chinook wind carried away all sound.  They had not thought there was any reason to be apprehensive about her, but they had worked toilsomely to get back.  Bastien had proved a pleasant surprise in this respect—­he had, doubtless, by no means incorrect views regarding Riel’s powers of pursuit and revenge.  That the two rebels should have come back, and that a bear—­a sure harbinger of spring—­should have made itself so intrusive were contingencies the party could hardly have foreseen.  As it was, Dorothy, save for the fright, was little the worse for the rough handling she had received, so they resolved to proceed on their way in about an hour’s time, when certain necessary duties had been fulfilled.

Before the ruddy sun began to go down behind the pine-crested bluffs and far-stretching sea of white-robed prairie in a fairy cloudland of crimson and gold and keenest blue, the horses were hitched up into the sleighs, and the fugitives were bowling merrily up the valley so as to strike the main trail before nightfall.

CHAPTER XVI

THE FATE OF SERGEANT PASMORE

When Sergeant Pasmore was left in the dug-out, or, to explain more fully, the hut built into the side of a hill, he sat down in the semi-darkness and calmly reviewed the situation.  It was plain enough.

He was a prisoner, and would be shot within twelve hours; but Douglas and Dorothy were probably now safe, and well on their way to friends.  This, at least, was a comforting reflection.

He heard the talking of the breeds at the door; then he saw it open, and one looked in upon him with his rifle resting upon his chest.  These were two of the sober crowd.  There was no getting away from them.  The leaders of the rebels probably by this time knew they had a prisoner, and if he were not forthcoming when they were asked to produce him, the lives of his gaolers would more than likely pay the penalty.  True, for Katie’s sake they had made an exchange, but that did not matter—­no one would know.  Yes, they were ready to shoot him like a dog if he made the slightest attempt to escape.

And she, Dorothy—­well, he didn’t mind dying for her.  Within the last twenty-four hours he had realised how fully she had come into his life.  And he had striven against it, but it was written in the book.  He could not altogether understand her.  At one moment she would be kind and sympathetic, and then, when he unbent and tried to come a step nearer to her, she seemed to freeze and keep him at arm’s length.  And he thought he had known women once upon a time, in the palmy days across the seas.  He wondered what she would think on finding out the truth about her father’s release.

It was cold sitting on an upturned pail with his moccasins resting on the frozen clay, and breathing an atmosphere which was like that of a sepulchre.  He wished the dawn would break, even although it meant a resumption of that awful riot and bloodshed.