“Get him?” the Montanan asked.

The answer he could guess.  The North-West Mounted always brought back those they were sent for.  Already the Force was building up the tradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent.

“Got him.”  Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience that had taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilized existence.  “Been back a week.  Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a look-see.”

“At what?  He ain’t suspectin’ any one at Faraway of stretchin’, bendin’, or bustin’ the laws.”

Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor.  Rumor had it that Faraway was a cesspool of iniquity.  It was far from the border.  When sheriffs of Montana became too active, there was usually an influx of population at the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushed north to safety.

“Seems to be.  You’re not by any chance lookin’ for trouble?”

“Duckin’ it,” answered Tom promptly.

The officer smiled genially.  “It’s knocking at your door.”  His knuckles rapped on the desk.

“If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy—­”

“Oh, thanks!” Beresford murmured.

“—­you certainly ain’t him.  Onload your grief.”

“The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions, animadversions, and propensities,” explained the constable.  “According to the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis—­”

Tom threw up his hands.  “Help!  Help!  I never studied geology none.  Don’t know this hypotenuse you’re pow-wowin’ about any more’n my paint hawss does.  Come again in one syllables.”

“Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately—­that is, any more than usual?”

The junior partner of C.N.  Morse & Company considered.  “Why, yes, seems to me I have—­heap much swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin’ and tomahawk swingin’.”

“Why?”

“Whiskey, likely.”

“Where do they get it?”

Tom looked at the soldier quizzically.  “Your guess is good as mine,” he drawled.

“I’m guessing West and Whaley.”

Morse made no comment.  Bully West had thrown in his fortune with Dug Whaley, a gambler who had drifted from one mining camp to another and been washed by the tide of circumstance into the Northwest.  Ostensibly they supplied blankets, guns, food, and other necessities to the tribes, but there was a strong suspicion that they made their profit in whiskey smuggled across the plains.

“But to guess it and to prove it are different propositions.  How am I going to hang it on them?  I can’t make a bally fool of myself by prodding around in their bales and boxes.  If I didn’t find anything—­and it’d be a long shot against me—­West and his gang would stick their tongues in their cheeks and N.W.M.P. stock would shoot down.  No, I’ve got to make sure, jump ’em, and tie ’em up by finding the goods on the wagons.”