"You?" C.N. gave him a sly, dry smile. "Oh, all you have to do is to handle our business north of the line--buy, sell, trade, build up friendly relations with the Indians and trappers, keep friendly with the police, and a few little things like that." Tom grinned. "Won't have a thing to do, will I?" CHAPTER XII TOM DUCKS TROUBLE To Tom Morse, sitting within the railed space that served for an office in the company store at Faraway, came a light-stepping youth in trim boots, scarlet jacket, and forage cap set at a jaunty angle. "'Lo, Uncle Sam," he said, saluting gayly. "'Lo, Johnnie Canuck. Where you been for a year and heaven knows how many months?" "Up Peace River, after Pierre Poulette, fellow who killed Buckskin Jerry." Tom took in Beresford's lean body, a gauntness of the boyish face, hollows under the eyes that had not been there when first they had met. There had come to him whispers of the long trek into the frozen Lone Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He could guess the dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books, without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It must have been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the Canadian's blithe joy in living. "Get him?" the Montanan asked. The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always brought back those they were sent for. Already the Force was building up the tradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent. "Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience that had taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilized existence. "Been back a week. Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a look-see." "At what? He ain't suspectin' any one at Faraway of stretchin', bendin', or bustin' the laws." Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor. Rumor had it that Faraway was a cesspool of iniquity. It was far from the border. When sheriffs of Montana became too active, there was usually an influx of population at the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushed north to safety. "Seems to be. You're not by any chance lookin' for trouble?" "Duckin' it," answered Tom promptly. The officer smiled genially. "It's knocking at your door." His knuckles rapped on the desk. "If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy--" "Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured. "--you certainly ain't him. Onload your grief." "The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions, animadversions, and propensities," explained the constable. "According to the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis--" Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never studied geology none. Don't know this hypotenuse you're pow-wowin' about any more'n my paint hawss does. Come again in one syllables." "Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately--that is, any more than usual?"