"What is this for?" continued the young man, gently touching the belt of
cartridges. "Take it off!"
The belt found its place beside the gun.
"Now, listen!" gravely continued the youngster. "I give you twenty-four
hours to leave this post, and if after twenty-four hours you are found
here it will be bad for you. Get out!"
The man, still silent, slunk out from the room. Irresistible authority
seemed to go with the word that sent him forth, and rightly so, for
behind that word lay the full weight of Great Britain's mighty empire.
It was Cameron's first experience of the North West Mounted Police, that
famous corps of frontier riders who for more than a quarter of a century
have ridden the marches of Great Britain's territories in the far
northwest land, keeping intact the Pax Britannica amid the wild turmoil
of pioneer days. To the North West Mounted Police and to the pioneer
missionary it is due that Canada has never had within her borders what
is known as a "wild and wicked West." It was doubtless owing to the
presence of that slim youngster in his scarlet jacket and pill-box cap
that McIvor got his men safely away without a hole in his back and that
his gang were quietly finishing their morning meal this shining April
day, in their camp by the Bow River in the shadow of the big white peaks
that guard The Gap.
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