could turn aside whenever they wished and obtain extra food from the patrol house.
When about a mile from the Indian encampment they were surprised at the sight of a man just ahead, staggering along, and moaning as if in pain. Coming closer they saw that he was a white man, known to them as Jerry, a squaw-man, who lived in a small shack along the river. He stopped, straightened somewhat up and exhibited much fear at the sight of the policemen.
“What’s the matter with you?” the sergeant asked.
“The devils are after me!” was the gasping answer. “They’ll kill me! For God’s sake, keep them back till I git out of this!”
“Who are after you?”
“The Injuns. They’ve gone crazy. Been wild all day. Me pardner is killed, I guess.”
“Who’s that?”
“Bob Span,” the man replied, turning his head and looking fearfully back. “They set upon us like wolves, an’ I jist managed to git away.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” the sergeant sternly asked.
“Trappin’, of course. Happened to stay last night with them Injuns, an’ was jist leavin’ when they set upon us. Don’t let ’em git me.”
The sergeant shot a swift glance toward the constable, and then laid a strong hand upon the frightened man.
“You’ve been selling hootch to the Indians,” he charged.
“No, no!” the man denied. “I was jist trappin’. Let me go.”
“Quit your lying,” the sergeant ordered. “Do you
