“How do you like your young cowboy, McConnell?”
“Oh, all right, Starr. Seems a nice quiet young fellow.”
The two men were smoking on the verandah of Sergeant Starr’s neat little
house at the Mounted Police Headquarters. They were old friends, such
friends as Western men become who have stood by each other when life and
death were in the game.
“He is all that. I owe him something,” said the sergeant.
“Oh, that’s all right, Starr. I’ll straighten that out. How much?” said
the big Irish rancher.
“How much? Hot much,” replied the sergeant. “Only my life.”
“Mother o’ Moses! Let’s have ut!” McConnell had a habit in moments of
excitement of reverting to the speech of his childhood.
“Well, it is something of a story. Have you time for it?”
“All the time on the face av the clock, if it’s a story. You mean this
last trip? You never told me, Starr—and you promised it to me. Spit it
out, old boy.”
“It is some story, and but for that young chap I wouldn’t be here
telling you today. Well, here goes. I told you how I found him up at
Fort Reliance Hudson’s Bay Post, two hundred miles up in the Athabasca,
on my way north after a half-breed wanted for murder, Guerrin by name.
Told you how he got there with his Indian stepmother and two kids. Had
the bad luck on my up trip to have to ditch my corporal—frozen foot—so
had to play a lone hand. Got my man, though, and brought him back to
Fort Reliance. Let me tell you that every minute of that trip, day and
night, I had my hand on my hip. That half-breed Guerrin was an old
friend of mine. Twice I had spoiled a little game of his, and this time
I knew that with the prospect of a hemp-dance before him he would stop
at nothing. So it was man to man every minute of the march.
“When I got back to MacKinroy’s I found that the Indian woman had died
and that Paul had arranged to leave the youngsters in the meantime at
the Mission School and was keen to get back to civilisation. I struck a
bargain with him to bring him out and find him a job if he’d help me out
on the trail here. For the first three days all was serene. My prisoner
apparently had thrown up the sponge, and was all in mentally, a case of
collapse, with Indian stoicism accepting his fate and obeying orders
like a whipped cur. At least, so I thought. At the end of the third day
my cursed luck threw me into an ice crack, twisted my ankle, broke a
small bone as a matter of fact the doctor here says, and there I was
seventy miles or so from the Fort here, with a murderous prisoner, a
deadly fighter, strong as a bull, cunning and cruel as a lynx, and with
me a boy raw to this game, untried. I had to take to the toboggan,
rations were cut fine, very fine, and the trail was getting more and
more rotten every mile. I’ve had many more cheerful nights than that
night, as I lay sleepless by my fire, planning my course and weighing my
chances. My chances seemed slim enough, I confess to you.
“Next morning I tied my bucko up to a tree and took the boy off for a
council of war and set before him the facts—no neutral tints in the
picture, I assure you.
“‘He’s a devil in a fight,’ I told the boy. ‘Man to man on equal terms
he could beat up either one of us.’
“I liked the cool, questioning look in the boy’s eyes. I learned
afterwards that he had gone through the braves in old Wah-na-ta-hi-ta’s
tribe and come out top dog. But he had never gone the full limit—never
killed a man.
“‘And this half-breed Guerrin has it in for me. He would rather get me
than get free, I believe. He knows all the tricks too. Can we take him
through, or will we have to let him go, Paul?’ I said, trying him out.
He could not hide the surprise, the contempt in his eyes.
“‘I thought the Mounted Police always got their man,’ he said.
“‘They do—finally—but sometimes a Mounted Police has had to pay the
price,’ I said, keeping my eyes on his.
“‘Of course,’ he said, without a quiver of a lid, ‘they do their duty.’
“I tell you, old man, from that minute I felt sure we would make it or
both be feeding the wolves. Then I sprung my plan on him.
“‘Paul,’ I said, ‘I’m going to swear you in as a special constable.’
“‘Can you?’ he said.
“‘I have the authority. Are you willing?’
“‘For this trip?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I am willing.’
“I swore him in, told him my plan. ‘Here’s a gun,’ I said, offering him
one of mine.
“‘Have one—my father’s.’
“‘Can you shoot?’
“He gave me a jolt then. He looked about, saw a squirrel chattering and
whisking on a scrub pine, his hand flashed from his pocket—bang!
bang!—and the squirrel dropped, with two holes through its body.
“‘Dad showed me, and I’ve been practising a bit in the north for the
last five years.’ I just gulped.
“‘You’ll handle him,’ I said.
“‘Who?’
“‘Guerrin!’
“‘Never killed a man—don’t want to—couldn’t!’
“‘Rather he’d kill you? or me?’
“He looked at me doubtfully. ‘I don’t want to kill him. I couldn’t kill
him.’
“‘All right, let him kill me.’
“No, I think I could stop him,’ he said. Not very satisfactory, but it
was the best I could get out of him.
“We took watch about. But Guerrin fooled me properly. I don’t deserve to
be alive. After fifteen years in the force, handling bad men of all
kinds! That devil played ’possum, dragged back, growing weaker and
weaker, couldn’t eat, staggered on march like a drunken man, and at the
end of the first day fell down and lay like a log. Begad, I thought I’d
never get him in. The whole weight fell on Paul, trail breaking,
packing, mushing. Two nights out from the Fort, Guerrin staggered into
camp, fell down and refused to move. We made him comfortable before the
fire, fed him soup and stuff. Paul was pretty well in that night, and
didn’t tie up my prisoner. I took the first watch myself, hadn’t had
much sleep so fell off. Don’t know what it was—one of the dogs, I think,
gave a snort in his sleep—I opened my eyes, and, by Jove! six feet away
was Guerrin, knife in hand, on the crouch for a leap. I gave one yell
and flung myself as far as I could to one side. His knife touched a rib
and glanced off. Before I could get my gun he was on me, jabbing like
all possessed. I managed to grab his knife hand and hold him off. My
shout woke Paul, but he seemed dazed for a moment.
“‘Shoot!’ I yelled. ‘Shoot, you damned fool!’
“With one leap he covered the distance between us and was at Guerrin’s
throat. But that half-breed was like a wild cat; he squirmed free and
was off on the forward trail where it opened into a little lake, Paul
after him like a hound after a fox. ‘Shoot! shoot!’ I kept yelling. He
paid no attention. I laced up my moccasins, tied up my foot and hobbled
off as best I could after them. I hadn’t gone one hundred yards when I
came on ’em. Say, there was nothing to it. That boy was all over him
like ten thousand cats, and before I could come up had him lying quiet
and still, not a move out of him. I don’t know what he did or
how—knocked him out, I fancy—but that breed walked back to camp, dropped
to his bed and went to sleep like a baby.
“‘How in hell did you get him?’ I shouted at him, for I confess I was
considerably worked up.
“‘Oh, quite easy. He can’t run very fast and he doesn’t know how to
fight.’ The champion runner and the wickedest fighter in the North
Country!
“‘Where did you learn to fight?’
“‘Uncle taught me to box, and I used to wrestle with the Indians in the
north.’ I learned after some trouble that he had licked the whole tribe
at it.
“The rest of the journey was like a walk to church. I wanted him for the
force, but he’s bound to make money and make it fast. That’s why he went
to you. How is he doing?”
“All right. Quiet chap. The boys haven’t quite got on to him, poke fun
at him a bit. ‘Squatty’ Hayes is inclined to ride him a bit.”
“Well, my advice to Mr. ‘Squatty’ Hayes is to not monkey with the band
wagon or he may get his feet in the spokes.”
“He is keen now about learning the rope, working at it every off minute.
He can ride all right, but doesn’t know the rope.”
“He’ll get it. That’s his kind. He’s a finisher, you hear me. I’m
interested in that boy. Owe him a lot. Besides, he has a way that gets
me. And the missus and the kids are just a little worse.”
“All right, Starr, we’ll do our best for him. We’ll shove him along all
we can.”
The big Irishman was as good as his word, for before the summer closed
on the Three-Bar-Cross Ranch Paul had worked his way to the first rank
as a cowman and was drawing pay second only to the foreman, “Squatty”
Hayes, and without exciting the envy of any of his fellow-riders, unless
it was that of “Squatty” to a certain extent. But “Squatty” was too sure
of himself and too lazy, if the truth be told, to worry over the rapid
rise of a kid rider like Paul. The boy he bullied unmercifully, making
him fetch and carry shamelessly. But Paul’s good temper and good cheer
were unfailing and he never seemed to notice what was so obvious to
every rider on the ranch as well as to every member of the McConnell
household. Nor would he ever have noticed “Squatty’s” tendency to ride
him had it not been that the indignant fury of McConnell’s fiery hearted
and fiery headed sixteen-year-old daughter Molly made her take a hand in
the game. One evening as Paul came riding up to the bunk house door
after a long day in the saddle and was walking stiff and weary with his
horse to the corral, “Squatty’s” big voice boomed out after him.
“Hey, there, kid! Bring up my bronk, will you? I’m in a hurry. Get a
move on!”
“All right, ‘Squatty,’” answered Paul cheerily.
“Say, Paul! Don’t you do it!” rang out the girl’s voice, till the whole
bunk house heard. “Why do you let that big stiff boss you around?”
Paul stood looking at her in mild surprise. “Why? Well, he is boss,
isn’t he?” he said, a slow smile coming to his face.
“You’re hired to ride herd, not to lick his boots.”
“Why, I don’t——”
“You do!” cried Molly, flinging down the reins on the neck of her
temper. “You do! Tell him to go to hell!”
“All right,” said Paul cheerfully. Then, raising his voice, he sang out,
“‘Squatty,’ you go to hell!” and moved off with his pony to the corral.
A high tide of strongly sulphurous and quite unintelligible language
preceded “Squatty” from the bunk house, ending in the quite intelligible
question, “What’s that you say, kid?”
“Didn’t you hear?” inquired Paul innocently, as he strolled on his way.
“Look here! you blankety, blank young pup, I’ll knock your blank,
blankety blank head off.”
Paul stopped abruptly, swung his horse round, and leaned up against him.
“Ladies present, ‘Squatty,’” he said quietly. The quiet tone was like
oil to flame with “Squatty.”
“Huh!” said Molly. “He don’t make no difference for them!”
“I’ll show you!” said “Squatty,” striding up to Paul and throwing his
full weight into a swinging drive with his right at the boy’s head.
Just what happened no one of the company about the bunk house door, much
less “Squatty” himself, could explain, but when the slight confusion was
past the foreman was discovered to be quite helpless in the boy’s grip
and yelling for mercy. What had happened was after all very simple to
one who had become a master of all the tricks of Indian wrestling. Paul
with his right hand had met the reckless drive of “Squatty’s” mighty
right with a grip on the wrist, had swung the body half round, twisted
the arm up behind the back and with his left wreathed in the back of
“Squatty’s” coat collar now held him powerless and in agony.
“Let go, for God’s sake, kid,” groaned “Squatty.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, ‘Squatty,’” said Paul pleasantly, “but you
mustn’t do things like that, eh?”
“No, no, cut it out. I was just fooling,” said “Squatty.”
“So was I,” said Paul, letting his man loose. “And I’ll get your horse
for you if you’re tired.”
If ever there was a puzzled man it was “Squatty.” His astonishment
completely neutralised his rage. His eye ran up and down over the
slight, boyish figure. He still felt that steel-like grip that had held
him helpless.
“Say, kid, we’ll call it a game,” he said, offering his hand. “You don’t
need to get no horse for me.”
“Sure, I will, Squatty,” said Paul, heartily shaking his hand. “I’m not
as tired as I was.”
He swung himself on his pony and loped off after the foreman’s horse,
leaving a group behind him dumb with mingled surprise and admiration. It
was Molly who broke the impressive silence.
“Say, ‘Squatty,’ we’re always learning some, ain’t we?” she said with a
grin.
With grave deliberation “Squatty” paused to eject a stream of tobacco
juice, wiped his lips carefully with the back of his hand, and made
reply, “Molly, some fools git beyond the learnin’ age. You and I ain’t
that kind of fool.” And from that hour and for many a long year, among
Paul’s most stalwart champions “Squatty” Hayes was reckoned in the first
rank.
There was no further reference to the incident among the cowboys, for
“Squatty” was fierce in the “rough and tumble,” but there was no more
“ridin’ of the kid” in the McConnell bunch.