for the Corporal and old Beaver-Tail.  “Yes, my grandfather, Big Wolf-Willow, is here,” said the boy, his dark eyes looking fearlessly into the Corporal’s blue ones.  “He’s here, as you see, and I suppose you will have to arrest him.  He acknowledges he took the cattle.  He was poor, hungry, starving.  You see, Corporal, he cannot speak English, and he does not understand the white men or their laws.  He says for me to tell you that the white men came and stole all our buffaloes, the millions of beautiful animals that supplied us with hides to make our tepees, furs to dress in, meat to eat, fat to keep us warm; so he thought it no harm to take two small calves when he was hungry.  He asks if anyone arrested and punished the white men who took all his buffaloes, and, if not, why should he be arrested and punished for doing far less wrong than the wrong done by the white man?”

“But—­but—­” stammered Corporal Manan, “I’m not after him.  It is you I was told to arrest.”

“Oh, why didn’t I know?  Why didn’t I know it was I you were after?” cried the boy.  “I would have let you take me, handcuff me, anything, for I understand, but he does not.”

Corporal Manan stood up, shaking his shoulders as a big dog shakes after a plunge.  Then he spoke:  “Little Wolf-Willow, can you ever forgive us all for thinking you were a cattle-thief?  When I think of your grandfather’s story of the millions of buffaloes he has lost, and those two paltry calves he took for food, I make no arrests here.  My captain must do what he thinks best.”

“And you saved me from freezing to death, and brought me home on your own horse, when you were sent out to take me to prison!” muttered the boy, turning to his soldier friend with admiration.

But old Beaver-Tail interrupted.  He arose, held out his hand towards the once hated scarlet-coated figure, and spoke the first words he had ever voiced in English.  They were, “North-West Mounted Police, good man, he.  Beaver-Tail’s friend.”