TO BATTLEFORD
It was quite a little procession of jumpers and sledges
that set out from the rancher's that morning after the
fight. First went the police, each man on his little
box-like jumper with its steel-shod runners drawn by a
hardy half-bred broncho. Next came Rory in a dog-sled
cariole, with his several pugnacious canine friends made
fast by moose-skin collars. They would have tried the
patience of Job. They fought with each other on the
slightest pretext from sheer love of fighting, and knew
not the rules of Queensberry. If one of them happened to
get down in one of their periodical little outbreaks,
the others promptly abandoned their more equal contests
to pile on to that unfortunate one.
The rancher and Dorothy came next in a comfortable sleigh,
with large buffalo robes all around them to keep out the
cold. Then came the two women servants in a light wagon-box
set on runners, and driven by Jacques. A Mounted Policeman
in a jumper formed the rear-guard at a distance of about
half-a-mile. The wagons were well stocked with all
necessaries for camping out.
It was a typical North-West morning, cold, bracing and
clear. The dry air stimulated one, and the winter sun
shone cheerfully down upon the great white land of virgin
snow.
There was a sense of utter solitude, of an immensity of
space. There was no sound save the soft, even swish of
the runners over the snow, and the regular muffled pounding
of the horses' hoofs.
Within the next hour so buoyant were Dorothy's spirits,
and so light-hearted and genuine her outlook on things
in general, that Douglas began to wonder if the events
of the previous evening were not, after all, the imaginings
of some horrible nightmare.
On, on, over the plains of frozen snow. The sun was so
strong now that Douglas was obliged to put great goggles
over his eyes, and Dorothy pulled a dark veil down over
hers, for fear of snow-blindness. They had left the flat
prairie behind, and were now in the bluff country which
was simply heights and hollows lightly timbered with
birch, poplar and saskatoon bushes, with beautiful meadows
and small lakes or "sloughs" scattered about everywhere.
They passed many pretty homesteads nestling cosily in
sheltered nooks; but no smoke rose from their chimneys;
they all seemed to have been deserted in a hurry. Their
occupants had doubtless fled into Battleford. What if
they had been too late to reach that haven of refuge!
At noon the travellers stopped in a little wooded valley
for dinner. It was more like a picnic party than that of
refugees fleeing for their lives. The Scotswoman actually
made a dish of pancakes for the troopers, because she
said there was one of them who reminded her of her own
son, whom she had not seen for many a long day. The
sincere thanks of the hungry ones were more than recompense
for the worthy dame.
They all sat down on buffalo robes spread on the snow,
and Dorothy was immensely taken with the gentlemanly,
unobtrusive way in which the troopers waited upon the
women of the party. But they were all mostly younger sons
of younger sons, and public school men, so after all it
was not to be wondered at. The high standard of honour
and duty, and the courage that was a religion animating
the force--the North-West Mounted Police--was easily
accounted for. She began to understand how it was that
some men preferred such a life to that of the mere quest
for gold.
Every one seemed in the best of spirits. Wounds were not
mentioned, so it went without saying that these, owing
to the healthy bodies of their owners, were giving no
trouble. The only interruption of a non-harmonic nature
was when a burly Muskymote dog of Rory's team took it
into its head that a little _tete-noire_ dog had received
a portion of frozen fish from its master out of all
proportion to its inconsiderable size, so, as soon as
Rory's back was turned, showed its disapproval of such
favouritism by knocking the favoured one down, and trying
to bite off the tips of its ears. As the other dogs, with
their peculiar new Queensberry instincts, at once piled
on to the one that was getting the worst of it, Rory had
to put down the chicken leg he was enjoying to arbitrate
with his whip in the usual way. He gave the jealous
Muskymote an extra smack or two for its ill-timed behaviour
as he thought of that chicken leg.
To Dorothy's no little surprise she found Pasmore unusually
communicative. Despite his seeming austerity, he possessed
a keen vein of humour of a dry, pungent order that was
eminently entertaining. To-day he gave vent to it, and
she found herself laughing and talking to him in a way
that, twenty-four hours before she would not have deemed
possible.
Dinner over, the horses were watered--they had now cooled
down--the culinary articles were stowed away, pipes lit,
and preparations made for a fresh start. It would be
necessary to move with extreme caution, as they were not
more than twelve miles from Battleford, and the enemy
were pretty sure to have their scouts out.
On again through the still air, and between the winding
avenues of birch, poplar and saskatoon bushes. Nothing
to be heard save the occasional call of the grouse in
the bracken, and the monotonous chafing of the harness.
At dusk they arrived within a mile or two of the little
town, and halted.
A fire was lit in a deserted farmhouse, and a good drink
of hot tea put fresh life into them. There was trying
and dangerous work to be done that night; they would
require to be well prepared.
An hour later, when the moon began to show over the
tree-tops, the entire party moved out silently by a
little-used by-path towards Battleford. A couple of
troopers went on some considerable distance in front,
and one on either flank, with strict instructions to
create no alarm if possible in meeting with an enemy,
but to at once warn the main body.
And now on the still air came a weird, monotonous sound,
rising and falling, as does that of the far-off rapids,
borne on the fitful breath of the Chinook winds. _Tap,
tap, tap_, it went, _tum, tum, tum_, in ever-recurring
monotones. As they stopped to listen to it, the girl
realised its nature only too well. It was the tuck of
the Indian drum, and the Indian was on the war-path. As
they walked on they could hear it more plainly, and soon
the sound of whooping, yelling human voices, and the
occasional discharge of fire-arms, fell upon their
apprehensive ears.
"They've bruk into the stores, an' are paintin' the town
red," explained Rory. "Guess they're hevin' a high ole
time."
And now they could see a red glare tingeing the heavens
above the tree-tops. They ascended a hill to the right,
and looking down on the valley of the Saskatchewan, a
truly magnificent but terrifying sight met their gaze.