A PRAIRIE VAGABONDLittle Hammer was not a success. He was a disappointment to themissionaries; the officials of the Hudson's Bay Company said he was"no good;" the Mounted Police kept an eye on him; the Crees and Blackfeetwould have nothing to do with him; and the half-breeds were profaneregarding him. But Little Hammer was oblivious to any depreciationof his merits, and would not be suppressed. He loved the Hudson's BayCompany's Post at Yellow Quill with an unwavering love; he ranged thehalf-breed hospitality of Red Deer River, regardless of it being thrownat him as he in turn threw it at his dog; he saluted Sergeant Gellatlywith a familiar How! whenever he saw him; he borrowed tabac of the half-breed women, and, strange to say, paid it back--with other tabac got bydaily petition, until his prayer was granted, at the H. B. C. Post. Heknew neither shame nor defeat, but where women were concerned he kept hisword, and was singularly humble. It was a woman that induced him to bebaptised. The day after the ceremony he begged "the loan of a dollar forthe love of God" from the missionary; and being refused, straightway, andfor the only time it was known of him, delivered a rumbling torrent ofhalf-breed profanity, mixed with the unusual oaths of the barracks. Thenhe walked away with great humility. There was no swagger about LittleHammer. He was simply unquenchable and continuous. He sometimes gotdrunk; but on such occasions he sat down, or lay down, in the mostconvenient place, and, like Caesar beside Pompey's statue, wrapped hismantle about his face and forgot the world. He was a vagabond Indian,abandoned yet self-contained, outcast yet gregarious. No socialostracism unnerved him, no threats of the H. B. C. officials moved him;and when in the winter of 187_ he was driven from one place to another,starving and homeless, and came at last emaciated and nearly dead to thePost at Yellow Quill, he asked for food and shelter as if it were hisright, and not as a mendicant.One night, shortly after his reception and restoration, he was sittingin the store silently smoking the Company's tabac. Sergeant Gellatlyentered. Little Hammer rose, offered his hand, and muttered, "How!"The Sergeant thrust his hand aside, and said sharply: "Whin I take y'rhand, Little Hammer, it'll be to put a grip an y'r wrists that'll staythere till y'are in quarters out of which y'll come nayther winter norsummer. Put that in y'r pipe and smoke it, y' scamp!"Little Hammer had a bad time at the Post that night. Lounging half-breeds reviled him; the H. B. C. officials rebuked him; and travellerswho were coming and going shared in the derision, as foolish people dowhere one is brow-beaten by many. At last a trapper entered, whomseeing, Little Hammer drew his blanket up about his head. The trappersat down very near Little Hammer, and began to smoke. He laid his plug-tabac and his knife on the counter beside him. Little Hammer reachedover and took the knife, putting it swiftly within his blanket. Thetrapper saw the act, and, turning sharply on the Indian, called him athief. Little Hammer chuckled strangely and said nothing; but his eyespeered sharply above the blanket. A laugh went round the store. In aninstant the trapper, with a loud oath, caught at the Indian's throat; butas the blanket dropped back he gave a startled cry. There was the flashof a knife, and he fell back dead. Little Hammer stood above him,smiling, for a moment, and then, turning to Sergeant Gellatly, heldout his arms silently for the handcuffs.The next day two men were lost on the prairies. One was SergeantGellatly; the other was Little Hammer. The horses they rode travelled soclose that the leg of the Indian crowded the leg of the white man; andthe wilder the storm grew, the closer still they rode. A 'poudre' day,with its steely air and fatal frost, was an ill thing in the world; butthese entangling blasts, thes