On a pleasant morning in August in the settlement at the head of Caribou Lake, Sergeant Brinklow and Constable McNab were seated in the sun outside the door of police headquarters, smoking, chinning and cleaning their guns. A feeling of peace and freedom pervaded their breasts for the inspector was off on a tour of the Wabiscaw country; weather was lovely and work was light. A man could relax.
The principal duty of the police at the moment was to keep a fatherly eye on the new settlers straggling in over the wagon road just opened by the government over the Raspberry hills. It followed the old horse track from railhead at the town of Edson, north to Caribou Lake, a mere trifle of two hundred miles. “Opening” it had consisted merely of cutting a swath through the timber thirty feet wide, w
