Every one seemed in the best of spirits.  Wounds were not mentioned, so it went without saying that these, owing to the healthy bodies of their owners, were giving no trouble.  The only interruption of a non-harmonic nature was when a burly Muskymote dog of Rory’s team took it into its head that a little tete-noire dog had received a portion of frozen fish from its master out of all proportion to its inconsiderable size, so, as soon as Rory’s back was turned, showed its disapproval of such favouritism by knocking the favoured one down, and trying to bite off the tips of its ears.  As the other dogs, with their peculiar new Queensberry instincts, at once piled on to the one that was getting the worst of it, Rory had to put down the chicken leg he was enjoying to arbitrate with his whip in the usual way.  He gave the jealous Muskymote an extra smack or two for its ill-timed behaviour as he thought of that chicken leg.

To Dorothy’s no little surprise she found Pasmore unusually communicative.  Despite his seeming austerity, he possessed a keen vein of humour of a dry, pungent order that was eminently entertaining.  To-day he gave vent to it, and she found herself laughing and talking to him in a way that, twenty-four hours before she would not have deemed possible.

Dinner over, the horses were watered—­they had now cooled down—­the culinary articles were stowed away, pipes lit, and preparations made for a fresh start.  It would be necessary to move with extreme caution, as they were not more than twelve miles from Battleford, and the enemy were pretty sure to have their scouts out.

On again through the still air, and between the winding avenues of birch, poplar and saskatoon bushes.  Nothing to be heard save the occasional call of the grouse in the bracken, and the monotonous chafing of the harness.  At dusk they arrived within a mile or two of the little town, and halted.

A fire was lit in a deserted farmhouse, and a good drink of hot tea put fresh life into them.  There was trying and dangerous work to be done that night; they would require to be well prepared.

An hour later, when the moon began to show over the tree-tops, the entire party moved out silently by a little-used by-path towards Battleford.  A couple of troopers went on some considerable distance in front, and one on either flank, with strict instructions to create no alarm if possible in meeting with an enemy, but to at once warn the main body.

And now on the still air came a weird, monotonous sound, rising and falling, as does that of the far-off rapids, borne on the fitful breath of the Chinook winds. Tap, tap, tap, it went, tum, tum, tum, in ever-recurring monotones.  As they stopped to listen to it, the girl realised its nature only too well.  It was the tuck of the Indian drum, and the Indian was on the war-path.  As they walked on they could hear it more plainly, and soon the sound of whooping, yelling human voices, and the occasional discharge of fire-arms, fell upon their apprehensive ears.