“He’s too ha’sh,” said old Alexander Windsor, as he shut the creaking
door of the store after a vanishing figure, and turned to the big iron
stove with outstretched hands; hands that were cold both summer and
winter. He was of lean and frigid make.
“Sergeant Fones is too ha’sh,” he repeated, as he pulled out the damper
and cleared away the ashes with the iron poker.
Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette smoke into the
air, tilted his chair back, and said: “I do not know what you mean by
‘ha’sh,’ but he is the devil. Eh, well, there was more than one devil
made sometime in the North West.” He laughed softly.
“That gives you a chance in history, Pretty Pierre,” said a voice from
behind a pile of woollen goods and buffalo skins in the centre of the
floor. The owner of the voice then walked to the window. He scratched
some frost from the pane and looked out to where the trooper in dog-skin
coat, gauntlets and cap, was mounting his broncho. The old man came
and stood near the young man,--the owner of the voice,--and said again:
“He’s too ha’sh.”
“Harsh you mean, father,” added the other.
“Yes, harsh you mean, Old Brown Windsor,--quite harsh,” said Pierre.
Alexander Windsor, storekeeper and general dealer, was sometimes called
“Old Brown Windsor” and sometimes “Old Aleck,” to distinguish him from
his son, who was known as “Young Aleck.”
As the old man walked back again to the stove to warm his hands, Young
Aleck continued: “He does his duty, that’s all. If he doesn’t wear kid
gloves while at it, it’s his choice. He doesn’t go beyond his duty. You
can bank on that. It would be hard to exceed that way out here.”
“True, Young Aleck, so true; but then he wears gloves of iron, of ice.
That is not good. Sometime the glove will be too hard and cold on
a man’s shoulder, and then!--Well, I should like to be there,” said
Pierre, showing his white teeth.
Old Aleck shivered, and held his fingers where the stove was red hot.
The young man did not hear this speech; from the window he was watching
Sergeant Fones as he rode towards the Big Divide. Presently he said:
“He’s going towards Humphrey’s place. I--” He stopped, bent his brows,
caught one corner of his slight moustache between his teeth, and did not
stir a muscle until the Sergeant had passed over the Divide.
Old Aleck was meanwhile dilating upon his theme before a passive
listener. But Pierre was only passive outwardly. Besides hearkening
to the father’s complaints he was closely watching the son. Pierre
was clever, and a good actor. He had learned the power of reserve and
outward immobility. The Indian in him helped him there. He had heard
what Young Aleck had just muttered; but to the man of the cold fingers
he said: “You keep good whisky in spite of the law and the iron glove,
Old Aleck.” To the young man: “And you can drink it so free, eh, Young
Aleck?”
The half-breed looked out of the corners of his eyes at the young
man, but he did not raise the peak of his fur cap in doing so, and his
glances askance were not seen.
Young Aleck had been writing something with his finger-nail on the
frost of the pane, over and over again. When Pierre spoke to him thus
he scratched out the word he had written, with what seemed unnecessary
force. But in one corner it remained:
“Mab--”
Pierre added: “That is what they say at Humphrey’s ranch.”
“Who says that at Humphrey’s?--Pierre, you lie!” was the sharp and
threatening reply. The significance of this last statement had
been often attested on the prairies by the piercing emphasis of a
six-chambered revolver. It was evident that Young Aleck was in earnest.
Pierre’s eyes glowed in the shadow, but he idly replied:
“I do not remember quite who said it. Well, ‘mon ami,’ perhaps I lie;
perhaps. Sometimes we dream things, and these dreams are true. You call
it a lie--‘bien!’ Sergeant Fones, he dreams perhaps Old Aleck sells
whisky against the law to men you call whisky runners, sometimes to
Indians and half-breeds--halfbreeds like Pretty Pierre. That was a dream
of Sergeant Fones; but you see he believes it true. It is good sport,
eh? Will you not take--what is it?--a silent partner? Yes; a silent
partner, Old Aleck. Pretty Pierre has spare time, a little, to make
money for his friends and for himself, eh?”
When did not Pierre have time to spare? He was a gambler. Unlike the
majority of half-breeds, he had a pronounced French manner, nonchalant
and debonair.
The Indian in him gave him coolness and nerve. His cheeks had a tinge of
delicate red under their whiteness, like those of a woman. That was why
he was called Pretty Pierre. The country had, however, felt a kind of
weird menace in the name. It was used to snakes whose rattle gave
notice of approach or signal of danger. But Pretty Pierre was like the
death-adder, small and beautiful, silent and deadly. At one time he had
made a secret of his trade, or thought he was doing so. In those days
he was often to be seen at David Humphrey’s home, and often in talk with
Mab Humphrey; but it was there one night that the man who was ha’sh gave
him his true character, with much candour and no comment.
Afterwards Pierre was not seen at Humphrey’s ranch. Men prophesied that
he would have revenge some day on Sergeant Fones; but he did not show
anything on which this opinion could be based. He took no umbrage
at being called Pretty Pierre the gambler. But for all that he was
possessed of a devil.
Young Aleck had inherited some money through his dead mother from his
grandfather, a Hudson’s Bay factor. He had been in the East for some
years, and when he came back he brought his “little pile” and an
impressionable heart with him. The former Pretty Pierre and his friends
set about to win; the latter, Mab Humphrey won without the trying. Yet
Mab gave Young Aleck as much as he gave her. More. Because her love
sprang from a simple, earnest, and uncontaminated life. Her purity and
affection were being played against Pierre’s designs and Young Aleck’s
weakness. With Aleck cards and liquor went together. Pierre seldom
drank.
But what of Sergeant Fones? If the man that knew him best--the
Commandant--had been asked for his history, the reply would have been:
“Five years in the Service, rigid disciplinarian, best non-commissioned
officer on the Patrol of the Cypress Hills.” That was all the Commandant
knew.
A soldier-policeman’s life on the frontier is rough, solitary, and
severe. Active duty and responsibility are all that make it endurable.
To few is it fascinating. A free and thoughtful nature would, however,
find much in it, in spite of great hardships, to give interest and even
pleasure. The sense of breadth and vastness, and the inspiration of pure
air could be a very gospel of strength, beauty, and courage, to such an
one--for a time. But was Sergeant Fones such an one? The Commandant’s
scornful reply to a question of the kind would have been: “He is the
best soldier on the Patrol.”
And so with hard gallops here and there after the refugees of crime or
misfortune, or both, who fled before them like deer among the passes of
the hills, and, like deer at bay, often fought like demons to the death;
with border watchings, and protection and care and vigilance of the
Indians; with hurried marches at sunrise, the thermometer at fifty
degrees below zero often in winter, and open camps beneath the stars,
and no camp at all, as often as not, winter and summer; with rough
barrack fun and parade and drill and guard of prisoners; and with
chances now and then to pay homage to a woman’s face, the Mounted Force
grew full of the Spirit of the West and became brown, valiant, and
hardy, with wind and weather. Perhaps some of them longed to touch,
oftener than they did, the hands of children, and to consider more the
faces of women,--for hearts are hearts even under a belted coat of
red on the Fiftieth Parallel,--but men of nerve do not blazon their
feelings.
No one would have accused Sergeant Fones of having a heart. Men of keen
discernment would have seen in him the little Bismarck of the Mounted
Police. His name carried farther on the Cypress Hills Patrol than any
other; and yet his officers could never say that he exceeded his duty
or enlarged upon the orders he received. He had no sympathy with crime.
Others of the force might wink at it; but his mind appeared to sit
severely upright upon the cold platform of Penalty, in beholding
breaches of the statutes. He would not have rained upon the unjust as
the just if he had had the directing of the heavens. As Private Gellatly
put it: “Sergeant Fones has the fear o’ God in his heart, and the law of
the land across his saddle, and the newest breech-loading at that!”
He was part of the great machine of Order, the servant of Justice, the
sentinel in the vestibule of Martial Law. His interpretation of duty
worked upward as downward. Officers and privates were acted on by the
force known as Sergeant Fones. Some people, like Old Brown Windsor,
spoke hardly and openly of this force. There were three people who never
did--Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Mab Humphrey. Pierre hated him;
Young Aleck admired in him a quality lying dormant in himself--decision;
Mab Humphrey spoke unkindly of no one. Besides--but no!
What was Sergeant Fones’s country? No one knew. Where had he come from?
No one asked him more than once. He could talk French with Pierre,--a
kind of French that sometimes made the undertone of red in the
Frenchman’s cheeks darker. He had been heard to speak German to a German
prisoner, and once, when a gang of Italians were making trouble on a
line of railway under construction, he arrested the leader, and, in
a few swift, sharp words in the language of the rioters, settled the
business. He had no accent that betrayed his nationality.
He had been recommended for a commission. The officer in command had
hinted that the Sergeant might get a Christmas present. The officer
had further said: “And if it was something that both you and the
Patrol would be the better for, you couldn’t object, Sergeant.” But the
Sergeant only saluted, looking steadily into the eyes of the officer.
That was his reply. Private Gellatly, standing without, heard Sergeant
Fones say, as he passed into the open air, and slowly bared his forehead
to the winter sun:
“Exactly.”
And Private Gellatly cried, with revolt in his voice, “Divils me own,
the word that a’t to have been full o’ joy was like the clip of a
rifle-breech.”
Justice in a new country is administered with promptitude and vigour,
or else not administered at all. Where an officer of the Mounted
Police-Soldiery has all the powers of a magistrate, the law’s delay and
the insolence of office have little space in which to work. One of
the commonest slips of virtue in the Canadian West was selling whisky
contrary to the law of prohibition which prevailed. Whisky runners were
land smugglers. Old Brown Windsor had, somehow, got the reputation
of being connected with the whisky runners; not a very respectable
business, and thought to be dangerous. Whisky runners were inclined
to resent intrusion on their privacy with a touch of that biting
inhospitableness which a moonlighter of Kentucky uses toward an
inquisitive, unsympathetic marshal. On the Cypress Hills Patrol,
however, the erring servants of Bacchus were having a hard time of
it. Vigilance never slept there in the days of which these lines bear
record. Old Brown Windsor had, in words, freely espoused the cause of
the sinful. To the careless spectator it seemed a charitable siding with
the suffering; a proof that the old man’s heart was not so cold as his
hands. Sergeant Fones thought differently, and his mission had just
been to warn the store-keeper that there was menacing evidence gathering
against him, and that his friendship with Golden Feather, the Indian
Chief, had better cease at once. Sergeant Fones had a way of putting
things. Old Brown Windsor endeavoured for a moment to be sarcastic. This
was the brief dialogue in the domain of sarcasm:
“I s’pose you just lit round in a friendly sort of way, hopin’ that I’d
kenoodle with you later.”
“Exactly.”
There was an unpleasant click to the word. The old man’s hands got
colder. He had nothing more to say.
Before leaving, the Sergeant said something quietly and quickly to Young
Aleck. Pierre observed, but could not hear. Young Aleck was uneasy;
Pierre was perplexed. The Sergeant turned at the door, and said in
French: “What are your chances for a Merry Christmas at Pardon’s Drive,
Pretty Pierre?” Pierre answered nothing. He shrugged his shoulders, and
as the door closed, muttered, “Il est le diable.” And he meant it. What
should Sergeant Fones know of that intended meeting at Pardon’s Drive on
Christmas Day? And if he knew, what then? It was not against the law to
play euchre. Still it perplexed Pierre. Before the Windsors, father and
son, however, he was, as we have seen, playfully cool.
After quitting Old Brown Windsor’s store, Sergeant Fones urged his stout
broncho to a quicker pace than usual. The broncho was, like himself,
wasteful of neither action nor affection. The Sergeant had caught him
wild and independent, had brought him in, broken him, and taught him
obedience. They understood each other; perhaps they loved each other.
But about that even Private Gellatly had views in common with the
general sentiment as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The private
remarked once on this point “Sarpints alive! the heels of the one and
the law of the other is the love of them. They’ll weather together like
the Divil and Death.”
The Sergeant was brooding; that was not like him. He was hesitating;
that was less like him. He turned his broncho round as if to cross the
Big Divide and to go back to Windsor’s store; but he changed his mind
again, and rode on toward David Humphrey’s ranch. He sat as if he had
been born in the saddle. His was a face for the artist, strong and
clear, and having a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deepset
and watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the
short upper lip, to which the moustache was clipped close--a good fit,
like his coat. The disdain was more marked this morning.
The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the second part
by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him was one of apprehension
for Young Aleck and those of Young Aleck’s name. She knew that people
spoke of her lover as a ne’er-do-weel; and that they associated his
name freely with that of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a dread of
Pierre, and, only the night before, she had determined to make one last
great effort to save Aleck, and if he would not be saved--strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure on horseback
coming nearer, her mind should swerve to what she had heard of Sergeant
Fones’s expected promotion. Then she fell to wondering if anyone had
ever given him a real Christmas present; if he had any friends at all;
if life meant anything more to him than carrying the law of the land
across his saddle. Again he suddenly came to her in a new thought,
free from apprehension, and as the champion of her cause to defeat the
half-breed and his gang, and save Aleck from present danger or future
perils.
She was such a woman as prairies nurture; in spirit broad and
thoughtful and full of energy; not so deep as the mountain woman, not so
imaginative, but with more persistency, more daring. Youth to her was
a warmth, a glory. She hated excess and lawlessness, but she could
understand it. She felt sometimes as if she must go far away into the
unpeopled spaces, and shriek out her soul to the stars from the fulness
of too much life. She supposed men had feelings of that kind too, but
that they fell to playing cards and drinking instead of crying to the
stars. Still, she preferred her way.
Once, Sergeant Fones, on leaving the house, said grimly after his
fashion: “Not Mab but Ariadne--excuse a soldier’s bluntness.....
Good-bye!” and with a brusque salute he had ridden away. What he meant
she did not know and could not ask. The thought instantly came to her
mind: Not Sergeant Fones; but who? She wondered if Ariadne was born on
the prairie. What knew she of the girl who helped Theseus, her lover, to
slay the Minotaur? What guessed she of the Slopes of Naxos? How old was
Ariadne? Twenty? For that was Mab’s age. Was Ariadne beautiful? She ran
her fingers loosely through her short brown hair, waving softly
about her Greek-shaped head, and reasoned that Ariadne must have been
presentable, or Sergeant Fones would not have made the comparison. She
hoped Ariadne could ride well, for she could.
But how white the world looked this morning, and how proud and brilliant
the sky! Nothing in the plane of vision but waves of snow stretching to
the Cypress Hills; far to the left a solitary house, with its tin
roof flashing back the sun, and to the right the Big Divide. It was an
old-fashioned winter, not one in which bare ground and sharp winds make
life outdoors inhospitable. Snow is hospitable-clean, impacted snow;
restful and silent. But there was one spot in the area of white, on
which Mab’s eyes were fixed now, with something different in them from
what had been there. Again it was a memory with which Sergeant Fones was
associated. One day in the summer just past she had watched him and his
company put away to rest under the cool sod, where many another lay in
silent company, a prairie wanderer, some outcast from a better life gone
by. Afterwards, in her home, she saw the Sergeant stand at the window,
looking out towards the spot where the waves in the sea of grass were
more regular and greener than elsewhere, and were surmounted by a high
cross. She said to him--for she of all was never shy of his stern ways:
“Why is the grass always greenest there, Sergeant Fones?”
He knew what she meant, and slowly said: “It is the Barracks of the
Free.”
She had no views of life save those of duty and work and natural joy and
loving a ne’er-do-weel, and she said: “I do not understand that.”
And the Sergeant replied: “‘Free among the Dead like unto them that are
wounded and lie in the grave, who are out of remembrance.’”
But Mab said again: “I do not understand that either.”
The Sergeant did not at once reply. He stepped to the door and gave
a short command to some one without, and in a moment his company was
mounted in line; handsome, dashing fellows; one the son of an English
nobleman, one the brother of an eminent Canadian politician, one related
to a celebrated English dramatist. He ran his eye along the line, then
turned to Mab, raised his cap with machine-like precision, and said:
“No, I suppose you do not understand that. Keep Aleck Windsor from
Pretty Pierre and his gang. Good-bye.”
Then he mounted and rode away. Every other man in the company looked
back to where the girl stood in the doorway; he did not. Private
Gellatly said, with a shake of the head, as she was lost to view:
“Devils bestir me, what a widdy she’ll make!” It was understood that
Aleck Windsor and Mab Humphrey were to be married on the coming New
Year’s Day. What connection was there between the words of Sergeant
Fones and those of Private Gellatly? None, perhaps.
Mab thought upon that day as she looked out, this December morning,
and saw Sergeant Fones dismounting at the door. David Humphrey, who was
outside, offered to put up the Sergeant’s horse; but he said: “No, if
you’ll hold him just a moment, Mr. Humphrey, I’ll ask for a drink of
something warm, and move on. Miss Humphrey is inside, I suppose?”
“She’ll give you a drink of the best to be had on your patrol,
Sergeant,” was the laughing reply. “Thanks for that, but tea or coffee
is good enough for me,” said the Sergeant. Entering, the coffee was soon
in the hand of the hardy soldier. Once he paused in his drinking and
scanned Mab’s face closely. Most people would have said the Sergeant had
an affair of the law in hand, and was searching the face of a criminal;
but most people are not good at interpretation. Mab was speaking to the
chore-girl at the same time and did not see the look. If she could have
defined her thoughts when she, in turn, glanced into the Sergeant’s
face, a moment afterwards, she would have said, “Austerity fills this
man. Isolation marks him for its own.” In the eyes were only purpose,
decision, and command. Was that the look that had been fixed upon her
face a moment ago? It must have been. His features had not changed a
breath. Mab began their talk.
“They say you are to get a Christmas present of promotion, Sergeant
Fones.”
“I have not seen it gazetted,” he answered enigmatically.
“You and your friends will be glad of it.”
“I like the service.”
“You will have more freedom with a commission.” He made no reply, but
rose and walked to the window, and looked out across the snow, drawing
on his gauntlets as he did so.
She saw that he was looking where the grass in summer was the greenest!
He turned and said:
“I am going to barracks now. I suppose Young Aleck will be in quarters
here on Christmas Day, Miss Mab?”
“I think so,” and she blushed.
“Did he say he would be here?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
He looked toward the coffee. Then: “Thank you.....Good-bye.”
“Sergeant?”
“Miss Humphrey!”
“Will you not come to us on Christmas Day?”
His eyelids closed swiftly and opened again. “I shall be on duty.”
“And promoted?”
“Perhaps.”
“And merry and happy?”--she smiled to herself to think of Sergeant Fones
being merry and happy.
“Exactly.”
The word suited him.
He paused a moment with his fingers on the latch, and turned round as if
to speak; pulled off his gauntlet, and then as quickly put it on again.
Had he meant to offer his hand in good-bye? He had never been seen to
take the hand of anyone except with the might of the law visible in
steel.
He opened the door with the right hand, but turned round as he stepped
out, so that the left held it while he faced the warmth of the room and
the face of the girl. The door closed.
Mounted, and having said good-bye to Mr. Humphrey, he turned towards the
house, raised his cap with soldierly brusqueness, and rode away in the
direction of the barracks.
The girl did not watch him. She was thinking of Young Aleck, and of
Christmas Day, now near. The Sergeant did not look back.
Meantime the party at Windsor’s store was broken up. Pretty Pierre and
Young Aleck had talked together, and the old man had heard his son say:
“Remember, Pierre, it is for the last time.” Then they talked after this
fashion:
“Ah, I know, ‘mon ami;’ for the last time! ‘Eh, bien,’ you will spend
Christmas Day with us too--no? You surely will not leave us on the day
of good fortune? Where better can you take your pleasure for the last
time? One day is not enough for farewell. Two, three; that is the magic
number. You will, eh? no? Well, well, you will come to-morrow--and--eh,
‘mon ami,’ where do you go the next day? Oh, ‘pardon,’ I forgot, you
spend the Christmas Day--I know. And the day of the New Year? Ah, Young
Aleck, that is what they say--the devil for the devil’s luck. So.”
“Stop that, Pierre.” There was fierceness in the tone. “I spend the
Christmas Day where you don’t, and as I like, and the rest doesn’t
concern you. I drink with you, I play with you--‘bien!’ As you say
yourself, ‘bien,’ isn’t that enough?”
“‘Pardon!’ We will not quarrel. No; we spend not the Christmas Day after
the same fashion, quite. Then, to-morrow at Pardon’s Drive! Adieu!”
Pretty Pierre went out of one door, a malediction between his white
teeth, and Aleck went out of another door with a malediction upon his
gloomy lips. But both maledictions were levelled at the same person.
Poor Aleck.
“Poor Aleck!” That is the way we sometimes think of a good nature gone
awry; one that has learned to say cruel maledictions to itself, and
against which demons hurl their deadly maledictions too. Alas, for the
ne’er-do-weel!
That night a stalwart figure passed from David Humphrey’s door, carrying
with him the warm atmosphere of a good woman’s love. The chilly outer
air of the world seemed not to touch him, Love’s curtains were drawn
so close. Had one stood within “the Hunter’s Room,” as it was called,
a little while before, one would have seen a man’s head bowed before a
woman, and her hand smoothing back the hair from the handsome brow where
dissipation had drawn some deep lines. Presently the hand raised the
head until the eyes of the woman looked full into the eyes of the man.
“You will not go to Pardon’s Drive again, will you, Aleck?”
“Never again after Christmas Day, Mab. But I must go to-morrow. I have
given my word.”
“I know. To meet Pretty Pierre and all the rest, and for what? Oh,
Aleck, isn’t the suspicion about your father enough, but you must put
this on me as well?”
“My father must suffer for his wrong-doing if he does wrong, and I for
mine.”
There was a moment’s silence. He bowed his head again.
“And I have done wrong to us both. Forgive me, Mab.”
She leaned over and caressed his hair. “I forgive you, Aleck.”
A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through him. Yet this man had
given his word to do that for which he must ask forgiveness of the woman
he loved. But to Pretty Pierre, forgiven or unforgiven, he would keep
his word. She understood it better than most of those who read this
brief record can. Every sphere has its code of honour and duty peculiar
to itself.
“You will come to me on Christmas morning, Aleck?”
“I will come on Christmas morning.”
“And no more after that of Pretty Pierre?”
“And no more of Pretty Pierre.”
She trusted him; but neither could reckon with unknown forces.
Sergeant Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with Private Gellatly,
said at that moment in a swift silence, “Exactly.”
Pretty Pierre, at Pardon’s Drive, drinking a glass of brandy at that
moment, said to the ceiling:
“No more of Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night, monsieur! Bien! If it
is for the last time, then it is for the last time. So....so.”
He smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.
The stalwart figure strode on under the stars, the white night a lens
for visions of days of rejoicing to come. All evil was far from him. The
dolorous tide rolled back in this hour from his life, and he revelled in
the light of a new day.
“When I’ve played my last card to-morrow night with Pretty Pierre, I’ll
begin the world again,” he whispered.
And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then, in response to a
further remark of Private Gellatly,--“Exactly.”
Young Aleck fell to singing:
“Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child;
Come, my love, to our home,
Father, mother, and child,
Father, mother, and--”
He fell to thinking again--“and child--and child,”--it was in his ears
and in his heart.
But Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in the room at Pardon’s
Drive:
“Three good friends with the wine at night
Vive la compagnie!
Two good friends when the sun grows bright
Vive la compagnie!
Vive la, vive la, vive l’amour!
Vive la, vive la, vive l’amour!
Three good friends, two good friends
Vive la compagnie!”
What did it mean?
Private Gellatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and Idaho Jack disliked
Pretty Pierre, though he had been one of the gang. The cousins had seen
each other lately, and Private Gellatly had had a talk with the man who
was ha’sh. It may be that others besides Pierre had an idea of what it
meant.
In the house at Pardon’s Drive the next night sat eight men, of whom
three were Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Idaho Jack. Young Aleck’s
face was flushed with bad liquor and the worse excitement of play. This
was one of the unreckoned forces. Was this the man that sang the tender
song under the stars last night? Pretty Pierre’s face was less pretty
than usual; the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were hard and cold. Once he
looked at his partner as if to say, “Not yet.” Idaho Jack saw the look;
he glanced at his watch; it was eleven o’clock. At that moment the door
opened, and Sergeant Fones entered. All started to their feet, most with
curses on their lips; but Sergeant Fones never seemed to hear anything
that could make a feature of his face alter. Pierre’s hand was on his
hip, as if feeling for something. Sergeant Fones saw that; but he walked
to where Aleck stood, with his unplayed cards still in his hand, and,
laying a hand on his shoulder, said, “Come with me.”
“Why should I go with you?”--this with a drunken man’s bravado.
“You are my prisoner.”
Pierre stepped forward. “What is his crime?” he exclaimed.
“How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre?”
“He is my friend.”
“Is he your friend, Aleck?”
What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that forced the
reply,--“To-night, yes; to-morrow, no.”
“Exactly. It is near to-morrow; come.”
Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre’s hand went to his hip;
but he was looking at the prisoner, not at the Sergeant. The Sergeant
saw, and his fingers were at his belt. He opened the door. Aleck passed
out. He followed. Two horses were tied to a post. With difficulty Aleck
was mounted. Once on the way his brain began slowly to clear, but he
grew painfully cold. It was a bitter night. How bitter it might have
been for the ne’er-do-weel let the words of Idaho Jack, spoken in a long
hour’s talk next day with Old Brown Windsor, show. “Pretty Pierre, after
the two were gone, said, with a shiver of curses,--‘Another hour and it
would have been done, and no one to blame. He was ready for trouble. His
money was nearly finished. A little quarrel easily made, the door would
open, and he would pass out. His horse would be gone, he could not come
back; he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold; and the snow is
a soft bed. He would sleep well and sound, having seen Pretty Pierre for
the last time. And now--’ The rest was French and furtive.”
From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre parted company.
Riding from Pardon’s Drive, Young Aleck noticed at last that they were
not going towards the barracks. He said: “Why do you arrest me?”
The Sergeant replied: “You will know that soon enough. You are now
going to your own home. Tomorrow you will keep your word and go to David
Humphrey’s place; the next day I will come for you. Which do you choose:
to ride with me to-night to the barracks and know why you are arrested,
or go, unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with the girl?”
Through Aleck’s fevered brain, there ran the words of the song he sang
before--
“Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child.”
He could have but one answer.
At the door of his home the Sergeant left him with the words, “Remember
you are on parole.”
Aleck noticed as the Sergeant rode away that the face of the sky had
changed, and slight gusts of wind had come up. At any other time his
mind would have dwelt upon the fact. It did not do so now.
Christmas Day came. People said that the fiercest night, since the
blizzard day of 1863, had been passed. But the morning was clear and
beautiful. The sun came up like a great flower expanding. First the
yellow, then the purple, then the red, and then a mighty shield of
roses. The world was a blanket of drift, and down, and glistening
silver.
Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a smile as only springs to a
thankful woman’s lips. He had given his word and had kept it; and the
path of the future seemed surer.
He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him. Plans for
coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many voices filled
the house. The ne’er-do-weel was clothed and in his right mind. In the
Hunter’s Room the noblest trophy was the heart of a repentant prodigal.
In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted, announcing,
with such technical language as is the custom, that Sergeant Fones was
promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted Police Force of the North
West Territory. When the officer in command sent for him he could not be
found. But he was found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with a
warm hand, touching the glove of “iron and ice” that, indeed, now said:
“Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you!” he gave no sign.
Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his horse, beside a stunted
larch tree. The broncho seemed to understand, for he did not stir, and
had not done so for hours;--they could tell that. The bridle rein was
still in the frigid fingers, and a smile was upon the face.
A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones!