“Some sind-off! well!—time wint on, an’ wan day I gets a letther from me ould friend, Ginger Johnson, who was stationed there tu, tellin’ me all th’ news. Nobby, sez he, was doin’ fine, fat as a hog, an’ happy as a coon in a melun patch. Wan day, sez he, a buck av th’ name av Wampy Jones comes a runnin’ inta th’ Post, wid th’ face av a ghost an’ th’ hair av um shtickin shtraight up. Said a Polar bear’d popped out forninst a hummock an’ chased um—like tu th’ tale av Morley, here. Nobby, sez Johnson, on’y grins at th’ man, an’ sez he: ‘That’s nothin’!’ An’ thin he shtarts in tellin’ thim all ’bout this widder at Regina.”
 Note by Author—The late Colonel Macleod, who for many years was Commissioner of the R.N.W.M. Police. He was greatly respected and trusted by all the Indian tribes.
 Note by Author—This island is in the Arctic Circle. The most northerly post of the R.N.W.M. Police.
Methought I heard a voice cry,
“Macbeth shall sleep no more!”
The sergeant’s story evoked a general laugh from his hearers. He arose and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “Come on, bhoys!” said he. “Let’s beat ut. Morley here’s a respectable married man—we’ve bin demoralisin’ him an’ his store long enough, I’m thinkin’.”
Pocketing his packet of mail he and his subordinates stepped to the door, MacDavid casually following them outside. Tethered to the hitching-post, they noticed, were the team of scare-crow cayuses belonging to Sun Dog and Many Drunks.
“Poor beggars look as if a turn-out on the range wouldn’t do them any harm,” remarked Redmond.
The thud of hoof-beats suddenly fell upon their ears and, turning, they beheld Gully on his gray horse loping past them, about twenty yards distant. Apparently in a hurry, he merely waved to them and rode on, heading in the direction of his ranch. And then occurred a startling, sinister incident which no man there who witnessed it ever forgot.
Suddenly, with the vicious instinct of Indian curs, three dogs which had been sprawling in the shade of the dilapidated wagon-box sprang forward simultaneously in a silent, savage dash at the horse’s heels. The nervous animal gave a violent jump, nearly unseating its rider, who pitched forward onto the saddlehorn.
They heard his angry, startled oath, and saw him jerk his steed up and whirl about, then, quick as conjuring, came a darting movement of his right hand between the lapels of his coat and a pistol-barrel gleamed in the sun.
The curs, by this time, were flying back to the shelter of the wagon-box, but ere they reached it—crack! crack! crack! three shots rang out in quick succession, and three lumps of quivering canine flesh sprawled grotesquely on the prairie.
The startled spectators stared aghast. Startled—for, though all of them there were more or less trained shots, such swift, deadly gunmanship as this was utterly beyond their imaginations. Gully had made no pretence at aiming. With a snapping action of his wrist he had seemed to literally fling the shots at the retreating dogs. It was the practised whirl and flip of the finished gun-man.