"Don't fear for my bones on the trail." He came back from his reverie as from a journey. "A'm the old breed that doesn't break. 'Tis you young brittle fellows all bred to pace and speed and style needs look to y'r goin's. Which way do A turn at the foot of the Ridge? One--two--three--A see four lights. Which is the Mission?" "If you insist on leaving, Sir, there is an Indian woman here going down to the MacDonald ranch--" "MacDonald, did you say?" "The next place along the River is the Mission. Here, Calamity, show this stranger which way to go, will you?" But Calamity had already bolted for the Ridge trail. "Stranger? She doesn't look to me exactly like a stranger. Looks precious like one of our Saskatchewan half-breeds! Haven't A seen you before, my good woman? A'm Jack Matthews, who carried the mail for the Company at the Big House; by an' by contractor, then by the Grace o' God missionary to the Cree! Haven't A seen you, girl? Was it '85 at the Agency House when Wandering Spirit--" "Non sabe," snapped Calamity, setting off down the trail at a run paced to keep the reverend traveller behind till she reached the last loop. Drawing her shawl over her face, she paused with her back to the frontiersman. To the left blinked the lights of the sheep ranch house and the Mission, to the right the cow-boy camp and the dead glare of the white buildings belonging to the Senator. "Viola! dat vay!" The woman deliberately pointed to the cow-boy camp; then vanished in the darkness. "Mighty quick wench! A have seen you before, my sly minx, and A'll see you some more," he said staring after the fading form. Then he headed his mare for the cow-boy camp below the cliff. Half a dozen men lounged round a smudge fire. The old man paused to sort out the scene; the box of a gramaphone laid out for a card table, a bottle of whiskey in the centre, two empty bottles with candles stuck in the necks for lights, a dull smudge fire, four rough fellows sprawling on the ground, one with corduroy velveteen trousers, an old white pack horse nosing windward of the smoke; one figure with sheepskin chaps to his waist, thumbs in his belt, standing erect with back to the trail; and face in light, a shaven face with a strong jaw and oily geniality, a corpulent form in a white vest, putting a pocket book in a breast pocket. The old frontiersman took hold of his mare's bridle. "'Tis hardly what you'd look for in a Missionary outfit, Bessie." "You'll leave for the South at once?" The question commanded. The old frontiersman listened. "Hoof express, Sir," promised the sheep-skin leggings. "And mind you I know nothing about it, Jim. I'm not to be told. I take care of you without you knowing about it. I _expect you_ to take care of us--" the white waist coat became at once impressive and anxious.