveness so characteristic of the sex, she had not been long in divining the cause.

Taking advantage of an opportunity one evening when alone together, and the work of the day was over, she mentioned the subject to her husband.

"Have you noticed how quiet and reserved our chap Fellows has been lately?"

"Yes, I have, Bess; it seems difficult to get a word out of him."

"What do you suppose to be the cause?"

"Well, I have thought at times he was in love with that girl of Russell's."

"And if he is, I can't see the reason for his going about moping as he appears to be doing."

"Nor can I; although I know how hard it is to understand the goings on of two people in love."

"I'm sure it's not because there is any difficulty on her side. She is quite as much in love with him as ever he is with her. It's a case where the man has only got to ask to have."

"I wonder whether he has said anything yet to Jessie on the subject?"

"Well, you need not wonder long, for I can tell you that he has not."

"How do you know that, Bess?"

"Why, of course, from the girl herself. Having a women's natural curiosity, and exercising that privilege which my age gives me, I asked her if there was anything between them, and she assured me there was not."

"Well then, I'll tell you what my opinion is, wife; the chap has got something else on his mind which troubles him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Little things I have noticed from time to time; but more especially the few words dropped when he first came here, to the effect that his had been a wasted life. He said, if I remember right, that he had disgraced a good name, and now wanted to hide and escape recognition."

"Have you ever tried to gain his confidence?"

"No, Bess, for I have always felt a delicacy about it. In my opinion, the confidence that is worth the name, should be given willingly, and not forced."

"A little encouragement might not be thrown away,--natures, you know, are so different."

"Well, the very next opportunity that offers I will endeavour to draw him out."

Not many days after this conversation had taken place, Ranger was seated with Fellows, at the close of the day's labour, outside the house, smoking their pipes, which seemed to offer the opportunity the former was waiting for.

Breaking the silence which had reigned for some time, Ranger started by saying--

"Look here, Fellows, you have been here now sufficiently long to know that I am not the sort of chap that is anxious to pry into the private affairs of other people, and therefore what I am about to say is not with any desire to gratify an idle curiosity."

"That I am quite prepared to believe," he replied; "and anything you want to know, which I am able to tell, I shall be quite ready to do."

"Well then, to come to the point at once, from your manner of late I should judge you have something on your mind which is troubling you. Am I right?"

"Suppose I have! What then?"

"Why, my boy, it will relieve your mind if you feel you can tell me what is troubling you. And who knows but that I may be able to help you, as I shall be willing to do if I can."

"Your kindness touches me, but I am afraid your offer will not avail me much."

"The way to prove that will be by letting me know your difficulty."

"My difficulty, farmer, is the story of my life, which recent events have brought more prominently before me. For some time I have felt that I needed a friend,--one in whom I could confide, and who would be capable of advising me.

"Well, all I will say is, that if you feel you can do so, you may trust me; and if I am not able to help you, you will find that Ranger is not a man to betray a trust reposed in him."

"I quite believe you, my friend; and as a proof of the opinion I had formed of you, I may say I have several times of late been on the point of opening my mind to you, but something or other has occurred to prevent my doing so."

After pausing awhile, he proceeded--

"When I came over to this country, I left, away up in the north of England, a widowed mother and sister with the full conviction that I had met my death by drowning. This is how it happened: I was travelling for a well-known firm of manufacturers in the Midlands, and had been absent on the Continent for some months. I had collected a lot of money on their account, when I was tempted one evening, with a so-called friend, to visit one of the many gambling hells which abound in most Continental cities. I was persuaded to play, and under the influence of the cursed drink, and the excitement of the game,--in which I met with some success at first,--I was led to plunge recklessly; until, when at length I was induced to leave, I found that I had lost heavily, and, what was worse, it was not my own money I had lost. In returning I had formed no clear idea as to what I was to do about the money lost, until, on board the boat I was travelling by, an event occurred which in a moment shaped out my course.

"During the passage, which was a rough one, a man fell overboard. The alarm was given, the engines were at once slowed down, and a boat was lowered, and for an hour every effort made to recover him. It was unavailing, as the body was not found.

"I had seen the man who was lost, and had been led to notice him rather closely, from the fact of his having taken up what I regarded as a dangerous position, with such a sea as was then on, in the stern of the vessel. So that when, from the sheltered position in which I was standing on the cabin stairs, I saw him fall over, I blamed myself that I had not warned him of the danger he was in.

"Whilst the attention of all on deck were engaged with the efforts being made to recover the body, a thought occurred to me which I at once proceeded to give effect to.

"I hastened down below, sought out the bunk in which I had seen the missing man during the morning,--it was next but one to my own,--and, as I remembered he was about my own age and size, I felt little hesitation in changing my own clothes for such of his as I found there, and with the result that, by remaining silent as to what I knew, on my clothes being found where his had been, and with papers in the pockets proclaiming who they belonged to, it was reported that I had been lost; whilst nothing, so far as I was able to learn, appears to have ever been said about the real man who was drowned, so that he must have had very few friends to inquire after him.

"Having thus effaced myself, I resolved to expatriate myself for fear of being discovered, and that is how I come to be here."

"A very infamous ruse on your part," said Ranger, who had listened with attention to all that Fellows had been relating. "Have you never written to let your mother know that you were alive?"

"No; I have always felt that that would be too risky a proceeding."

"Well, since this must have been a great trouble to you, and a burden on your mind ever since you went wrong, what circumstance has given rise to your present anxiety?"

"You may well ask, since, but for what has lately arisen, I should not have sought to inflict upon you my life's sad story."

"Out with it then, man, and make an end of the matter!"

"The simple fact is, I have formed what some would consider, in my circumstances, a mad attachment to Jessie Russell."

"No need to be ashamed of that, my boy! She's as fine a girl, and as good a girl, as can be found anywhere this side of the Rockies!"

"That thought, if anything, only increases my difficulty. You see, at present she is quite ignorant as to my past; and my fear is that if I tell her what I feel she ought to know, she will be inclined to despise me, and refuse to listen to me. On the other hand, if the goodness of her heart should prompt her to overlook my past misdeeds, and to favourably consider my suit, the knowledge of my past will only serve to increase her anxiety on my account, and burden her with a load of care which silence on my part might materially lessen. I cannot make up my mind as to what to do."