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Connor, Ralph, Pseudonym, 1860-1937

"Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police; a tale of the Macleod trail"

I've had enough to keep this
thing from going to pieces. Don't you go back on me now!"
"That is so!" said Mack slowly. "Cameron, you must stay. You are needed.
I will spoil things more by staying than by going. I would be forever
seeing that hammer crushing down--" He covered his face with his hands
and shuddered.
"All right, Mack! I will stay," said Cameron. "But what about you?"
"Oh," said Black Duncan, "Mack and I will walk about and have a smoke
for a little."
"Thanks, boys, you are the stuff!" said Fatty fervently. "Once more you
have saved the day. Come then, Cameron! Get your pipes. Old Sutherland
is waiting for you."
But before he set off Mack called Cameron to him.
"You will see Isa," he said, "and tell her why I could not stay. And you
will take her home." His face was still pallid, his voice unsteady.
"I will take care of her, Mack, never fear. But could you not remain? It
might help you."
But Mack only shook his head. His fervent Highland soul had too recently
passed through the valley of death and its shadows were still upon him.
Four hours later Fatty looked in upon Mack at his own home. He found him
sitting in the moonlight in the open door of the big new barn, with his
new-made friend, Duncan Ross, at one door post and old Piper Sutherland
at the other, while up and down the floor in the shadow within Cameron
marched, droning the wild melody of the "Maccrimmon Lament.


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