It was long after dark when they reached the ravine of the Night Hawk Creek, through which they must pass before arriving at the Lake.  Down the sides of this ravine they zigzagged, dodging trees and boulders till they came to the last sharp pitch, at the foot of which ran the Creek.  During this whole descent Kalman sat clinging to the back and side of the seat, expecting every moment to have the buckboard turn turtle over him, but when they reached the edge of the final pitch, were it not for sheer shame, he would have begged permission to scramble down on hands and knees rather than trust himself to the swaying, pitching vehicle.  A moment French held his bronchos steady, poised on the brink of this rocky steep, and then reaching back, he seized the hind wheel and, holding it fast, used it as a drag, while the bronchos slid down on their haunches over the mass of gravel and rolling stones till they reached the bed of the Creek in safety.  A splash through the water, a scramble up the other bank, a long climb, and they were out again on the prairie.  A mile of good trail and they were at home, welcomed by the baying of two huge Russian wolf hounds.

Through the dim light Kalman could discover the outlines of what seemed a long heap of logs, but what he afterwards discovered to be a series of low log structures which did for house, stable and sheds of various kinds.

“Down!  Bismark.  Down!  Blucher.  Hello there, Mac!  Where in the world are you?”

After some time Mackenzie appeared with a lantern, a short, grizzled, thick-set man, rubbing his eyes and yawning prodigiously.

“I nefer thought you would be coming home to-night,” he said.  “What brought ye at this time?”

“Never mind, Mac,” said French.  “Get the horses out, and Kalman and I will unload this stuff.”

In what seemed to be an outer shed, they deposited the pork, flour, and other articles that composed the load.  As Kalman seized the straw-packed case to carry it in, French interfered.

“Here, boy, I’ll take that,” he said quickly.

“I’ll not break them,” said Kalman, lifting the case with great care.

“You won’t, eh?” replied French in rather a shamed tone.  “Do you know what it is?”

“Why, sure,” said Kalman.  “Lots of that stuff used to come into our home in Winnipeg.”

“Well, let me have the case,” said French.  “And you needn’t say anything to Mac about it.  Mac is all right, but a case of liquor in the house makes him unhappy.”

“Unhappy?  Doesn’t he drink any?”

“That’s just it, my boy.  He is unhappy while it’s outside of him.  He’s got Indian blood in him, you see, and he’d die for whiskey.”  So saying, French took up the case and carried it to the inner room and stowed it away under his bed.

But as he rose up from making this disposition of the dangerous stuff Mac himself appeared in the room.

“What are you standing there looking at?” said French with unusual impatience.