Larry’s reply was an odd one.  He turned abruptly to Fox-Foot.  “Boy,” he said, “you’re coming East with us to-night.  Right now!  Don’t say ‘no,’ for I tell you you’re coming.  After the tricks you played on that villain your life would not be worth the smallest nugget in those sacks if you stayed here.  We’ll come back after a time, but you are coming with me, now!”

Jack Cornwall found he could not speak a word, but just held out both hands to the Chippewa.  And that night as the three sat together in the cozy sleeper, while the train thundered its way eastward, Jack wondered why he was so wonderfully happy.  Was it because he had proved himself a man on this strange, wild journey?  Was it because of those heavy sacks beside him, filled with the King’s Coin, which Larry declared he was to share?  He could hardly define the reason, until, glancing up suddenly, he found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes of very rare beauty.  Then he knew that this strangely happy feeling came from the simple fact that there were to be no “good-byes,” that Fox-Foot was still beside him.

A Night With “North Eagle”

A Tale Founded on Fact.

The great transcontinental express was swinging through the Canadian North-West territories into the land of the Setting Sun.  Its powerful engine throbbed along the level track of the prairie.  The express, mail, baggage, first-class and sleeping coaches followed like the pliant tail of a huge eel.  Then the wheels growled out the tones of lessening speed.  The giant animal slowed up, then came to a standstill.  The stop awoke Norton Allan, who rolled over in his berth with a peculiar wide-awake sensation, and waited vainly for the train to resume its flight towards the Rockies.  Some men seemed to be trailing up and down outside the Pullman car, so Norton ran up the little window blind and looked out.  Just a small station platform, of a small prairie settlement, was all he saw, but he heard the voices very distinctly.

“What place is this?” someone asked.

“Gleichen, about sixty miles east of Calgary,” came the reply.

“Construction camp?” asked the first voice.

“No,” came the answer, “This line was laid about when you were born, I guess.”

Someone laughed then.

“But what are all those tents off there in the distance?” again asked the curious one.

“Indian tepees,” was the reply.  “This is the heart of the Blackfoot Reserve.”

Norton’s heart gave a great throb—­the far-famed Blackfoot Indians!—­and just outside his Pullman window!  Oh, if the train would only wait there until morning!  As if in answer to his wish, a quick, alert voice cut in saying, “Washout ahead, boys.  The Bow River’s been cutting up.  We’re stalled here for good and all, I guess.”  And the lanterns and voices faded away forward.