The Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail | Page 2

to "the rights and wrongs of our fellow-citizens who,
amid the hardships of a pioneer civilization, were laying broad and
deep the foundations of Empire." But after the smoke and noise of the
explosion had passed both Opposition and Government speedily forgot
the half-breed and his tempestuous gatherings in the stores and
schoolhouses, at church doors and in open camps, along the banks of
the far away Saskatchewan.
There were a few men, however, that could not forget. An Indian agent
here and there with a sense of responsibility beyond the pickings of his
post, a Hudson Bay factor whose long experience in handling the
affairs of half-breeds and Indians instructed him to read as from a
printed page what to others were meaningless and incoherent
happenings, and above all the officers of the Mounted Police, whose
duty it was to preserve the "pax Britannica" over some three hundred
thousand square miles of Her Majesty's dominions in this far northwest
reach of Empire, these carried night and day an uneasiness in their
minds which found vent from time to time in reports and telegraphic
messages to members of Government and other officials at
headquarters, who slept on, however, undisturbed. But the word was
passed along the line of Police posts over the plains and far out into
British Columbia to watch for signs and to be on guard. The Police paid
little heed to the high-sounding resolutions of a few angry excitable
half-breeds, who, daring though they were and thoroughly able to give
a good account of themselves in any trouble that might arise, were
quite insignificant in number; but there was another peril, so serious, so
terrible, that the oldest officer on the force spoke of it with face
growing grave and with lowered voice--the peril of an Indian uprising.
All this and more made the trim orderly hesitate. A runner with news
was not to be kicked unceremoniously off the porch in these days, but
to be considered.
"You want to see the Superintendent, eh?"

"Oui, for sure--queeck--run ten mile," replied the half-breed with angry
impatience.
"All right," said the orderly, "what's your name?"
"Name? Me, Pinault--Pierre Pinault. Ah, sacr-r-e! Beeg Chief know
me--Pinault." The little man drew himself up.
"All right! Wait!" replied the orderly, and passed into the shack. He had
hardly disappeared when he was back again, obviously shaken out of
his correct military form.
"Go in!" he said sharply. "Get a move on! What are you waiting for?"
The half-breed threw him a sidelong glance of contempt and passed
quickly into the "Beeg Chief's" presence.
Superintendent Strong was a man prompt in decision and prompt in
action, a man of courage, too, unquestioned, and with that bulldog
spirit that sees things through to a finish. To these qualities it was that
he owed his present command, for it was no insignificant business to
keep the peace and to make the law run along the line of the Canadian
Pacific Railway through the Kicking Horse Pass during construction
days.
The half-breed had been but a few minutes with the Chief when the
orderly was again startled out of his military decorum by the bursting
open of the Superintendent's door and the sharp rattle of the
Superintendent's orders.
"Send Sergeant Ferry to me at once and have my horse and his brought
round immediately!" The orderly sprang to attention and saluted.
"Yes, sir!" he replied, and swiftly departed.
A few minutes' conference with Sergeant Ferry, a few brief commands
to the orderly, and the Superintendent and Sergeant were on their way
down the steep hillside toward the tote-road that led eastward through

the pass. A half-hour's ride brought them to a trail that led off to the
south, into which the Superintendent, followed by the Sergeant, turned
his horse. Not a word was spoken by either man. It was not the
Superintendent's custom to share his plans with his subordinate officers
until it became necessary. "What you keep behind your teeth," was a
favorite maxim with the Superintendent, "will harm neither yourself
nor any other man." They were on the old Kootenay Trail, for a
hundred years and more the ancient pathway of barter and of war for
the Indian tribes that hunted the western plains and the foothill country
and brought their pelts to the coast by way of the Columbia River.
Along the lower levels the old trail ran, avoiding, with the sure instinct
of a skilled engineer, nature's obstacles, and taking full advantage of
every sloping hillside and every open stretch of woods. Now and then,
however, the trail must needs burrow through a deep thicket of spruce
and jack pine and scramble up a rocky ridge, where the horses, trained
as they were in mountain climbing, had all they could do to keep their