With an almost superhuman effort the young fellow controlled himself once more as he arose.  Not lightly had he given a promise.  Silently he dusted the snow from his uniform and strode over to where the sorrel awaited him.  The horse had made no attempt to run away; apparently being an old hand at the game.  It now stood eying its dupe, with Lord knows what mirth tickling its equine brain.

Slipping the “nigh” rein through the saddle-fork, then back to the cheek-strap again, George snubbed Fox’s head towards him, making it impossible for the horse to whirl to the “off” as before.  Warily and quietly he then swung into the saddle and the two men set off.

A few yards from the front of the detachment Yorke suddenly pulled up and, dismounting, felt around in the snow at the base of a well-remembered telephone-pole.  It was Redmond’s hour to jeer now, if he had been mindful to do so.  But another usurped that privilege.

A queer choking sound made them both turn round.  Slavin, his grim face registering unholy mirth, lounged in the doorway.

“Fwhat ye lukkin for, Yorkey?”

“Oh, nothing!” came that gentleman’s answer.

“Ye’ll find ut in th’ bottle thin.”

Insult was added to injury by the sergeant casually plucking that article from it’s “rist” and chucking it over.

Yorke’s face was a study.  “Oh!” cried he dismally, “what wit! . . . give three rousing cheers!” . . .  He mounted once more.  “Well! there’s no denying you are one hell of a sergeant!”

That worthy one grinned at him tolerantly.  “Get yez gone!” he spat back, “an’ du not linger tu play craps on th’ thrail either—­th’ tu av yez!”

Long and grimly, with his bald head sunk between his huge shoulders, he gazed after the departing riders.  “Eyah! ’tis best so!” he murmured softly, “a showdown—­wid no ould shtiff av a non-com like meself tu butt in. . . .  An’, onless I am mistuk that same will come this very morn, from th’ luks av things. . . .  Sind th’ young wan is as handy wid his dhooks as Brankley sez he is! . . .  Thin—­an’ on’y thin will there be peace in th’ fam’ly.”

He re-lit his pipe and, shading his eyes from the snow-glare focussed them on two rapidly vanishing black specks.  “I wud that I cud see ut!” he sighed, plaintively, “I wud that I cud see ut!”

It was a glorious day, sunny and clear, with the temperature sufficiently low to prevent the hard-packed snow from balling up the horses’ feet.  The trail ran fairly level along a lower shelf of the timber-lined foothills, which on their right hand sloped gradually to the banks of the Bow River in a series of rolling “downs.”  Sharply outlined against the blue ether the Sou’ Western chain of the mighty “Rockies” reared their rosily-white peaks in all their morning glory—­silent guardians of the winter landscape.

Deep down in his soul young Redmond harboured a silent, dreamy adoration for the beauty of such scenes as this.  Under different conditions he would have enjoyed this ride immensely.  But now—­with his mind a seething bitter chaos consequent upon his companion’s incomprehensible behavior towards him, he rode in a sort of brooding reverie.  Yorke was equally morose.  Not a word had fallen from their lips since they left the detachment.