Man-Size

  MAN-SIZE

  BY

  WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

  AUTHOR OF

  THE BIG-TOWN ROUND UP,

  OH, YOU TEX! ETC

  1922

  TO

  CAPTAIN SIR CECIL E. DENNY, BART.

  OF THE FIRST THREE HUNDRED RIDERS OF THE PLAINS

  WHO CARRIED LAW INTO THE LONE LANDS

  AND MADE THE SCARLET AND GOLD

  A SYNONYM FOR

  JUSTICE, INTEGRITY, AND INDOMITABLE PLUCK

  CONTENTS

  I. IN THE DANGER ZONE

  II. THE AMAZON

  III. ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY

  IV. THE WOLFERS

  V. MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE

  VI. "SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS"

  VII. THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET

  VIII. AT SWEET WATER CREEK

  IX. TOM MAKES A COLLECTION

  X. A CAMP-FIRE TALE

  XI. C.N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF

  XII. TOM DUCKS TROUBLE

  XIII. THE CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH DIFFICULTIES

  XIV. SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION

  XV. KISSING DAY

  XVI. A BUSINESS DEAL

  XVII. A BOARD CREAKS

  XVIII. A GUN ROARS

  XIX. "D' YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME?"

  XX. ONISTAH READS SIGN

  XXI. ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR

  XXII. "MY DAMN PRETTY LI'L' HIGH-STEPPIN' SQUAW"

  XXIII. A FORETASTE OF HELL

  XXIV. WEST MAKES A DECISION

  XXV. FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST

  XXVI. A RESCUE

  XXVII. APACHE STUFF

  XXVIII. "IS A' WELL WI' YOU, LASS?"

  XXIX. NOT GOING ALONE

  XXX. "M" FOR MORSE

  XXXI. THE LONG TRAIL

  XXXII. A PICTURE IN A LOCKET

  XXXIII. INTO THE LONE LAND

  XXXIV. THE MAN-HUNTERS READ SIGN

  XXXV. SNOW-BLIND

  XXXVI. THE WILD BEAST LEAPS

  XXXVII. NEAR THE END OF A LONG CROOKED TRAIL

  XXXVIII. OVER A ROTTING TRAIL

  XXXIX. A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS

  XL. "MALBROUCK S'EN VA-T-EN GUERRE"

  XLI. SENSE AND NONSENSE

  XLII. THE IMPERATIVE URGE

  CHAPTER I

  IN THE DANGER ZONE

  She stood on the crown of the hill, silhouetted against a sky-line ofdeepest blue. Already the sun was sinking in a crotch of the plainswhich rolled to the horizon edge like waves of a great land sea. Itsreflected fires were in her dark, stormy eyes. Its long, slanted rayswere a spotlight for the tall, slim figure, straight as that of a boy.

  The girl's gaze was fastened on a wisp of smoke rising lazily from ahollow of the crumpled hills. That floating film told of a camp-fireof buffalo chips. There was a little knitted frown of worry on herforehead, for imagination could fill in details of what the couleeheld: the white canvas tops of prairie schooners, some spans of oxengrazing near, a group of blatant, profane whiskey-smugglers fromMontana, and in the wagons a cargo of liquor to debauch the Bloods andPiegans near Fort Whoop-Up.

  Sleeping Dawn was a child of impulse. She had all youth's capacity forpassionate indignation and none of the wisdom of age which tempersthe eager desire of the hour. These whiskey-traders were ruining herpeople. More than threescore Blackfeet braves had been killed withinthe year in drunken brawls among themselves. The plains Indians wouldsell their souls for fire-water. When the craze was on them, theywould exchange furs, buffalo robes, ponies, even their wives anddaughters for a bottle of the poison.

  In the sunset glow she stood rigid and resentful, one small fistclenched, the other fast to the barrel of the rifle she carried. Theevils of the trade came close to her. Fergus McRae still carried thegash from a knife thrust earned in a drunken brawl. It was likely thatto-morrow he would cut the trail of the wagon wheels and again makea bee-line for liquor and trouble. The swift blaze of revolt foundexpression in the stamp of her moccasined foot.

  As dusk fell over the plains, Sleeping Dawn moved forward lightly,swiftly, toward the camp in the hollow of the hills. She had nodefinite purpose except to spy the lay-out, to make sure that herfears were justified. But through the hinterland of her consciousnessrebellious thoughts were racing. These smugglers were wholly outsidethe law. It was her right to frustrate them if she could.

  Noiselessly she skirted the ridge above the coulee, moving throughthe bunch grass with the wary care she had learned as a child in thelodges of the tribe.

  Three men crouched on their heels in the glow of a camp-fire wellup the draw. A fourth sat at a little distance from them riveting astirrup leather with two stones. The wagons had been left near theentrance of the valley pocket some sixty or seventy yards from thefire. Probably the drivers, after they had unhitched the teams, hadbeen drawn deeper into the draw to a spot more fully protected fromthe wind.

  While darkness gathered, Sleeping Dawn lay in the bunch grass with hereyes focused on the camp below. Her untaught soul struggled with theproblem that began to shape itself. These men were wolfers, desperatemen engaged in a nefarious business. They paid no duty to the BritishGovernment. She had heard her father say so. Contrary to law, theybrought in their vile stuff and sold it both to breeds and tribesmen.They had no regard whatever for the terrible injury they did thenatives. Their one intent was to get rich as soon as possible, so theyplied their business openly and defiantly. For the Great Lone Land wasstill a wilderness where every man was a law to himself.

  The blood of the girl beat fast with the racing pulse of excitement.A resolution was forming in her mind. She realized the risks andestimated chances coolly. These men would fire to kill on any skulkernear the camp. They would take no needless hazard of being surprisedby a band of stray Indians. But the night would befriend her. Shebelieved she could do what she had in mind and easily get away to theshelter of the hill creases before they could kill or capture her.

  A shadowy dog on the outskirt of the camp rose and barked. The girlwaited, motionless, tense, but the men paid little heed to thewarning. The man working at the stirrup leather got to his feet,indeed, carelessly, rifle in hand, and stared into the gloom; butpresently he turned on his heel and sauntered back to his job ofsaddlery. Evidently the hound was used to voicing false alarmswhenever a coyote slipped past or a skunk nosed inquisitively near.

  Sleeping Dawn followed the crest of the ridge till it fell away tothe mouth of the coulee. She crept up behind the white-topped wagonnearest the entrance.

  An axe lay against the tongue. She picked it up, glancing at the sametime toward the camp-fire. So far she had quite escaped notice. Thehound lay blinking into the flames, its nose resting on crossed paws.

  With her hunting-knife the girl ripped the canvas from the side of thetop. She stood poised, one foot on a spoke, the other on the axle. Theaxe-head swung in a half-circle. There was a crash of wood, a swiftjet of spouting liquor. Again the axe swung gleaming above her head. Athird and a fourth time it crashed against the staves.

  A man by the camp-fire leaped to his feet with a startled oath."What's that?" he demanded sharply.

  From the shadows of the wagons a light figure darted. The man snatchedup a rifle and fired. A second time, aimlessly, he sent a bullet intothe darkness.

  The silent night was suddenly alive with noises. Shots, shouts, thebarking of the dog, the slap of running feet, all came in a confusedmedley to Sleeping Dawn.

  She gained a moment's respite from pursuit when the traders stoppedat the wagons to get their bearings. The first of the white-toppedschooners was untouched. The one nearest the entrance to the couleeheld four whiskey-casks with staves crushed in an
d contents seepinginto the dry ground.

  Against one of the wheels a rifle rested. The girl flying in a panichad forgotten it till too late.

  The vandalism of the attack amazed the men. They could have understoodreadily enough some shots out of the shadows or a swoop down upon thecamp to stampede and run off the saddle horses. Even a serious attemptto wipe out the party by a stray band of Blackfeet or Crees was anundertaking that would need no explaining. But why should any one dosuch a foolish, wasteful thing as this, one to so little purpose inits destructiveness?

  They lost no time in speculation, but plunged into the darkness inpursuit.