midst of thousands of hideous serpents. They were coiling about his legs, arms and body. They were leaping up, trying to tear away the child from his breast, and to loosen his hold upon the boards. How much longer would they torture him? Would they soon gain complete possession and bear him down never to rise again? No, he would fight them. He would conquer. He would beat them back. They were worse than the grizzly, but he would win. And even as he made another great determined struggle his feet struck something which sent a thrill of hope through his heart. Was it merely a delusion? Was it only a fond fancy of his reeling brain? No, it was true. His feet had struck a sand-bar, which put out from the shore like a long finger hidden beneath the surface. Relaxing his grip of the raft, and with the child in his arms Grey feebly and with much difficulty made his way through the swirling water. So numb was his body that his legs seemed like two lifeless sticks as he staggered forward. It was all he could do to reach the shore and climb the bank. Then his strength deserted him. He trembled and sank upon the hard ground. It was only for a few seconds, however, for the child lying there needed immediate attention. Kneeling by his side he peered into the little white face, noticed the wan, pinched features, the luxuriant curly hair dripping with water, and the soaked clothes clinging like cerements to his body. "What was such a lad doing there?" he wondered. That not more than three summers had passed over his head was quite evident. He was no poor man's child, for the garments betokened a home of means and loving care above the ordinary. At his throat a small safety pin was fastened, and as Grey peered down through the faint and uncertain light he saw engraved there the one word "Donnie." An exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips. His eyes were suddenly opened, and he beheld before him Silas Farwell's little stolen child.
"Fool—more than fool," he muttered. "To think that I didn't realise it before. And here I've been cursing my fate ever since that grizzly unhorsed me, and it was all for a purpose. I begin to see now that another Hand is having much to do with this affair."
At that instant a shiver shook the child's body. He looked up, began to cry and to call for his mother.
"Hush, hush, dear," soothed Grey, bending over him. "You shall have your mother."
Then the helplessness of his position swept upon him. In a vast wilderness, leagues from any settlement, and night shutting down. Not a shred of dry clothing did he have in which to enwrap the child, and not even a fire. He was numb and chill himself. That he could stand, but not this delicate lad. "What am I to do?" he groaned. "Is this sweet child to die here slowly after all? Better to have left him to perish in the river; it would have been quicker."
Rising to his feet he peered through the gloom, but no sign of human life could he behold, nothing but the scrubby forest, silent and grim. He lifted up his voice and called, once, twice, three times, but only a far-off echo, ghost-like and hollow, sent back its mocking response. Again he knelt by the side of the child.
"Are you cold, dear?" he asked.
"Ya, cold, cold," and the lad shivered. "I wants my mother. Why doesn't she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"
Grey looked at his own clothes. They were very wet; not a dry stitch upon him. Then he thought of the buckskin jacket he had thrown off ere he leaped into the river. He believed there were several dry matches in one of the pockets. Suppose they had fallen out during his tussle with the bear! They were his only hope now. The liberal supply he had brought with him, rolled up in his blanket, had gone with Blackbird. Never before had he realised the value of a few tiny matches. Now they meant life or death. He must have them if they were there, and at once.
"Are you afraid to stay here alone, little one?" he asked. "It will be only for a short time, and I shall soon come back."
A startled look came into Donnie's face, as reaching out a small hand he clutched the arm of his rescuer.
"No, no, don't go!" he cried, with tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take me home. I wants my mother."
"I won't leave you, then," was the reassuring response. "You shall go along, too."
Stooping down, he lifted the child tenderly in his arms and turned his face up-stream. Could he make the journey? That was the question. Had he the strength after his two fearful ordeals to struggle through that dusky tangled underbrush, where no trail marked the way, and with his feet stumbling at almost every step? Suppose he should fall and not be able to rise again? He banished the thought. It was too horrible to be entertained even for an instant. No, he must not fail. What would the Major, who had entrusted him with such a sacred commission think? And how would the Force regard it? "Constable N. Grey, Regiment No. ——lost; supposed to have died on the trail, somewhere between Big Glen and the river Hishu, while in search of a stolen child." How would words such as these sound in the laconic Police Report when it appeared the following year? Would their bones, bleached and white, at last be found amid those tangled bushes? And the mother, what of her? Would she ever know of the struggle he had made to save her darling child? There came to him now her white, drawn face. Did not every man in the Barracks know Mrs. Farwell? She was beautiful, cultured, and a general favourite in the little social circle of Big Glen. But she was kind to all, and greeted each constable she met with a pleasant smile. She had spoken to him once, and congratulated him upon the capture of "One-eyed" Henry, the Swede. He had never forgotten that, and her sparkling eyes and sunny face had haunted him for months. For her sake now, at least, he must not fail. He would save her child. He had taken but a few steps forward when he stopped short in his tracks. A dark form had suddenly loomed up out of the night right in front of him. It was an Indian tall and silent, leaning upon his grounded rifle. For the space of ten heart throbs neither spoke. Then,
"Who are you," Grey demanded, "and what do you want?"
"You call?" came the calm reply.
"Yes, indeed, I did call. Look you. This child is wet, cold, freezing. Got in river. See? You savvey cabin—fire, eh?"
At once the Indian took a step nearer, and peered keenly into the white man's face.
"Ah, ah," he remarked. "Me savvey. Come."
Turning abruptly he plunged into the thicket of jack pines and cotton wood trees. He had not gone far, however, ere he paused and looked back.
"Me take bah-bee," he said; "you cally gun, eh?"
But when he reached out his hands Donnie shrank back with a little sobbing cry, and threw his arms tightly around his preserver's neck.
"Don't want to leave me, little man?" Grey asked, while his heart thrilled with a new-found joy at the child's confiding action.
"Ya, me tay," whimpered the boy. "You carry baby."
"All right, dear, you shall stay with me as long as I have any strength left," and he motioned the Indian to advance.
Silently they threaded their way through the chilly night, Grey using every exertion to keep up with his dusky guide. Donnie was a considerable weight to him in his weakened condition. Once he felt he should be forced to relinquish his burden to the Indian, no matter how badly the child might feel. But the pressure of that little body and the hand laid so trustingly against his shoulder nerved him to greater action, and painfully he stumbled forward. After what seemed to Grey to be an interminable distance, although in reality it was not far, a bright light suddenly pierced the darkness. It came from a camp fire directly ahead, around which he observed someone moving. In another minute the place was reached, and gladly he laid the child down in front of the cheerful blaze.
It was only a temporary brush camp erected there in the wilderness, but to Grey no place had ever seemed half so welcome. Seated on a blanket spread over some fir boughs was an Indian woman with hair, jet black and straight, falling over not unshapely shoulders. Nearby stood a girl of fifteen years, whose eyes sparkled with curiosity as she turned them upon the stranger and the little form at his feet. One glance at the sympathetic faces before him told Grey that he was in the midst of friends. A few brief words in the rhythmical native tongue passed between the Indian man and woman, and immediately the rude camp was converted into a hive of industry. The child was stripped of his wet clothes, his cold body thoroughly rubbed and then enwrapped in a soft grey blanket which the girl had brought