A flash of scarlet caught her eye. Two troopers of the Mounted
Police had come into the room and one of them was taking off his fur
overcoat. The trim, lean-flanked figure and close-cropped, curly head
she recognized at once with quickened pulse. When Winthrop Beresford
came into her neighborhood, Jessie McRae's cheek always flew a flag of
greeting.

A squaw came up to the young soldier and offered innocently her face
for a kiss.

Beresford knew the tribal custom. It was his business to help
establish friendly relations between the Mounted and the natives. He
kissed the wrinkled cheek gallantly. A second dusky lady shuffled
forward, and after her a third. The constable did his duty.

His roving eye caught Jessie's, and found an imp of mischief dancing
there. She was enjoying the predicament in which he found himself. Out
of the tail of that same eye he discovered that two more flat-footed
squaws were headed in his direction.

He moved briskly across the floor to the counter, vaulted it, and
stood beside Jessie. She was still laughing at him.

"You're afraid," she challenged. "You ran away."

A little devil of adventurous mirth was blown to flame in him. "I saw
another lady, lonely and unkissed. The Force answers every call of
distress."