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Rh poets have written about this country who have never been on its trails. I shall write from experience, and surely people will see the difference.”

“Let us hope so, Tom,” the sergeant replied. “But come, let us get on our way. We have lost too much time already. If you can find any poetry in all this, you are heartily welcome to it.”

Hour after hour they moved onward, and the sun had disappeared behind the far-off mountain peaks as they came at last to the patrol house. Smoke was pouring forth from the pipe stuck up through the roof. This did not surprise them, for they surmised that Tom, the Indian, was making himself at home within. Kicking off their snow-shoes, the sergeant thrust open the door and led the way into the building. He stopped suddenly, however, at a strange and uncanny sound which came from the opposite corner of the room. He could not see clearly, owing to the dimness of the place, but words he heard quickened the blood in his veins, and caused him to grip hard the constable’s arm.

“Keep back! Keep back!” wailed the terrified voice. “What are ye doin’ here, Bill Haines? How did ye git out of the river? I put you an’ yer wife under the ice, an’ how did ye git out? Oh! oh! oh! keep yer wet hands off my throat. Yer chokin’ me! Fer God’s sake, let me go!”

As the wretched, haunted creature paused an instant for breath, the sergeant stepped quickly forward. Indian Tom was standing by the bunk, and he turned around as the sergeant approached. He expressed no surprise at the arrival of the policeman, although it was evident he was greatly relieved.

“Bill velly seek,” he simply said. “Bill talk all sam’ crazee. Bill tell much.”