At the first shack he drew up and instantly became the center of attention from a pack of yelping dogs and a number of half-fearful, wide-eyed ragamuffins, grimy children nearly naked and ranging in age from two years up to twelve.  Young as the latter were they were an evil-looking collection.  The noisy greeting of the camp dogs had aroused the elders from their indolent repose within the shacks, and Horrocks quickly became aware of a furtive spying within the darkened doorways and paneless windows.

The reception was nothing unusual to the officer.  The Breeds he knew always fought shy of the police.  As a rule, such a visit as the present portended an arrest, and they were never quite sure who the victim was to be and the possible consequences.  Crime was so common amongst these people that in nearly every family it was possible to find one or more law-breakers and, more often than not, the delinquent was liable to capital punishment.

Ignoring his cool reception, Horrocks hitched his horse to a tree and stepped up to the shack, regardless of the vicious snapping of the dogs.  The children fled precipitately at his approach.  At the door of the house he halted.

“Hallo there, within!” he called.

There was a moment’s pause, and he heard a whispered debate going on in the shadowy interior.

“Hey!” he called again.  “Get a hustle on, some of you.  Get out,” he snapped sharply, as a great husky, with bristling hair, came snuffing at his legs.  He aimed a kick at the dog, which, in response, sullenly retreated to a safe distance.

The angry tone of his second summons had its effect, and a figure moved cautiously within and finally approached the door.

“Eh! what is it?” asked a deep, guttural voice, and a bulky form framed itself in the opening.

The police-officer eyed the man keenly.  The twilight had so far deepened that there was barely sufficient light to distinguish the man’s features, but Horrocks’s survey satisfied him as to the fellow’s identity.  He was a repulsive specimen of the Breed; the dark, lowering face had something utterly cruel in its expression.  The cast was brutal in the extreme; sensual, criminal.  The shifty black eyes looked anywhere but into the policeman’s face.

“That you, Gustave?” said Horrocks, pleasantly enough.  He wished to inspire confidence.  “I’m looking for Gautier.  I’ve got a nice little job for him.  Do you know where he is?”

“Ugh!” grunted Gustave, heavily, but with a decided air of relief.  He entertained a wholesome dread of Sergeant Horrocks.  Now he became more communicative.  Horrocks had not come to arrest anybody.  “I see,” he went on, gazing out across the prairie, “this is not a warrant business, eh?  Guess Gautier is back there,” with a jerk of a thumb in a vague direction behind him.  “He’s in his shack.  Gautier’s just hooked up with another squaw.”

“Another?” Horrocks whistled softly.  “Why, that’s the sixth to my knowledge.  He’s very much a marrying man.  How much did he pay the neche this time?”