_An Early Morning Shoot_
Soon after daybreak, the corner of a packing-case sticking into his
ribs pried Sam awake. Rays from a young but powerful sun soon
filtered through the canvas of the schooner-top and burned his face
with a congestion of heat. His feet, which had become uncovered
during the night, were tangled up with the chilly anatomy of a
combination walking plough, and were stone cold.
"Hey, Bert!" he called. "Wyke yerself up!" and he jerked the
blankets off his still sleeping partner.
Bert blinked and yawned and came down to earth with a peevish flop.
Fishing about among a drift of clothes and blankets for a cigarette,
he said petulantly:
"Damn you, Sam! Why can't you let a fellow sleep?"
Sam merely grinned and lighted a cigarette. The best speeches are
never made at dawn. Bert had again enjoyed a remarkable run of
dreaming. First he had performed the hat trick twice running in a
county cricket match; then, after running through the admiring crowds
to the pavilion, he had hurriedly changed his clothes and carried a
pretty girl clear across the Atlantic, and three-quarters of the way
over the Pacific. Then a liner had come along and picked them both
up. The Rev. Isaac M. Barr, strangely enough, happened to be the
boat's chaplain. He persisted in wishing to marry them, because--as
he was very careful to explain--besides being a parson, and a
colonizer, he was a man of God, and that therefore he, as an
unrivalled exponent of true morality, must insist on their marriage.
Bert was just about to agree when Sam wakened him.
Except for boots and coats, and on Bert's part a white, soft collar
and coloured tie, they were already dressed. After a little
swearing, and cigarette smoking, and the exchanging of a few flashes
of bilious humour, in the usual manner of camp life in the early
morning, they threw open the sheet and trickled out into a perfect
spring day.
The chilly dawn had condensed the last few shreds of a lambent ground
mist into myriads of tiny dewdrops, which a thirsty sun was fast
licking up. Sam contrasted his surroundings with those he had been
used to. He filled his mouth with cigarette smoke and blew it in the
air, arrogantly.
"Let's go shootin'," he suggested, suddenly.
"Right you are, Sam, me lad," agreed Bert, who as soon as he came in
contact with Mother Earth immediately regained his good-humour.
They procured two guns (one of which was Trailey's, loaned to Sam a
day or two back)--from a niche between a couple of cases on the
wagon, and then, with many pocketfuls of shells, set off to hunt.
First they tried the slough for duck. Trailey's wagon was still
there. It hadn't moved, unless it were nearer the centre of the
earth a trifle. It presented a queerly forlorn aspect, so blatantly
new, so realistically tragic, so suggestive of the seamy side of
colonization.
Bert stopped a moment to regard it, meanwhile stuffing a couple of
shells into the breech of his gun. After snapping it to, and duly
cocking the triggers, he slowly swung the muzzle past Sam's head and
pointed it at the wagon.
Sam ducked. Instinct warned him that bags of trouble lay lurking
within those twin barrels. Still pointing, Bert said:
"What about that wretched wagon of Trailey's? That's the first job
to-day, I suppose?"--then, noticing two large ducks cutting the air
high up above him and beginning to dart slantingly with rigid,
down-curved wings towards the water, he hastily aimed his gun, shut
his eyes, fired both barrels so that their detonations overlapped,
and then collapsed backwards on the grass, rubbing his right shoulder
and muttering to himself.
As the ducks were only two or three hundred yards away when he fired,
they were a good deal scared, and forthwith left the locality.
Doubtless, they reasoned that nice, quiet sloughs were sufficiently
plentiful. And besides, flying cost them nothing.
"Lumme!" exclaimed Sam. "That must 'ave bin close; they've flew away
quackin' like 'ell."
Bert was still rubbing his shoulder.
"Blast 'em!" was all he said.
"You've missed yore blinkin' potation," observed Sam; "you ought to
'ave bin a sodger."
"Vocation, I presume you mean?" growled Bert, crossly.
"Never mind wot I mean. I notice a lot of people can say things they
can't do. Talkin's easy--easier 'n shootin'. 'Ow would it be ter
walk rahnd a bit? We might get a pot at some of them grouses wot
this country's lousy wiv?"
Bert, being a thorough sportsman, acquiesced; so, after quietly
cursing his gun a little more, and then reloading it, they made off.
When they reached the edge of the slough, they turned to their left,
keeping the water in sight, partly so as not to lose themselves, but
chiefly because they spied a cloud of ducks blackening its surface in
the distance.
Presently, without warning, up popped a prairie chicken right from
under their feet--then another, and another. Bert at once let fly
with both barrels--one at a time--more or less in the direction of
the birds, but without effect. The chicken lighted not far off, so
the gunners were again soon within range. This time, not being taken
by surprise, the birds merely strutted about, chuckling and clucking
to each other, apparently enjoying the fun immensely.
Bert's morale was still excellent. Taking careful aim, he
distributed to the covey another broadside. Whether it was taken
sick, or whether it was shamming, only a real hunter could tell;
anyhow, one of the birds keeled over, giving every indication of
being a casualty.
"Strike me pink, if you ain't 'it it," whispered Sam admiringly.
Bert was trembling with pride, joy and surprise, but he said nothing.
Vastly bucked, he threw his gun down. Having thus lightened himself,
he scampered madly towards the wounded chicken. Much more soberly,
like a reserve force generally does, Sam plodded along behind.
Bert stooped to gather his first kill, but the bird hopped briskly
away. Placing itself slightly beyond reach, it stared wonderingly
with wide-open eyes, then trotted off with amazing speed and gusto in
the direction of a large coppice, which was placidly sunning itself
on the edge of the battlefield.
In and out among the bushes the chicken ran, with the two youthful
colonists hotly in pursuit. Being the only one armed, Sam seized a
favourable opportunity to fire, but except for jarring his shoulder,
the shots appeared to have no other effect than to stimulate the bird
to weave its charming little self in and out of the trees with
greater zest than ever.
The gallant Nimrods conducted the chase for nearly half an hour. At
length, lying down like a Bisley wizard, with his gun resting in the
fork of a willow, Sam blew the chicken almost to bits at
approximately six paces--with both eyes shut.
Seeing nothing else in the neighbourhood to shoot at, the hunters
decided to retrace their steps. Sam carried what remained of the
pulverized bird. Bert smoked a cigarette jauntily, and kept a sharp
look-out for his gun. But the stupid piece of ordnance refused to
reveal itself. And soon it began to dawn on them that besides being
unable to find the gun, they were quite uncertain where they were
themselves.
"Here's a nice go," said Bert, when the knowledge that they were
properly lost was assimilated.
Sam stood still for a minute or two, dropped the chicken, then
scratched his head to assist reflection.
"Ole Barr never said anythink in 'is parmflets abaht us gettin'
lawst, did 'e?"
Bert was having another good look round at the landscape. "No, he
did not," he replied. Except heavenwards, he was unable to see much.
The view horizontally was blocked by thickets of small brush.
Openings here and there led into pretty little glades similar to the
one they were now in. A quarter of a mile or so above them two hawks
wheeled majestically.
"What are you supposed to do, Sam, when you get lost on the prairie?"
Bert presently asked in some bewilderment.
Sam said he "'adn't any idea; but 'ow would it be ter fire orf some
cartringes?"
Bert was pessimistic. "Dunno," he said; "but try it, and see;"--so
Sam commenced a regular succession of double shots, which echoed
through the wilderness, disturbing its lovely peace horridly. When
he had used up his ammunition, he said--"That's wot them blokes in
books calls a distress single."
Bert was exceedingly interested. "Oh, is it?" he said.
"It is an' all, my son," said Sam; then happening to find a stray
shell in one of his trousers' pockets, he shoved it into his gun and
fired it at an isolated poplar, which rather foolishly was trying to
grow up alone. "Tyke that, you----!" Sam muttered below his breath.
A vindictive gleam quickly fading from his eyes, he turned to Bert
and said laughingly: "Jus' fancy if that blinkin' tree 'ad bin the
Reverend Docter Robbings--eh?"
"Yes, just fancy," grinned Bert, not at all reluctant to dally with
the charitable thought. "But I fail to see what good your bally
antics are doing us," he continued, adopting a more serious manner.
"There's no one but Trailey about, and he could never find us. The
old boy ought to halloo, though."
"Trailey 'alloo!" ejaculated Sam. "Wot d'yer tyke 'im for?--a
bloomin' slavey shahtin' fer a cab? 'E'll be too busy eatin'"--then
witheringly--"or else gettin' 'is waggin aht of the slough."
"Shut up trying to be funny, Sam! You seem to think this is a
laughing matter. It isn't, though. That's the trouble with you
unimaginative people. You never realize the gravity of anything.
Has it struck you that we might be lost for days?"
"We've bin lawst ever since we left Liverpool, if you arsk me
anythink," Sam retorted. "Canada's an 'ome fer lawst Barr-lambs.
This 'ere trail ter the bloomin' Colony mus' be strewed wiv 'em,
like--like----"
"Like Napoleon's bally army retreating from Moscow--eh, Sam?"
"Blimey, yus."
At length, Bert's superior education asserted itself. His
highly-trained intelligence sorted out from a maze of crowding ideas
one which for sheer brilliancy was worthy of a better reception.
"How would it be," he suggested, "if you were to go that
way"--pointing in the general direction of Lake Winnipegosis--"and me
this?"--indicating with a comprehensive sweep of his arm a patch of
territory which included a large portion of the Rocky Mountains and
most of British Columbia.
Sam sniffed scornfully. "An' lose our blarsted selves separately
instead of tergevver!" he replied. "Wot funny ideas you've got."
But the difficulty was solved for them in a highly-unexpected way. A
horseman came riding towards them. Hidden by numerous clumps of
trees, his horse's tread muffled by the thick carpet of dead grass,
the stranger was almost upon them before they knew it. Quite
leisurely he walked his horse to within a few yards of them and then
stopped. It was a mild disappointment to Bert that he did not gallop
up and throw his foam-flecked steed abruptly back on its haunches.
His presence was an immense relief, though; and his scarlet tunic was
a very welcome splash of colour on an exceedingly sombre outlook.
Sam picked the chicken up. The thought flitted through his mind that
although he never had liked soldiers, "'e thanked Gawd fer this
one"--the usual prayer in desperate times.
"What's all the shooting, boys?" questioned the horseman cheerily,
bending over and caressing the neck of his big bay. "Is there
another rebellion breaking out?" He was a slimly-built, dark,
good-looking constable of the North-West Mounted Police, wearing a
long, slender moustache and distinguished by an agreeable voice.
Bert was for the moment too absorbed in admiring the rider's
picturesque turnout to reply, so quick-witted Sam said: "We don't
know where the 'ell we are. We've bin shootin', an' got lawst."
Although careful not to show it, the policeman had noticed the wreck
of the chicken.
"You boys got plenty of meat in camp?" he asked. His manner was
faintly official, though quite courteous.
"Yes," replied both hunters.
"Well, don't you know you aren't supposed to shoot chicken at this
time of the year, except in case of emergency?"
"No," said Sam innocently, "we don't know anythink. We belong ter
Barr's party."
The horseman laughed and allowed his eyes to dwell for a second or
two on Bert's velvet cords. These were fast losing their original
glory.
"Englishmen, I guess?" ventured the policeman, just a wee bit
accusingly. (Englishmen were considerably less popular than their
money in those days.)
"Yes, we're Englishmen," remarked Bert, apologetically, as befitted a
member of a race which has done almost nothing for the world and
humanity.
"H'm-m, thought so. And lost, are you?"
"Yes."
"You boys follow me, then," and, wheeling his horse with a gentle
pressure of knee and rein, the policeman started off at a slow walk.
"'Ere, Capting! 'old on a bit," called Sam. "Wot abaht our uvver
gun?"
The rider pulled his horse up and looked round, smiling broadly at
being so rapidly promoted.
"What gun?" he demanded.
"We've lawst anuvver gun somewhere," explained Sam. "My mate 'ere
laid it dahn a minit while we ran arfter this blarsted chicking," and
he held up the poor, mangled bird, quickly permitting his hand to
fall again.
"In which direction?--and how far?--and how long since?" asked the
policeman, still smiling.
"Arsk me pal, 'ere," replied Sam with a touch of malice in his tone.
"'E knows," and, turning to his companion, he added--"don't yer,
Bert?"
"Go to blazes!" snapped Bert under his breath, as the horseman
surveyed him with twinkling eyes. Aloud, he said: "This country
looks everywhere the same to us, officer. How on earth do you manage
to find your way about, when all these bally woods and things
resemble each other so much?"
"You boys oughta keep track of the sun," answered the policeman; "and
get wise to the direction of the wind; and learn all about the points
of the compass--north, south, east and west, y'know. You're liable
to get into all kinds of jackpots if you don't. But you'll catch on
in time, I guess."
"Splendid idea, that, Sam--noticing where the sun is," said Bert.
"Even if you are Englishmen," continued the policeman, "you boys'll
likely know that it rises in the east?" and he waved with a
gauntleted hand to where the sun was pouring streams of dazzling
brightness from a greenish-blue sky.
"Yes, we know that much, I think," observed Bert quietly.
Sam, who liked his streets named, said: "But 'ow d'yer know which is
east, Capting?"
"Why, where the sun rises, of course."
"An' if it 'appens ter be foggy, or rainin', or the sun is obskewered
by a lot of blinkin' clahds--wot then?"
"In that case, it's best to watch the wind."
"An' suppose there ain't no wind--then wot?"
"Then you use your head," returned the policeman slightly
impatiently. "But come on," he said, "let's poke around some and see
if we can find your gun," and he pushed on again, Sam and Bert
following closely behind.
"Do they pay you blokes any think extra fer givin' lessons ter Barr
Colonists in fizzy-ology?" Sam questioned of the policeman after a
short silence.
The horseman, not being quite certain to which "ometry" or "ology"
the subject lately discussed belonged, remained silent. He pretended
not to hear the remark. Probably he sensed his leg being gently
pulled. Sam chuckled to himself.
A good many open spaces were searched, somewhat superficially, but no
gun turned up. At last they decided to abandon it. An excellent
firearm, it had been presented to Bert by his father. It had cost
thirty guineas. Perhaps it is still lying out there in the grass,
rusted, and burned by prairie fires. It is conceivable that it may
accidentally be discovered in about a hundred years' time. It may
provoke discussions about an extinct fauna. The maker's name on the
barrel may serve as a reminder of the days when English was the
leading language of the prairies.
Bert was considerably envious of the policeman's graceful and
romantic mien. He actually went so far as to wish that he himself
belonged to such a force. "What a fine-looking chap," he thought as
he walked at the horse's heels. There was a suggestion of security,
and self-reliance, and broad-minded justice about this rider which
was distinctly attractive. He had been deputed by the Commandant of
C Division of the North-West Mounted Police at Battleford to patrol
the trail along which the Barr Colonists were trekking.
After relinquishing the search for the gun, fifteen minutes brought
the little party into camp. Trailey had been driven by repeated
henpecks to start a fire, and the ladies already had breakfast
prepared.
"We really thought you were lost," Esther said to Bert, her anxiety
giving way to relief when the wanderers strolled into camp. "But
when we heard you shooting we knew you were all right. Since the
firing stopped we have been a bit worried, though."
Sam winked at the policeman. "Don't you ever worry abaht us, miss;
we know our way abaht, don't we, Capting?"
"Sure," laughed the horseman, removing his eyes from Esther for a
fraction of a second. He still sat his horse. Bert perceived how he
and Miss Trailey were momentarily smitten with each other. Mounties
used to see girls like this one only in dreams; and handsome,
red-coated horsemen, more like cavalry than policemen, will cause any
romantic female's heart to flutter.
Pressed to stay for breakfast, the rider politely declined food, but
accepted a cup of coffee. He said he had bivouacked and breakfasted
with some Devonshire people a mile or two farther along the trail.
Dismounting, he slipped an arm through his bridle rein, and stood
sipping the drink, whilst his horse tugged to be free to nibble away
at the tawny grass. He was a tall man with strong features and
clear, blue eyes. The great, wide spaces had painted a vivid picture
of health on his pleasant face.
He proved to be a highly-interesting fellow, too. His prairie
experience reached back to the Riel Rebellion. Between glances at
Esther, he contrived to let drop much useful information, without
seeming to be preaching, or tendering advice.
As he remounted to depart, Sam, with many recollections of London
bobbies, tipped him a wink and went through the motion of drinking
something from a phantom cup, an invitation which all over creation
means but one thing.
"No, thanks," said the mountie; "I never touch it." In explanation
of his refusal, he said the constables of the N.W.M.P. were all of
them rigid teetotalers--a statement which to Trailey was conducive of
the keenest gratification, but which surprised Sam almost to the
point of shock.
"Keep your eyes skinned for that Eagle Creek," shouted the horseman
warningly as he rode away.