Like a thief in the night the plague crept into Alberta, disguised at first in the form of light colds to which the sufferers paid small attention, but before the year was out those neglected colds had turned into the scourge whose virulence singled out the strong, the fair and the young for its victims.

Calgary was like a beleaguered city at bay against the attack of a dread enemy. The printed warnings everywhere in the newspapers and placarded in public places and street cars; the newspaper accounts of the progress of the sickness in Europe, the United States and eastern Canada, with the long list of deaths threw the healthy city of the foothills into a state of panic.

Schools were closed; the people were afraid to go to church; disinfectant was sprayed over every store and office. The faintest symptom of a cold, the least sneeze was diagnosed as plague, and the growing fear in which the people awaited the disaster created a hysterical condition that probably precipitated its coming. Slowly and surely, undeterred by precaution and prayer alike, the terrible plague was drawing in upon Alberta.

The first definitely diagnosed cases came in early summer, when the weather is raw and cold as it always is there. At that early season only two or three cases were discovered, but all the members of medical and nursing professions volunteered or were conscripted for service. By a curious negligence, no means of protection were taken for the vast country that surrounded the City of the Foothills on every side, and it was even said that many cases that the authorities failed to report had been sent off "to the country."

If the city authorities were indifferent to the fate of the country regions, on which, by the way Calgary was wholly dependent, there was one man at least who kept the welfare of his beloved country close to his heart. The erstwhile Scotch stable lad, who for many years had dedicated his thought, his labor and his heart to the farming and ranching people of Alberta, begrudged himself even a few hours sleep. Night and day, he "kept the road," keeping the keenest watch for the first outbreak of the epidemic, well knowing that plague respected neither person nor place, but leaped across the great cities even to the remotest places of the earth.

The warm summer brought an abatement of the menace, but when the first frost came in with the fall, the plague fell like a cloudburst upon the country.

Calgary, the city of sunlight and optimism, became a place of suffering and death. Scarcely a house but the dreaded visitor entered to take his tragic and inexplicable toll of the youngest and strongest there. People went about half-dazed, as if they were living in a nightmare. Hospitals, schools, churches, theaters, every available public building was turned into a house of refuge. No one was allowed on the street without a mask of white gauze fastened over nose and mouth.

The terrible crisis brought to light the extreme scarcity of nurses and doctors. Although an army of volunteer nurses were recruited by the city authorities, they were inadequate to the needs of all those stricken households, where one after another died for sheer lack of care and attention. The hospitals and all the emergency stations were filled to overflowing.

In spite of the almost superhuman expenditure of effort, the death lists grew from day to day. CrÊpe hung from every second door in the city, and every day a ghastly procession of hearses, automobiles, and every vehicle that moved on wheels, passed through the streets laden with Calgary's dead.

All the surrounding towns had succumbed meanwhile, and the smaller the towns, the heavier was the mortality for lack of skilled doctors and nurses and fit accommodation for the patients.

Most desperate of all, however, was the plight of those who lived on farms and ranches and at camps beyond the reach of help. The state of things in the Indian Reserves was appalling. The Indians were dying like flies, their misery forgotten by their white protectors. In their ignorance and helplessness, they sought help at the farms and ranches, only to be turned away, and often they carried the plague into places which had been immune until then.

Half the countryside was down with the disease, and still Dr. McDermott was vainly applying to the city and provincial authorities for help. Seeing that his demands were falling on deaf ears, he tried to impress into service men and women ranchers whose families had not yet been attacked, trying to make them understand that at such a time it was everybody's duty to do what he could. But the fear that had paralyzed the cities had now reached the farmers, and the doctor's appeal brought little response. In their desire to escape, many families shut themselves up in their homes, discharged their help and hung signs on their gates: "Keep away!" They closed their doors in the faces of friends and strangers both, and only opened them when they in their turn were forced to cry for help. A few did respond, it is true, to the doctor's call for help, but nearly always were themselves overtaken before they had served very long, and the demand for help of any kind was so overwhelming that it was well-nigh impossible to do more than show the sick how to take care of themselves.

Overworked and exhausted, worn out with lack of sleep, Dr. McDermott stopped one day at Angella Loring's ranch.

The two girls were coming in from the field, Angella in the democrat with the baby, and Nettie on foot, driving home a team of work horses. They had been plowing and repairing the broken fences, for undaunted by the destruction of their crop, they were pluckily on the land again, preparing for the next year's seeding.

Dr. McDermott, his bag on the step by him, watched them as they watered and fed their horses and put up for the night. Then, each taking a handle of the baby's basket, they came through the barnyard to the house.

For the first time since she had known her doctor friend, he failed to greet Nettie with his cheery:

"And how's my lass today?"

Gaunt and haggard, he stood up and scrutinized them gravely before grunting:

"Hm! All right, eh? Not touched. Well, sit down, girls. I've thot to tell you will make your hearts a wee bit heavy."

Dr. McDermott opened his black bag and took out some pills and a large bottle of disinfectant, which he set on the steps. Angella, the baby in her arms, her brows slightly drawn, looked down at the lined face of the doctor, and saw he had brought bad news.

"Let's go in," she said. "You look as if a cup of tea won't come amiss. Let me pass. I'll make it at once."

"You'll hear me through first, and I've no time for tea. There's a bit of sickness running about the country. 'Tis the same they've had in the old land. You'll put this disinfectant about your place, and on your person, and in case—in case of certain symptoms, you'll go straight to bed, and you'll stay there till I tell you when to get up, and you'll begin then to take the pills I'm leaving. What's more, you'll send Jake at once for me."

There was a pause, as Nettie's eyes met Angella's.

"Needn't worry about me, doc," said Nettie. "I'm awfully healthy. You don't have to give me no pills."

The doctor glared at her furiously.

"That's the ignorant sort of talk I've been listening to all summer; but the very ones who boasted of their strength are the ones stricken."

"What are the symptoms?" interposed Angella.

"Symptoms? Fever, backache, headache, nose bleed, a tendency to sneeze, hot and cold flashes."

Angella's face paled, and her glance went furtively from Nettie to the baby.

"Are there many down?" she questioned with assumed casualness.

"Thousands, ma'am, in the city, and God knows how many in the country."

"What are they doing for help?"

"In the country they are doing without it—shifting for themselves."

Angella looked startled, and Nettie turned round, her slow gaze fixed upon the doctor's face.

"Who's taking care of them, then?" she asked.

"They're takin' care of themselves. They creep out of bed and crawl to each other, and some of 'em die before they can get back to their own beds. In most of the families that have it, they are all down at once."

"Now, look here," said Angella abruptly, "you've got to have some supper before you start off."

"No time for supper. There's nine in the Homan family down, including the help. I'm on my way now."

He had snapped his bag closed. Nettie passed by him into the house. Angella paused at the door and caught him by the sleeve to detain him.

"Really, doctor, it won't do you a bit of good to try and take care of people if you don't take care of yourself first; you've got to eat. So you come right in. It won't take me a minute to fix something for you."

"No, can't stop. I had a bite at noon, and will reach Homan's in time for another sup."

"Well, wait. A minute or two more or less won't matter. I want to know about this. Can't you get nurses from Calgary, and aren't there any other doctors in the country?"

"There are three besides myself over my territory, but two of 'em's down, and the other—" The doctor scowled and muttered something about "white-livered coward."

"And nurses?"

"I tell you I've been unable to get anyone. The city nurses have their hands full in town, and they won't come up to the country. As for the women themselves—the farm women, those who are not down, have gone plumb crazy with fright. I've gone from ranch to ranch like a beggar, imploring help."

Nettie had come out again. She had changed from her overalls to the blue house dress that Mrs. Langdon had made for her and over this she had thrown a plaid shawl. The blue woolen tam that Angella had knitted for her was on her head, and she looked singularly young and sweet. A few articles of clothing were knotted in a neat bundle under her arm.

"Doc," she said, "I'm going with you."

There was a long pause. Dr. McDermott blinked up at her, scowled, grunted something under his breath, and cleared his throat loudly. Angella stood stiffly by the door, not attempting to move, and her arm tightened involuntarily about the baby.

"I'm awfully strong," went on Nettie, "and I ain't likely to ketch nothing, and it don't matter if I do, far as that goes. It's up to me to help those that need me. You'll let me go, won't you, doc?"

"You're a good lass," muttered the doctor, "and you'll be a grand help to me."

At last Angella found her voice.

"Nettie, you're forgetting your—baby!" she said.

Nettie turned sharply round and the bundle fell from her hand.

"No, no, Angel, I've not forgotten him; but you'll be good to him, won't you? and he'll never miss me."

"Nettie Day, don't dare talk like that," said Angella savagely. "I won't let you go if you have any thought like that in your head."

But Nettie did not hear her. For the first time since her baby's birth she was holding it in her arms, and the feel of the little warm face against her own brought a pang to her heart that was both agony and joy. Motherhood seemed to have come to her in a sudden rush of feeling, and her face was as white as death when she at last gave her child back solemnly to Angel. The movement awakened the baby, and now its cry was more than she could bear. She clasped her hands over her ears, and rushed to the gate. Dr. McDermott picked up her bundle and followed.