THE FATE OF SERGEANT PASMORE
When Sergeant Pasmore was left in the dug-out, or, to
explain more fully, the hut built into the side of a
hill, he sat down in the semi-darkness and calmly reviewed
the situation. It was plain enough.
He was a prisoner, and would be shot within twelve hours;
but Douglas and Dorothy were probably now safe, and well
on their way to friends. This, at least, was a comforting
reflection.
He heard the talking of the breeds at the door; then he
saw it open, and one looked in upon him with his rifle
resting upon his chest. These were two of the sober crowd.
There was no getting away from them. The leaders of the
rebels probably by this time knew they had a prisoner,
and if he were not forthcoming when they were asked to
produce him, the lives of his gaolers would more than
likely pay the penalty. True, for Katie's sake they had
made an exchange, but that did not matter--no one would
know. Yes, they were ready to shoot him like a dog if he
made the slightest attempt to escape.
And she, Dorothy--well, he didn't mind dying for her.
Within the last twenty-four hours he had realised how
fully she had come into his life. And he had striven
against it, but it was written in the book. He could not
altogether understand her. At one moment she would be
kind and sympathetic, and then, when he unbent and tried
to come a step nearer to her, she seemed to freeze and
keep him at arm's length. And he thought he had known
women once upon a time, in the palmy days across the
seas. He wondered what she would think on finding out
the truth about her father's release.
It was cold sitting on an upturned pail with his moccasins
resting on the frozen clay, and breathing an atmosphere
which was like that of a sepulchre. He wished the dawn
would break, even although it meant a resumption of that
awful riot and bloodshed.
Yes, they would certainly shoot him when they discovered
that he was one of the hated red-coats who represented
the might and majesty of Great Britain. Why they should
now hate the Mounted Police, who had indeed always been
their best friends, was one of those problems that can
only be explained by the innate perversity of what men
call human nature.
He was becoming drowsy, but he heard a strange scraping
on the low roof over his head, and that kept him awake
for some little time speculating as to whether or not it
could be a bear. It seemed a silly speculation, but then,
in wild regions, inconvenient prisoners have often been
quietly disposed of through roofs and windows during
their sleep. As he did not intend to be taken unawares
like that, he groped around and found the neck yoke of
a bullock. It would do to fell a man with, anyhow.
He could hear the voices of his two guards at the door
only indistinctly, for, as has been said, it was a long,
narrow room. He wished it were a little lighter so that
he might see what he was doing. When the thing on the
roof once broke through, he would be in the shadow, while
it would be against the light That would give him the
advantage.
At length the unseen intruder reached the straw that
covered the thin poles laid one alongside the other. The
straw was scraped aside, and then against the dark grey
sky Pasmore could see an uncertain shape, but whether
man or beast he could not make out To push aside the pole
would be an easy matter. He held his breath, and gripped
the neck yoke.
"Hist!" and the figure was evidently trying to attract
his attention.
Pasmore thought it as well to wait until he was surer of
his visitor. A Mounted Policeman knew better than to give
himself away so simply.
"His-st, Sar-jean! Katie and Pepin she was send," said
the voice again.
It flashed through Pasmore's brain that here now was the
explanation of this strange visit. The half-breed (and
it was Pierre La Chene himself) had been sent by his
sweetheart to effect his rescue. It was, of course, absurd
to suppose that Pierre was undertaking this hazardous
and philanthropical job on his own account. What else
save love could work such wonders?
"Sar-jean, Sar-jean, you ready now?" asked Pierre,
impatiently, preparing to pull up the poles.
But Pasmore hesitated. Was he not imperilling the safety
of Douglas and his daughter by following so soon after
them? For, should they not have got quite clear of the
settlement, the hue and cry would be raised and scouts
would be sent out all around to cut off their retreat.
He thought of Dorothy. No, he could not in his sober
senses risk such a thing.
"Sar-jean, Sar-jean!"
But just at that moment, somewhere over in the village,
there was a wild outbreak of noise, the sound of
rifle-firing being predominant.
The straw was quickly pushed back over the poles and some
_debris_ and snow scooped over that At the same moment
the door was thrown open and his two guards entered; but
they came no farther than the doorway. One of them struck
a light, and immediately lit some hemp-like substance he
carried in his hand. It flared up instantly, illuminating
the long barn from end to end.
"Hilloa! you thar?" cried one of them.
But it was unnecessary to have asked such a question,
for the light disclosed the form of the sergeant re-seated
on the upturned pail, with his head resting on his hands.
He appeared to be asleep.
Evidently satisfied with their scrutiny his guards again
turned towards the door to find out, if possible, the
reason of the firing. The whole settlement would be
aroused in a few minutes if it went on, or at least those
would who had not entered so fully as the others into
the orgie. What could it be? It was in reality Jacques
making good his escape, but Pasmore was not to know that.
To the sergeant the uncertainty was painful. Could the
rancher and his daughter have been delayed until they
had been detected by some vigilant rebels? The idea was
terrible. But he noted that the grey wintry dawn was fast
creeping over the snow-bound earth, and he concluded that
the fugitives must have got through some considerable
time before.
The firing ceased, and at last the thoroughly tired-out
man laid himself down on some old sacking, and fell fast
asleep.
It was broad daylight when he was awakened by a kick from
a moccasined foot.
"Ho, thar!" cried some one. "Git up and be shot!"
The speaker did not repeat the kick, as he took good care
to stand well to one side when the sleeper awoke.
Then the present, with all its lurid horror, crashed down
upon the soul of Pasmore. He was to be shot--yes, but
his heart glowed within him when he thought of Dorothy,
for whom he had made this sacrifice!
He rose to his feet There was a group of dirty, bleary-eyed
breeds and Indians standing within the doorway. One or
two who had known him before looked on sulkily and
silently, for they knew that while he was a man whose
hand was iron and whose will was indomitable in the
carrying out of the law, he had ever a kindly word and
a helping hand for such as needed help. Those who only
knew him by the power he represented in the law, openly
jeered and crowed over this big "shermoganish" whom now
they had fairly in their grasp, and whom they must destroy
if the metis were to own and govern the land. They also,
however, kept well away from him, for had they not heard
how he had taken three bad Indians single-handed on the
Eagle Hills by wounding them in turn, and then driving
them before him, on foot, like sheep, into the Fort?
The sun was shining brightly down on the scene of rapine
and lawlessness, which looked peaceful and fair enough,
in all truth, robed as it was in its snow-white vestments.
Only here and there a heap of black and smouldering ruins
spoke of the horrors of the previous night. From the
scattered houses on the flat, wreaths of smoke were rising
right cheerily into the sharp, clear air. Breeds and
Indians, men, women, and children, were moving about
everywhere, carrying with them, for purposes of display,
their ill-gotten goods. Some of the lounging figures at
the door even had resplendent new sashes, and odd-looking
articles that did duty for them, wound round their waists
and necks. At intervals Pasmore could hear an odd rifle
shot, and he guessed that the Fort must be closely
invested. His first thoughts, however, were for Dorothy
and her father, whom he hoped were now safely back under
the friendly protection of Child-of-Light.
"Sar-jean," said a big half-breed whom he recognised as
one of his guards of the previous night, "will you haf
to eat and drink?"
The fellow did not look such a callous fanatic as some
of the others, and although this promise of breakfast
was not particularly exhilarating, still, Pasmore had a
healthy appetite, and he answered in the affirmative.
The big breed issued some orders, and in a few minutes,
to Pasmore's no little satisfaction, a lad brought a tin
of biscuits, a tin of salmon, a piece of cheese, and a
spoon, all obviously supplied by the Hudson Bay Company
on the previous evening free of charge--and against its
will.
He sat down on the upturned pail once more and enjoyed
the simple fare. It was queer to think that this meal in
all probability would be his last on earth. His
surroundings seemed incongruous and unreal, and his mind
ran in a vein of whimsical speculation. It is strange
to think, but it is a fact, all the same, that certain
temperaments, when face to face with death, allow their
thoughts to take an oddly critical and retrospective view
of things in general. The fear of death does not affect
them, although, at the same time, they are fully conscious
of the momentous issues of their fate.
The crowd gathered around the door of the long building,
and many were the uncouth jests made at the expense of
the prisoner. One or two still half-drunk Indians pushed
their way through and came close up to him, talking
volubly and shaking their fire-arms in his face. But the
big breed let out at them with his great fists, and sent
them away expostulating still more volubly. Pasmore could
easily have settled the matter himself under other
circumstances, but he did not wish to precipitate matters.
The crowd grew in numbers, and very soon he gathered
something in regard to what was on foot.
He was to be taken to a certain little rise on the
outskirts of the village, where the Police had shot a
notorious malcontent and murderer some years before, and
there he was, in his turn, to be executed. This would be
retributive justice! Pasmore recollected with cynical
amusement how some of these very same rebels had lived
for years in dread of their lives from that desperado,
and how at the time nearly the whole population had
expressed their satisfaction and thanks to the Police
for getting rid of the outlaw, who had been killed in
resisting arrest. Now, when it suited their ends, the
latter was a martyr, and he was a malefactor. He wished
they would hurry up and shoot him out of hand, if he was
to be shot He did not know what horrible formality might
not be in store for him before they did that. But how
beautifully the sun was shining! He had hardly thought
that Battleford could be so fair to look upon.
At last he saw several breeds approaching, and one of
them carried with him an axe and a quantity of rope.
And behind the breeds, greeted by lusty acclamations from
the mob, came Louis Riel.