“Pepin Quesnelle!” cried Pasmore, going towards him.  “No words can thank you for what you have done for me this day.”

“And who wants your thanks?” asked the dwarf, good-naturedly.  “Come, the shake of a hand belonging to an honest man is thanks enough for me.  Put it thar, as the Yanks say.”

And Pasmore felt, as he obeyed, that, despite his extraordinary foibles, Pepin Quesnelle was a man whom he could respect, and to whom he owed a debt of gratitude that he could never repay.

“Now, that is all right,” observed Pepin, “and you will come with me.  Some friends of Katie’s have found a friend of yours to-day in the woods, and I will take you to him.”

But Pepin would tell him no more; his short legs, indeed, required all his energies.  But after winding in and out of the bluffs for an hour or more, Pasmore found out who the friend was.  Coming suddenly upon a couple of hay-stacks in a hollow of the bluffs, the dwarf put his fingers to his lips and whistled in a peculiar fashion.  In another moment a dark figure emerged from the shadow.

“Top av the marnin’ t’ye,” it said.

“Rory, by all that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Pasmore as they wrung each other’s hands.

“That’s me,” said Rory.  “Now, here’s a sleigh.  I fancy it was wance Dumont’s, or some other gint’s, but I’m thinkin’ it’s ours now.  It’s bruk the heart av me thet I couldn’t bring them dogs along.  If we have luck we’ll be back at the ranche before noon to-morrer.  Jest ketch hould av this rifle, and I’ll drive.”

In the clear moonlight Pasmore could see a team standing on an old trail not fifteen yards away.

“But just let me say good-bye first to Pepin,” said Pasmore.

But Pepin Quesnelle had vanished mysteriously into the night.

“Rory,” asked Pasmore a little later, when the team of spirited horses was bowling merrily along the by-trail, “was it you who fired that shot to-day and saved my life?”

“Young man,” said Rory, solemnly, “hev yer got sich a thing about yer as a match—­me poipe’s gone out?”

And Pasmore knew that, so far as Rory was concerned, the subject was closed.

Next day about noon the two were to the north of the valley, where lay the ranche.  On rounding a bluff they came unexpectedly upon three Indians in sleighs, who had evidently just cut the trail.

“Child-of-Light!” they cried, recognising the foremost.

A wave of apprehension swept over Pasmore when he saw the inscrutable expression on the face of the friendly chief.  Was it well with the rancher and his daughter?

“Ough, ough!” ejaculated Child-of-Light, wonderingly, as he caught sight of Pasmore.  He pulled up, jumped out of his sleigh, and shook hands cordially.  “Child-of-Light’s heart lightens again to see you, brother,” he said.  “His heart was heavy because he thought Poundmaker must have stilled yours.”

“Child-of-Light is ever a friend,” rejoined Pasmore.  “But what of Douglas and the others?”