Lessard's high-handed squelching of MacRae had thrown everything out of
focus. We'd planned to report at headquarters, see Lyn, if she were at
Walsh, and then with Pend d' Oreille as a base of operations go on a
still hunt for whatever the Writing-Stone might conceal. That scheme was
knocked galley-west and crooked, for even when MacRae's term expired
he'd get a long period of duty at the Fort; he'd lost his rank, and as a
private his coming and going would be according to barrack-rule instead
of the freedom allowed a sergeant in charge of an outpost like Pend
d' Oreille--I knew that much of the Mounted Police style of doing
business. And so far as my tackling single-handed a search for Hank
Rowan's _cache_--well, I decided to see Lyn before I took that
contract.
I hated that, too. It always went against my grain to be a bearer of ill
tidings. I hate to make a woman cry, especially one I like. Some one had
to tell her, though, and, much as I disliked the mission, I felt that I
ought not to hang back and let some stranger blurt it out. So I nailed
the first trooper I saw, and had him show me the domicile of Mrs.
Stone--who, I learned, was the wife of Lessard's favorite captain--and
thither I rambled, wishing mightily for a good stiff jolt out of the keg
that Piegan Smith and Mac had clashed over.
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