"Now, what do you suppose that is?" Sir William Ware remarked, cocking his head a little as, stepping alongside John Nixon up Toddburn's main street, he approached the hotel door. The two had come into town with a load of wheat, which had been duly hoppered and weighed at the elevator. The team had been put in the livery stable, and the bell of the Toddburn House had just given intimation that dinner was "on".

"Oh, nothin'," replied John Nixon, although he smiled a little, "nothin' at all, Eng—Bill."

"Quite so," Ware commented, glancing at something long which moved and vociferated inside the hotel window, "but don't you think, Nixon, that it's a bit loud for nothing at all?"

"Well," conceded Nixon, as they went up the steps, "when I say 'nothin' at all', Bill, I mean it's something special. You ain't got used to us Canadians yet, I see. In other words, the occasion of yon rumpus is Long Tom Mewha. He's gittin' tanked up."

"Yeow-e-wow-e-yippyhoo!" Mr. Mewha was remarking, his arm rib-crackingly about a less tall friend, as Nixon and Ware entered the hall of the Toddburn House, "Rip, slam, razzaberry jam! We don't care—do we, Joe. Whoa, you son of a moose, whoa!" This last as Joe coyly but vigorously endeavored to twist himself loose from the sociable arm.

"I'll turn you over my knee, an' spank you, Joe," Mr. Mewha reproved, pointing his words with a mighty slap that lifted Joe off his feet, "if you don't set still. We-e-ell—look who's with us!"

Long Tom—flinging away the unsteady Joe, who fetched up against the wall, eight feet away, with a window-rattling bang—turned to face Ware, who had just come through the hall door into the room.

"English!" he half-sung, "English, frum his scalp-lock to his moccasin-toes. Come here to me, English!"

Sir William's eye, gray, unwavering, infinitely friendly, met steadily the red-lidded glare of Long Tom Mewha—who emphasized his loud-toned invitation by rocking the upper part of his body from side to side, punctuating this movement with beckoning backward jerks of his head and crookings of a strong black-nailed forefinger.

"Come here to me," repeated Mr. Mewha, making a sound-box of his nostrils, "and do it sudden!"

He was a mighty man, in build, this Tom Mewha. Tough, long-sinewed, panther-shouldered, the seams of his buckskin coat straining under the twisting of a torso, muscle-flexed with the excitation of alcohol. He had a black moustache that swept below his chin on either side; a blunt nose skinned with frostbite; eyes aglow with virility and physical well-being; a forehead that just now was, from shaggy eyebrows to hair-roots, dotted and beaded with sweat. The incarnation of physical force; spurred to height of power by the liquor that had wakened every healthy artery to racing-pace: Long Tom could have taken any two of those who stood about him and without undue effort dashed their heads together. They all knew it, and stood back: all but Ware, the calm new-comer.

"Better give him his way, Bill," advised Nixon sotto voce, behind Ware's shoulder, "he's one bad-actor when he's pickled, if you go to cross him."

"I shan't cross him, old chap," Ware responded, a little drily, "nothing, in fact, was farther from my thoughts. How are you, Mr. Mewha?" He stepped forward, and held out a friendly hand.

"What do you-u mean," Mr. Mewha demanded, "by standin' in your tracks, like a bump on a log, after I holler 'come'. Do you know that I could bust you right in two?" Ignoring Sir William's hand, the speaker inched close, scuffing his feet ominously over the creaking boards, thrusting his chin out, glaring like a stiffened and challenging beast.

"Exactly," the word came briefly, distinctly, clear-cut as a knuckle-tap on glass. "Will you shake hands."

Often, in the days that followed, John Nixon, thoughtful in his evening chair, reflected on those four words and the way Ware said them. The inflexion was smooth and even; the tone hardly more than gentle; the expression pleasant. But the effect—which Nixon and all those who stood about felt equally with the one to whom the words were addressed—was that of a mandate. Not a foolish command, proceeding from the habit of authority, without present power to exact obedience; but the serene, confident, all-potent fiat of brotherhood. Long Tom, at the moment the sentence was uttered, was in the attitude of a great animal about to spring. His face, shining with perspiration, was pushed close to Ware's; his hands, the fingers tensed and crooked, were raised to the level of the baronet's shoulders, preparatory to gripping. The great muscles were heaved up in a mound between his shoulders, giving him a stooping aspect. His eyes held shining points, like fire-sparks.

But the effect of the words was instantaneous. Nixon nor none of those about knew why nor how. All they knew was that Tom Mewha relaxed his threatening attitude; straightened to his full magnificent six feet four; swung up a hand.

"Put it there," he said: this Peril of the west.