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The thought of this drove her into the house, to have Val’s bed prepared for the sufferer, whoever he was. Almost unconsciously she put on the little table beside the bed a bunch of everlasting prairie flowers, and shaded the light to the point of quiet and comfort.

Then she went outside again. The travellers now were not far away. She recognised the upright rider. It was Pretty Pierre. The other–she could not tell. She called to her father. She had a fear which she did not care to face alone. “See, see, father,” she said, “Pretty Pierre and–and can it be Val?” For the moment she seemed unable to stir. But the old man shook his head, and said: “No, Jen, it can’t be. It ain’t Val.”

Then another thought possessed her. Her lips trembled, and, throwing her head back as does a deer when it starts to shake off its pursuers by flight, she ran swiftly towards the riders. The traveller standing beside Galbraith said: “That man is hurt, wounded probably. I didn’t expect to have a patient in the middle of the plains. I’m a doctor. Perhaps I can be of use here?” When a hundred yards away Jen recognised the recumbent rider. A thousand thoughts flashed through her brain. What had happened? Why was he dressed in civilian’s clothes? A moment, and she was at his horse’s head. Another, and her warm hand clasped the pale, moist, and wrinkled one which hung by the horse’s neck. His coat at the shoulder was stained with blood, and there was a handkerchief about his head. This–this was Sergeant Tom Gellatly!

She looked up at Pierre, an agony of inquiry in her eyes, and pointing mutely to the wounded man. Pierre spoke with a tone of seriousness not common to his voice: “You see, Jen Galbraith, it was brave. Sergeant Tom one day resigns the Mounted Police. He leaves the Riders of the Plains. That is not easy to understand, for he is in much favour with the officers. But he buys himself out, and there is the end of the Sergeant and his triple chevron. That is one day. That night, two men on a ferry are crossing the Saskatchewan at Fort Desire. They are fired at from the shore behind. One man is hit twice. But they get across, cut the ferry loose, mount horses, and ride away together. The man that was hit–yes, Sergeant Tom. The other that was not hit was Val Galbraith.”

Jen gave a cry of mingled joy and pain, and said, with Tom Gellatly’s cold hand clasped to her bosom: “Val, our Val, is free, is safe.”

“Yes, Val is free and safe-quite. The Riders of the Plains could not cross the river. It was too high. And so Tom Gellatly and Val got away. Val rides straight for the American border, and the other rides here.” They were now near the house, but Jen said, eagerly: “Go on. Tell me all.”

“I knew what had happened soon, and I rode away, too, and last night I found Tom Gellatly lying beside his horse on the prairie. I have brought him here to you. You two are even now, Jen Galbraith.”

They were at the tavern door. The traveller and Pierre lifted, down the wounded and unconscious man, and brought him and laid him on Val Galbraith’s bed.

The traveller examined the wounds in the shoulder and the head, and said: “The head is all right. If I can get the bullet out of the shoulder he’ll be safe enough–in time.”

The surgery was skilful but rude, for proper instruments were not at hand; and in a few hours he, whom we shall still call Sergeant Tom, lay quietly sleeping, the pallor gone from his face and the feeling of death from his hand.

It was near midnight when he waked. Jen was sitting beside him. He looked round and saw her. Her face was touched with the light that shone from the Prairie Star. “Jen,” he said, and held out his hand.