half-formed opinion to a severe test, and the failure that might follow a premature attempt could hardly be recovered from.  It seemed better to wait until Grant’s assailants should be arrested, and the story of their doings elicited in court, to rouse general indignation, and he thought this would happen.  Flett had disappeared some weeks ago and nothing had been heard of him, but Hardie believed his chiefs had sent him out on the robbers’ trail.  The constable combined sound sense with dogged pertinacity, and these were serviceable qualities.

It was a hot afternoon when George brought home his last load of wild sloo hay, walking beside his team, while Flora curbed her reckless horse a few yards off.  She had ridden over with her father, and finding that George had not returned, had gone on to prevent a hired man from being sent for him.  They had met each other frequently of late, and George was sensible of an increasing pleasure in the girl’s society; though what Flora felt did not appear.  Behind them the jolting wagon strained beneath its high-piled load that diffused an odor of peppermint; in front the shadow of a bluff lay cool upon the sun-scorched prairie.

“I suppose you heard that Baxter lost a steer last week,” she said.  “Most likely, it was killed; but, though the police searched the reservation, there was no trace of the hide.  We have had a little quietness, but I’m not convinced that our troubles won’t break out again.  Nobody seems to have heard anything of Flett.”

“He’s no doubt busy somewhere.”

“I’m inclined to believe so, and, in a way, his silence is reassuring.  Flett can work without making a disturbance, and that is in his favor.  But what has become of Mr. West?  We haven’t seen much of him of late.”

“He has fallen into a habit of riding over to the settlement in his spare time, which isn’t plentiful.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Flora; “that agrees with some suspicions of mine.  Don’t you feel a certain amount of responsibility?”

“I do,” George admitted.  “Still, he’s rather head-strong, and he hasn’t told me why he goes to the Butte; though the girl’s father gave me a hint.  I like Taunton—­he’s perfectly straightforward—­and I’d almost made up my mind to ask your opinion about the matter, but I was diffident.”

“I’ll give it to you without reserve—­there’s no ground for uneasiness on West’s account; he might fall into much worse hands.  If Helen Taunton has any influence over him, it will be wisely used.  Besides, she has been well educated; she spent a few years in Montreal.”

“She has a nice face; in fact, she’s decidedly pretty.”

“And that would cover a multitude of shortcomings?”

“Well,” said George, thoughtfully, “mere physical beauty is something to be thankful for; though I’m not sure that beauty can be, so to speak, altogether physical.  When I said the girl had a nice face, I meant that its expression suggested a wholesome character.”