"Is Grey—Norman Grey—here?"

The Orderly paused on the threshold and looked around the room.

"Over there," replied a constable, jerking his thumb to the left, "in the corner."

At once the Orderly strode forward to the side of a young man leaning against the Canteen bar.

"Say, Grey, the O. C. wants you."

At these words the man addressed straightened himself up to his full height of six feet with a sudden jerk, while his dark piercing eyes flashed questioningly from beneath the broad brim of his Stetson hat. A deep silence now pervaded the room; the poker chips ceased their rattle; the rustling of the newspapers stopped; the man behind the bar stayed his hand in the act of pouring a glass of ginger beer, and even pipes were allowed to go out.

It was the quiet after supper hour in the Big Glen Barracks of the "X" Division of the North West Mounted Police, in the far-flung Northern Yukon Territory, and the work of the day was done. The few prisoners had been marched silently back to their lonely cells in the stout log guard room; the flag had fluttered slowly down from its tall staff in the centre of the big Square; the bugle had rent the air with its quivering notes, and the guards had been changed. Everything had been done speedily and systematically. It was the daily routine. Each man knew his duty, and did it.

The Canteen was the regular place of meeting, and here a score of constables and corporals, tested guardians of a lone land, were gathered, to drink the customary glass of ale or beer, read the newspapers, discuss the affairs of the day, and play a few friendly games of cards. The click of billiard balls in the adjoining room could be distinctly heard, whilst from the open door of the Sergeants' Mess came the sweet strains of a violin.

"Where's the O. C. now? In the office?" It was Grey's voice which broke the silence as he looked hard at the Orderly.

"No, he's in his house. You had better hustle."

Grey glanced down at his clothes. He was dressed as he had come off guard of the prisoners. A belt filled with cartridges encircled his waist, and his revolver sheathed in its leathern holster hung at his hip. His appearance at that moment was sufficient to win both respect and admiration from the most indifferent. Of this his companions were not thinking, but of that summons to meet the Commanding Officer. Well did they know the startling news which was agitating this northern town, causing strong men's eyes to moisten, and mothers to clasp their children closer in their arms. Had not prominent citizens hurried in and out of the O. C.'s office all the afternoon, and did not the air hang heavy with expectancy as to what move would be made and who would be chosen for the difficult undertaking? Now it was no longer uncertain. Grey was the first to be called, and all realised that the choice had been a good one.

"Grey's got a difficult job ahead of him," remarked a tall, slim constable after the former had left the room.

"He's the man for it, though," replied another, deliberately sipping his beer.

"He'll do the job if anyone can, for he fears neither man nor devil. Don't you remember how he stood up before 'Twisty' Parker and his gang in Big Gulch Road House, cowed the whole bunch, and got his man?"

"Indeed I do, but that was nothing to the way he ran down "One-eyed" Henry, the Swede, who murdered his partner at Five Fingers. He walked right up to the revolver's point when it was spitting fire like hell, knocked the Swede down and took him alive. The murderer afterwards acknowledged that it was Grey's coolness, and the terrible gleam of determination in his eyes which unnerved him and made his hand shake as if he had the palsy."

Grey in the meantime had crossed the Barracks Square, and was admitted by a quiet, passionless-eyed Jap into the presence of his Commanding Officer. Giving the customary salute he stood at attention, and awaited orders.

Major Sterling was sitting at his desk when Grey entered, with his eyes fixed upon a map lying before him. Pacing up and down the room was a small, middle-aged man whose agony of face and excited manner plainly bespoke the agitated state of his mind.

"Major, find my boy," he was saying. "Spare no pains or money in your efforts to run those villains down. They hate me, and have sworn to have revenge. They demand twenty thousand dollars. Think of it, twenty thousand dollars! They threaten the life of my child if it's not paid! Oh, God, help me! I can't pay it, and I won't. But I want my boy, my only child, Donnie. Major, for the sake of a heart-broken father and mother; for the honour of this town, and for the welfare of humanity, capture those scoundrels and save my boy."

In reply to this passionate appeal the Major swung around in his chair and faced the troubled man.

"Mr. Farwell," he began, "the best answer I can give you stands there in the person of Constable Grey. Leave the matter to us. We will do the best we can."

"Thank you, sir; oh, thank you," cried Mr. Farwell, seizing the Major's hand and wringing it vehemently. "I know you will do what you can. I shall go now, but you will keep me informed, will you not?"

"Yes," replied the Major, rising and opening the door. "You shall be kept acquainted with every move. Remember, Mr. Farwell, I am a father as well as an officer, and what more can I say?"

When the door had closed behind his visitor the Major returned to his desk, and remained for a while lost in thought. He was a stern man outwardly, and ruled with a firm hand. Unbending in the line of duty he combined rigid discipline with discriminating justice. Neither position, money, nor threats availed in the slightest degree to swerve him one hair's breadth from a purpose he knew to be right. Major Sterling was an autocrat on this ragged edge of civilisation, and yet an autocrat whose every heart beat was for the honour of his country and for the welfare of the people committed to his charge. Relentless as a sleuth hound in crushing down crime and tyranny he was feared and respected by both whites and Indians alike.

"Grey," he at length remarked, turning toward the constable and motioning him to a chair, "sit down; we've important business on to-night."

The Major's voice had lost much of its old-time sternness, and Grey was more than astonished at this unexpected order. Never before had he taken a seat in the presence of his Superior Officer. To do so was a severe breach of discipline. He advanced a step, and hesitated.

"This chair, Grey," and a slight smile illumined the Major's face as he noted his subordinate's embarrassment. "There, that's better," he continued, turning his attention once again to the map lying on his desk. With a pencil in his hand he traced a course from Big Glen out over the land away eastward toward the Rocky Mountains. At times he paused, and his brow knitted in perplexity. At length, however, the pencil rested upon a spot where a crooked stream was marked upon the map. Everything else was a complete blank, no name of town or village appearing. Here the Major made a small circle, and wrote over it the one word "Hishu."

"See, Grey," and he held up the map, "I want you to go there."

The constable started at these words, and glanced keenly at the pencil mark. His interest now was thoroughly aroused. For years that region had a strange fascination for his daring spirit. Indians had related marvellous tales of what the place contained: rivers foaming, rushing, and plunging into dark mysterious depths; monsters living in the mountains, their roars shaking the earth, and belching fire and rocks from their terrible mouths. There were tribes, too, so they said, horrible and bloodthirsty, with hair, filled with knives, hanging to their waists. At times the Indians about Big Glen had come trembling to the Police for protection. Those tribes from their mountain fastnesses, so they believed, were about to sweep down and wipe them out of existence. The Police had always succeeded, however, in allaying their fears, and upon investigation found the trouble generally started in the fervid brain of the useless Medicine Man.

So the Major was to send him there. Grey could hardly believe his ears. Into that region shrouded in mystery, like the shadow of death! What was the use of it?

"How soon can you get ready, Grey?" The Major was speaking as if certain of his line of action. There was no sign of doubt in his words.

"I can start at once, sir," the constable replied. "That is, as soon as I make ready. But do you think, sir, they would flee to a place like that?"

"Not if they knew how much I know," and the Major gave a peculiar little laugh.

"But why should they go there, sir? They must have heard about that place, and what a—"

"Look here, Grey," interrupted the Major, "I've had my eyes and ears open to that region for some time now. I've heard all those Indian stories, and believe them to be so many fairy tales, all purely imagination. I have lately received information, which I think is reliable, that certain men have crossed the mountains from the East, and are now prospecting up Hishu Creek. They have a small settlement at its mouth near the river. A notorious character, Siwash Bill by name, has a trading store there, and I believe him to be the ringleader of the gang who kidnapped that child. Prospectors on the Mackenzie River side of the mountains carried this news to Edmonton, which was forwarded to me only last week. I intended to send a man there shortly to investigate, but this unexpected occurrence demands immediate action."

Thus for an hour officer and subordinate sat and talked in the deepening twilight. When at length the latter rose to go, the Major reached forward and drew from a pigeon hole in the desk a small slip of paper.

"Wait a minute, Grey," he commanded. "I find that your time will be up two weeks from to-day."

"Yes, sir."

"And you intend to leave the Force then?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you don't mind being sent out on this business at the end of your time?"

"No, sir."

"Well said. I'll remember that. Good night, Grey, and God be with you."

Slowly the constable walked back across the Square toward the Canteen. His Commanding Officer's parting words touched him. He realised on this night as never before what a sympathetic heart beat beneath the Major's cold exterior. He was human after all, and cared for his men. What a change, too, he thought, to be out of the Force—to be free! And yet, why should he leave? Why should he not "take on again"? What was there for him in life? Where should he go? What was there to do? He could go home, but what was home without her? He paused, and bared his head. The evening breeze cooled his hot brow, and played with his wealth of dark hair. Above him shone the stars—their glory dimmed by the long northern twilight. There was the pole star steady as of yore. He remembered the night they had last looked at it together by the garden gate among the flowers. How beautiful she was then in all her virgin purity! That was six years ago—and where was she now? Six years, and not a trace of her since!

"Star of heaven," he murmured, "where is she to-night? Where is my long lost darling? Guide me, oh, lead me, to her side!"

The bugle sounded "Lights out," and soon all was in silence in the Big Glen Barracks. Major Sterling still sat at his desk, studying the map before him, and occasionally glancing at several closely-written papers lying near. From the stable at one corner of the Square Norman Grey led forth a jet-black horse, and stood for a minute stroking her glossy neck. There was no one to bid him farewell, no one to grip his hand and speed him on his way. A slight sarcastic laugh escaped his lips as he sprang lightly into the saddle and headed Blackbird for the open road. He was going out alone, unnoticed. But he would return—and what then? Again he smiled, settled himself firmly in the saddle, and gave one word to Blackbird. Then the ring of steel-shod hoofs sounded along the gravelled way as horse and rider sped through the night, out of the Barracks Square, out of the little straggling town, and out upon a great lone trail stretching dim and uncertain beyond the farthest bounds of civilization.