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“You make me want to live,” he had said, and she, with no knowledge of the nuances of language, had taken it literally, and had asked him if it had been his wish to die; and he had responded to her mistaken interpretation of his meaning, saying that he had had such sorrow he had not wanted to live. As he said it his face looked, in truth, overcome by some deep, inward care; so that there came a sort of feeling she had never had so far for any man–that he ought to have some one to look after him. This was the first real stirring of the maternal and protective spirit in her toward men, though it had shown itself amply enough regarding animals and birds. He had said he had not wanted to live, and yet he had come out West in order to try and live, to cure the trouble that had started in his lungs. The Eastern doctors had told him that the rough, out-door life would cure him, or nothing would, and he had vanished from the college walls and the pleasant purlieus of learning and fashion into the wilds. He had not lied directly to her when he said that he had had deep trouble; but he had given the impression that he was suffering from wrongs which had broken his spirit and ruined his health. Wrongs there certainly had been in his life, by whomever committed.

Two months ago he had left this girl with her mind full of memories of what he had said to her, and there was something in the sound of the slight cough following his farewell words which had haunted her ever since. Her tremendous health and energy, the fire of life burning so brightly in her, reached out toward this man living on so narrow a margin of force, with no reserve for any extra strain, with just enough for each day’s use and no more. Four hours before he had come again with his team of four mules and an Indian youth, having covered forty miles since his last stage. She was at the door, and saw him coming while he was yet a long distance off. Some instinct had told her to watch that afternoon, for she knew of his intended return and of his dangerous enterprise. The Indians had trailed south and east, the traders had disappeared with them, her brother Bantry had gone up and over to Dingan’s Drive, and, save for a few loiterers and last hangers-on, she was alone with what must soon be a deserted post; its walls, its great enclosed yard, and its gun-platforms (for it had been fortified) left for law and order to enter upon, in the persons of the red-coated watchmen of the law.

Out of the South, from over the border, bringing the last great smuggled load of whiskey which was to be handed over at Dingan’s Drive, and then floated on Red Man’s River to settlements up North, came the “college pup,” Kelly Lambton, worn out, dazed with fatigue, but smiling too, for a woman’s face was ever a tonic to his blood since he was big enough to move in life for himself. It needed courage–or recklessness–to run the border now; for, as Abe Hawley had said, the American marshals were on the pounce, the red-coated mounted police were coming west from Ottawa, and word had winged its way along the prairie that these redcoats were only a few score miles away, and might be at Fort Stay-Awhile at any moment. The trail to Dingan’s Drive lay past it. Through Barfleur Coulee, athwart a great, open stretch of country, along a wooded belt, and then, suddenly, over a ridge, Dingan’s Drive and Red Man’s River would be reached.

The Government had a mind to make an example, if necessary, by killing some smugglers in conflict, and the United States marshals had been goaded by vanity and anger at one or two escapes “to have something for their money,” as they said. That, in their language, meant, “to let the red run,” and Kelly Lambton had none too much blood to lose.