A Man of Two Countries

								

"I'm losing money right along," McDevitt affirmed.
"Th' hell yeh are!" sneered Burroughs. "Yeh preach an' then rob; rob an'
preach. I pay a fair price an' don't invite the Injuns to git religion
in the same breath that I offer 'em a drink o' smuggled whiskey."
"You! You--talking! You sell more whiskey than any other trader in the
Whoop Up Country, right here under the noses of the Police!"
"Prove it!" taunted Burroughs provokingly. "'F the Police ever suspect
me an' make a search, they'll not fin' me holdin' a prayer-meetin',
same's they did you not so very long ago. Le'me see--how much was yer
fine, anyway?" with a laugh.
"Is that so? Think yeh're smart, don' yeh?" snarled McDevitt, furious.
"Look here, Bob Burroughs, come out an' we'll settle this right here an'
now! No? Well, let me tell yeh this! Yeh'll be sorry yeh said that.
Bygones is bygones, an' I don't want that fine throwed up in my face
again!"
"Did yeh say just the exact amount of the fine?" repeated Burroughs,
disdaining to fight either in or out of his trading-post.
McDevitt's voice shook with vehemence as he strode from the crowded
room.
"I'll have something to throw up to you, Bob Burroughs, some o' these
days. I'm like a Injun, I furgive 'n furgit, but I'm campin' on yer
trail! Yeh won't be so smilin' then--le'me tell yeh!"
"An' the fine?" once more insisted Burroughs, as McDevitt vanished, amid
a roar of laughter at the American's persistence.
The moon was rising when Danvers wended his way to the barracks an hour
later, Arthur walking to the reservation fence with him.
"I wish we could prove where the Indians and 'breeds get their whiskey,"
said Danvers.
"Haven't you any idea?"
"Suspicion is not certainty," dryly.
"It's a queer world," thought Latimer aloud.
"But we're 'pioneers of a glorious future,'" quoted Danvers, lightly.
"It will all come out right." He longed to hear of Eva Thornhill,
hesitated, then inquired: "Was Miss Thornhill at Fort Benton when you
left?"
"Yes. She asked several times about you." Danvers took off his cap. So
she remembered him. "But she asked for Bob, too." The cap went on.
"We'll all make a try for her heart, old man," laughed Latimer. "By the
way," he added, as they paused before separating for the night, "that
wasn't a bad looking squaw I saw just as we left Bob's. What is her
name?"
"The one to our right, as we struck the trail? That was Pine Coulee.
She's Scar Faced Charlie's squaw, but Burroughs is trying to get her
away from him. However, one of her own tribe, Me-Casto, or Red Crow,
will steal her some of these days. He hates the white men because they
take the likely squaws."
"Whew!" whistled the visitor.
Chapter II
Hate

A day or two after Christmas, O'Dwyer, a lonely sentinel on his midnight
beat, strode with measured step, alert, on duty. Outside the town,
Robert Burroughs skulked toward the lodge, while Me-Casto followed