“And so, Child-of-Light, what would you have us do?” asked Douglas.  “Do you think if possible for my daughter and the women to reach the Fort at Battleford?”

But a sharp tapping at the door stopped the answer of the chief.

Rory shot back the bolt and threw open the door.  A fur-clad figure entered; the white frost glistened on his buffalo-coat and bear-skin cap as if they were tipped with ermine.  He walked without a word into the light and looked around—­an admirable man, truly, about six feet in height, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and without a spare ounce of flesh—­a typical Rider of the Plains, and a soldier, every inch of him.  In the thousands upon thousands of square miles in which these dauntless military police have to enforce law and order, the inhabitants know that never yet has the arm of justice not proved long enough to bring an offender to book.  On one occasion a policeman disappeared into the wilderness after some one who was wanted.  As in three months he neither came back, nor was heard of, he was struck off the strength of the force.  But one day, as the men stood on parade in the barrack square, he came back in rags and on foot, more like a starved tramp than a soldier.  But with him he brought his prisoner.  That was the man, Sergeant Pasmore, who stood before them.

He inclined his head to Dorothy, and nodded to the men around the fire, but when he saw Child-of-Light he extended his left hand.

The Indian looked straight into the sergeant’s eyes.

“What has happened?” he asked.  “Ough!  Ough!  I see; you have met Thunderchild?”

The sergeant nodded.

“Yes,” he said, with apparent unconcern, “Thunderchild managed to put a bullet through my arm.  You may give me a hand off with my coat, Jacques.  Luckily, the wound’s not bad enough to prevent my firing a gun.”

When they removed his overcoat they found that the sleeve of the tunic had been cut away, and that his arm had been roughly bandaged.  The girl was gazing at it in a peculiarly concentrated fashion.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Douglas,” he said, hastily turning away from her.  “I had forgotten it looked like that, but fortunately the look is the worst part of it.  It’s only a flesh wound.”

The girl had stepped forward to help him, as if resenting the imputation that the sight of blood frightened her, but Jacques had anticipated what was required.  She wanted to bring him something to eat and drink, but he thanked her and declined.  He had weightier matters on hand.

“Mr. Douglas,” he said, quietly, “I’ve told my men to move over here.  You may require their services in the course of the next twenty-four hours.  What I apprehended and told you about some time ago has occurred.”

“Pasmore,” said the rancher, earnestly, “is there any immediate danger?  If there is, my daughter and the women had better go into Battleford right now.”