Chapter VII

I

Some weeks after the clash with Randall, the Chester affair occurred.

Hector was in charge of the Police herd-camp a few miles from the

fort. One morning the detachment shifted to a new site. Chester was

a shy, retiring sort of youngster, newly joined. During the move

Hector placed him in charge of the tools. As a result, the only axe

was left behind. At dusk the loss was discovered and Hector sent the

boy off to get it, promising to follow him and aid the search himself.

Darkness fell while he was still some distance from his objective.

He caught himself wondering why he did not meet Chester. Reassuring

himself with the thought that the boy had perhaps encountered some

unforeseen difficulty, he pushed on. But no sign of Chester greeted

him. All about the old camp was lifeless and silent.

Returning to camp as rapidly as possible, he hoped to find the

missing man there before him. The cook's anxious enquiry

disillusioned him:

"Is that you, Chester? And have you got the axe?"

"Turn out, the lot of you," said Hector. "Chester's lost."

Lanterns were lighted and the whole party made an extended search on

foot. The results were disappointing. The discovery of the axe

added to their alarm.

Hector reported the affair to Inspector Denton, at the fort, who

promised to send out a large search party at dawn. To continue the

hunt at night would have been futile.

Next morning, in a little hollow as yet untouched by the wind, they

found the first clue--a sprinkle of blood, among jumbled

hoof-prints--and a wide cast revealed Chester's hat in a clump of

bushes. They searched the woods. More evidence of a foreboding

character was then quickly gathered and the reason why Chester's

horse had not returned was made clear.

Hector himself found the horse. It had been led into the woods, tied

to a tree and shot.

And then they found Chester himself. The body was lying in the

bottom of a deep ravine, where it had been thrown. The foulest of

foul work had been done, for he had been shot in the back at short

range.

In the days and weeks that followed, they exhausted every resource,

but the murder remained an unsolved mystery.

II

"Beg pardon, sir," said MacFarlane, waylaying Inspector Denton as he

passed the guard-room. "The In'juns say they'll talk now. And they

want you, with the interpreter, sir, and Sergeant Adair."

The Inspector wheeled quickly.

"Good! Splendid!" he exclaimed. "Is Brent back? Then send a man

for 'em right away."

Twenty-four hours previously, Hector had carried out the arrest of a

gang of Indian horse-thieves, accused of stealing stock from the

'Lazy G,' an 'outfit' in Montana. They had refused to talk, however,

having apparently decided to say nothing whatever until the day of

trial. Martin was away and the best linguists in the division had

been able to produce no effect. MacFarlane's announcement relieved

the Inspector's mind considerably.

When all four--the Inspector, Hector, Martin and MacFarlane--were

assembled, they held a consultation outside the guard-room.

"Why in--ah--heavens," said the Inspector, "wouldn't they talk

before?"

"Yes--what was the idea?" Hector agreed. "I made everything clear to

them. But they wouldn't speak a word."

Martin laughed. He knew the Indian mind better than any of them.

"They got what chaplain call 'guilty conscience,'" he declared. "One

thing--they either 'fraid say a word, fear give themselves away, or

other thing--they think you have um for bigger job than horse-steal

but you won't let on. You bet your boots, that it! They either make

confession or give some other feller away. That why they want me an'

Inspector. You see--damn quick."

To a number of a dozen, villainous-looking warriors every one of

them, the Indians rose to their feet as the Inspector came in. A

good deal of parleying then resulted in Bear Sitting Down, who was

their leader, being elected to speak for them all. And Martin began.

"Why did you not say what you have to say to Sergeant Adair?"

The Indian looked uncomfortable.

"We would rather talk to you," he said.

"Well, what have you to say?"

Bear Sitting Down glanced nervously 'round the room. The other

Indians watched him intently.

"Come," Martin said in his most commanding voice. "Answer quickly.

What have you to say?"

Bear Sitting Down shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and at last

exclaimed desperately, with the air of a man goaded to action:

"We did not do it. We know we have been arrested on that account.

But we had no hand in it."

"No hand in it?"

"No hand in it--none!"

The spokesman's companions seconded him with anxious monosyllables of

approval.

Martin's keen eyes flickered.

"Why didn't you tell the Sergeant so when he arrested you?" he asked.

"He told us he was arresting us for horse-stealing. But we know

better. We have stolen horses, yes. But we had no hand in the

killing of the pony-soldier."

Martin quivered like a dog on an unexpected scent. Otherwise, he

betrayed no emotion.

"You are known to have killed him," he said calmly, "and you will all

be hanged."

The shot in the dark flashed home.

"No--no--no!" exclaimed Bear Sitting Down. The Indian fear of the

rope was evident in his face and he trembled in every limb. "You

will not hang us if we tell you who killed him?"

"Not if you speak truth."

Inwardly, Martin was still completely puzzled, but he went on

bluffing cleverly.

"I will tell all," said Bear Sitting Down. "The man who did it was

Wild Horse. He came to us that night and he said, 'I have killed one

of the Shagalasha. I killed his horse also and I threw the body into

the ravine.' If you arrest Wild Horse, you will find that this is

so."

The mystery solved--at last!

Martin turned swiftly to the other Indians.

"Is this true?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" they answered eagerly. "It is true--true!"

"Come 'long outside," said Martin to the Inspector, with as much

excitement as it was possible for him to show at any time.

"That feller," Martin declared very impressively, "He think you lie,

Sergeant. He think you take him up, not for horse-steal--just bluff,

that--though he say it true he steal horses, but for murder Constable

Chester last spring. An' he say--all say--did not murder Chester.

'You no hang me if I tell who did it?' he ask. 'No hang you,' I say.

'Then,' he say, 'I tell you. Wild Horse kill him!'"

III

A fortnight elapsed before Hector was able to attempt the arrest of

Wild Horse. The Indian had taken alarm with the apprehension of the

horse-thieves and had left the reserve. Sooner or later, Hector

knew, he would return, thinking the storm blown over. It behooved

the Police to be ready to take him when that time came. They placed

the reserve under the observation of Liver-eating John, a half-breed

scout, whose orders were immediately to report to Hector any news

concerning the whereabouts of Wild Horse.

So the fortnight dragged by. Then, in great haste, one afternoon,

came Liver-eating John.

"Wild Horse, he sneak in 'bout noon," he told Hector. "Me see

um--self. He be there p'raps two days. Hide in brother's lodge.

Go, get him, quick!"

Within fifteen minutes, Hector and his men were on the trail.

Among those who had recently committed themselves to the baby

business of ranching in Western Canada was Colonel Stern, a veteran

of the Indian Mutiny and several other wars. Failing fortunes had

driven him from the Army to seek a livelihood south of Fort Macleod.

But, though his military service had ceased, his interest in all

wearers of the Queen's uniform was as bright as ever. He kept open

house for all ranks of the Police and it was an understood thing that

any redcoat passing that way, on duty or otherwise, was to stop off

at Colonel Stern's ranch. As the place stood on the edge of the

reserve wherein Wild Horse was lurking, Hector headed for Colonel

Stern's as a matter of course.

The Colonel--tall, gray-headed, hook-nosed, weather-beaten, with

bushy brows, a heavy military moustache and eyes like rapiers--met

them at the door as they loped into the yard at dusk, smiling a

welcome and holding out his hand.

"And how are you, Sergeant?" he asked. "Looking like a young

stallion, as usual. I'm not going to ask what brings you here,

because that's none of my business."

Hector took him aside, nevertheless, and explained.

"I see," the Colonel commented. "Well, it's too late to catch him

tonight, Adair. He'd surely get away in the dark. Besides, there's

a storm coming up. It will be a wet night--no night for lying in the

open. Catch 'em at dawn--that's sound tactics. They won't be

stirring then, especially with the rain coming down, and you can take

the whole camp by surprise. Come along--supper now, stay here

tonight and you'll be fit for anything in the morning."

It was raining, as the Colonel had prophesied, when they turned out,

a thin, penetrating, all-day drizzle, and the sky, just lightening,

was heavy with an unbroken pall of dense grey cloud. Such weather,

all in all, was admirable for their purpose. Half an hour's careful

scouting brought them within sight of the teepees they sought--a

ghostly group in the wet desolation. The question was--in which

lodge was Wild Horse?

At this moment, they found an Indian boy, who willingly pointed out

the teepee occupied by The Gopher, headman of the band. In order to

comply with the custom of the Police it was necessary that Hector

should inform The Gopher of his intentions.

The Gopher was instantly at the door when Hector sent the small boy

into the teepee to awaken him. Speaking the Indian's own tongue,

Hector rapidly explained his mission and was relieved to find that

the Gopher, far from offering any objection, took the matter

philosophically and himself pointed out the lodge in which Wild Horse

was hiding.

"Keep everyone in their teepees," Hector went on, "until we go. Then

there will be small likelihood of trouble."

The Gopher agreed. Hector ordered the constable with the horses up

to a position close to Wild Horse's lodge. The others he placed one

on each side, ready to seize the murderer should he attempt escape by

crawling under the flap. For the last time, obedient to one of the

greatest principles of the Mounted Police, he cautioned the men on no

account to draw their revolvers. Then, removing his great-coat, he

boldly entered the teepee alone.

For a moment unable to see anything, he shortly became aware of the

presence of at least a dozen Indians, who sat up in their blankets

and stared at him anxiously.

"What do you want?" one of them asked, bristling defiance.

Hector pushed back the door of the lodge still further. The cold

light, streaming in, clearly revealed his uniform.

"I have come for Wild Horse," he answered.

The wanted Indian glared shiftily at the speaker over the edge of his

blanket.

"You hear me, Wild Horse?" Hector queried. "I say I have come for

you. You know what that means. I am waiting."

"I will not come," answered Wild Horse.

"What do you mean?" said Hector sternly.

The Indians had learned to dread that tone. They stirred uneasily.

"I will not come!" repeated Wild Horse.

The others broke into a loud murmur of applause. Some of the bolder

threw off their blankets and reached for their rifles. Hector caught

the sound of angry voices at his back. A hostile crowd was gathering

outside. The Gopher had failed, either through weakness or

treachery, to maintain control. Hector remembered that they were

only four white men among at least a hundred Indians. The least

misstep, lack of tact or wavering in courage, might have fatal

consequences.

He fixed the murderer with penetrating eyes.

"I say that you are to come," he said. "Do not look so at me--I will

not have it. And do not attempt to resist or it will be the worse

for you."

In reply, Wild Horse bounded suddenly to his feet, a knife in his

hand. The other Indians, muttering fierce threats, stood up behind

him. A row of levelled rifles confronted Hector.

"Get out of this lodge!" said Wild Horse.

Instantly Hector closed. A wrench twisted the knife from the

Indian's hand. Seizing him, he exerted a supreme effort of his great

strength, whirled him off his feet and threw him bodily out of the

lodge. Before the murderer's friends could pull a trigger, Hector

was also outside.

But it was 'out of the frying-pan into the fire.'

A crowd apparently representing every grown man in camp, to say

nothing of women and boys, was thickly clustered round the teepee.

The men were all armed and many of them were actually covering the

two constables.

One glance revealed all this to Hector; another, that Wild Horse had

been promptly and efficiently handcuffed by his men, who held the

murderer between them.

What now?

"Take him out of this," Hector ordered coolly. To the crowding

Indians, he gave the stern command, "Stand back!"

They answered with a wild yell and one overwhelming rush.

In the furious struggle that resulted, only the intervening bodies of

the nearest Indians prevented the policemen from being shot. To hang

on to Wild Horse and to beat their assailants off without drawing a

weapon--these two thoughts occupied Hector's mind exclusively. He

could trust his men--through it all, they clung to Wild Horse like

grim death. Meanwhile, all three were knocked down a dozen times,

trampled on, beaten with rifles, bitten, throttled, kicked. When

opportunity offered, Hector gathered his failing breath and bellowed

for The Gopher.

"Give us Wild Horse!" yelled the Indians, pulling and dragging at the

policemen. "Let him go!"

"He is our prisoner," answered Hector. "Where is The Gopher?"

So, like a football scrum, the three undaunted redcoats carried the

crowd with them to the horses. The mob raved on. The crash of their

carbines pierced the uproar.

"Put up your gun, will you!" Hector bawled, as the constable in

charge of the horses, a young fellow and inexperienced, drew his

revolver.

Then suddenly, at this crisis, came comparative quiet and The Gopher

pushed his way forward.

"Where have you been?" Hector demanded. "What do you mean by

allowing this to go on?"

The Gopher pretended not to hear. Instead, he bent his energies

towards quelling the riot. Presently Hector found himself beside his

horses, the prisoner and escort with him, the crowd, visibly subdued,

falling back with lowered rifles and the shamefaced Gopher at his

side.

"They know they've done a serious thing," Hector thought.

His troubles were obviously over. What plain men call sheer 'guts'

had carried the day, as they so often do--as, with savages, they

always do.

Hector struck while the iron was hot.

"Now that you have recovered your senses," he said to the hangdog

assembly, "I have a word to say to you. You have committed a grave

crime. You have tried to stop the arrest of one of your number by a

Mounted Policeman. That is wrong, as you know. And it is also quite

useless. You see that we are not afraid of you. When the Mounted

Police come for any man, white or red, he has got to come, and we

will see that he does come, let a thousand rifles come between. Wild

Horse will get a fair trial, you know that. As for you," here he

turned to The Gopher, who hung his head, "you have disgraced

yourself. Instead of helping us with your authority, you stood

aside. The Mounted Police have always treated you well--and this is

how you repay us! You are unworthy of your trust. Is it not so?"

"It is so," The Gopher muttered sullenly.

"If you have any explanation to make, you must come to Fort Macleod.

And let us have no more of this because, I tell you again, when the

Mounted Police come for any man, he has got to come and it is no use

resisting."

A moment later, with Wild Horse between them, Hector and his little

party rode slowly out of the camp. In recognition of their superior

authority, courage and determination, the Indians fell back before

them as they passed, lowering their rifles with a gesture that was a

salute.

IV

On the night following the lodgment of Wild Horse in the cells at

Fort Macleod, Hector was called hurriedly to Inspector Denton's

quarters.

Three men occupied the Inspector's parlour when Hector got

there--Wild Horse, Martin and Denton himself. The air was tense with

drama and breathed secrecy. The windows had been carefully screened

and the key-hole blocked with paper, measures insisted on by Wild

Horse, who was in deadly fear of spies or eavesdroppers. The lamp

had also been turned down and placed out of the direct line of the

windows. The dim light remaining fell on the faces of the men around

the table with an unearthly glow. All in all, the place might well

have been a noisome den devoted to the most fearful crimes and its

occupants conspirators of the deepest dye.

"That you, Adair?" The reassuring voice of the Inspector greeted

Hector. "Right. This may be a--er--long business, so you'd better

sit down. Now, Martin, tell him to go ahead--slowly. I can

understand him myself then."

"What have you to say?" demanded Martin, using the Indian's own

language and speaking with the severity he always adopted toward

redskin criminals.

Wild Horse glanced fearfully round the room and finally broke silence

in a voice little louder than a whisper. He spoke very rapidly. The

Inspector attempted to stem the tide with an indignant "Go slow!

Dash it, go slow!" but the Indian paid no heed and even Martin raised

a hand to silence his superior. Wild Horse ceased at last.

"Well, what's he say?" the Inspector enquired.

"He want to know," Martin replied, "if he tell all trut', we no'

string him up. He want to know, if he give way man who got him shoot

Chester, we save him from that man. We promise and he say he talk.

We no promise, then he no talk."

The Inspector entered into a long explanation of the laws governing

evidence and trial, admonishing Wild Horse, for his own good, to talk.

Followed a vehement discussion between Martin and the murderer, which

Martin finally boiled down to one brief statement:

"He no' like talk. He ver' much afraid white man."

"Tell him the whole Force will protect him if necessary."

More vehement discussion; then Martin said:

"Good! He talk."

Bit by bit, with many frightened starts and pauses, Wild Horse

unfolded the truth. Thanks to the hesitating manner of the telling,

Hector followed it with comparative ease, first with interest, then

with incredulity, rising step by step to understanding, conviction

and certainty. Here was new light on dark places, here, in a few

moments, the perplexities of years were made plain.

Said Wild Horse:

"I did kill the pony-soldier found dead in the ravine last spring.

But I was bribed to do it by a white man; and I was mad with

fire-water. This white man, he used often to give me that poison.

He knew I had broken the law several times and would never dare to

betray him, so he gave it me without fear, not only for myself but

for others. I would carry it into camp in all sorts of ways--many

gallons of it. We would pay him for it with buffalo-robes and other

pelts, even with stolen horses and cattle. He never gave the whiskey

to anyone but me, as far as I know. He made sure that he would not

be betrayed in that manner. He is cunning as a wolf. And I have

made him rich.

"Well, one day he sent for me and gave me a lot of fire-water and he

told me he would give me lots more if I would do something for him.

And he added, if I would not it would be the worse for me. So I said

I would obey him, because I was afraid. Then he told me I must kill

this man, the Sergeant here."

And Wild Horse pointed straight at Hector.

"I knew the Sergeant--have often seen him. I was afraid, so I said I

would do it. I went to the herd-camp and hid all day under a

tarpaulin. Just before the Police moved on to a new place, I heard

the Sergeant tell one of the men he would go with them and come back

later alone. So, when the Police were not looking, I crept out and

hid in a good place near the trail. I waited till nearly dark. Then

I saw a man coming along. I thought it was the Sergeant. Had he not

said he was coming back alone? Besides, I could not see his face at

that hour. I shot him dead. When I looked at him, I saw my mistake.

But I put him on his horse and led him away; and the rest you know.

Then I returned to my lodge. I wanted to hide in some other part of

the country but I knew that if you found me absent you would suspect

me. So I stayed there. The chinook wiped out all traces, so I had

nothing to fear from that. And you did not suspect me.

"I thought it was all forgotten. Then you came and arrested Bear

Sitting Down and the rest. That made me afraid. I had foolishly

told Bear Sitting Down what I had done, while still drunk, and I

thought you had arrested him because of that and I feared he would

betray me. So I ran away. When I thought it was safe I came back.

And then the Sergeant came himself and took me. That is all. I

would not have killed the young man if I had not been drunk and mad

for more fire-water and in the power of that bad white man. I swear

that is true. Now go you and arrest him. He----"

"Yes?" said Martin, encouragingly. "Who is he?"

Wild Horse described his master.

"It's Welland!" Hector exclaimed, "Joe Welland!"

V

There was no question of it. The man who had bribed Wild Horse to

attempt Hector's murder was Welland.

"Why, it's impossible!" Inspector Denton declared, when Hector

explained. "Welland? He's one of the--ah--wealthiest, most

influential, most respected men in the country. He would have no

object----"

Hector shook his head. The time had come for him to unmask the man

he had long suspected but against whom he had hitherto been unable to

amass enough evidence. Wild Horse had pieced the puzzle together for

him.

"I'll tell you what I think of Joe Welland, sir!" he said tersely.

"He's the biggest horse-thief, cattle-rustler and whiskey-smuggler

this side the boundary. Yes, sir," as the Inspector voiced a mild

protest, "that's so. Oh, I've suspected him for a long, long time.

We've tried to clear the district of those crimes, sir, and made some

progress, too; and yet can't completely stop it. Well, sir, some

time ago it struck me that the reason why we weren't able to stamp

out the business was that it was being run from a central

headquarters. This headquarters kept itself well informed of our

movements, so that it could direct operations with the best chances

of success. It kept itself well informed, with the result that,

capture as many of its tools as we please, we could never nab the men

on top. This pointed to careful organization, employing men over

whom it had a definite hold only and letting those men into no matter

that did not directly concern them. The small men had no idea of the

scope of the gang employing them, nor, in fact, any knowledge of the

chief men, to say nothing of their own comrades. Each was just a cog

in the machine, doing the little job assigned them. When arrested,

they gave no evidence of value because they hadn't any. So we just

jailed them as men convicted of a small share in the big game and

went on working in the dark as before."

"That sounds plausible," the Inspector asserted, a little doubtfully.

"But--er--what about Welland?"

"Why, sir,"--Hector was aflame now with the conviction that they were

on the verge of a big thing--"we know how easily Welland became

wealthy, apparently without effort. All sorts of evidence, too small

to arrest him on but still damning, gradually brought me to suspect

him. His herds of horses--new buildings--lands--where did they come

from? The horses and cattle were stolen by gangs of Indians and

whites, who did not know they were working under that man but simply

delivered them to men who in turn handed them over to him--men in his

power. Selling these herds, he made money. But the greater amount

by far was made from the sale of robes, horses and cattle received in

exchange for whiskey run into the country by his organization.

That's how he got wealthy, I'm certain of it now. I could tell you a

thousand little things that show why I suspect him, sir, but it would

take a long time. Meanwhile----"

"Well, meanwhile--what?"

"We have evidence enough from this Indian, sir. Welland bribed him

to shoot me. Why? Because I've been too hot on the trail of his

whiskey-runners for the past few years! He was afraid I might get

too near soon, so he thought he'd better put me out of the way first.

What more easy than to have this done by an Indian in his power--an

Indian who wouldn't dare to give him away if caught? That's why he

picked Wild Horse. If Wild Horse hadn't made a mistake, I'd be dead

now--and my suspicions with me! Look at the evidence we've against

him, from Wild Horse alone, sir!"

The Inspector pondered.

"Er--about this idea that he was out to finish you, Adair.

And--ah--about this organization of which he's the--ah--chief. Can

you give me an example of the sort of thing that made you suspicious?"

Hector was ready for this.

"Yes, I can, sir. You remember when I settled that whiskey story

and--well, dealt with Randall, the man who started it?"

A flicker of a smile played over the Inspector's face.

"Yes, I do," he replied.

"Well, it comes to me now that that was started to discredit

me--perhaps to make you think I wasn't to be trusted, sir, and get

you to take me off the whiskey-runners altogether. If Welland is

what I think he is, that's just what he'd do. Now, Welland was the

only man except Randall who knew that whiskey had been shipped to me.

If he had power over Randall, he could make him circulate those yarns

and take the blame later. Finding that the scheme wouldn't work, he

next thinks of putting me out for good by getting Wild Horse to shoot

me. I'm certain if we get Randall here now, sir, and tell him we

know part of the truth and want the rest, he'll give it to us. Being

in Welland's power, as I believe, he'll welcome a chance to knife

him. Besides, he's a coward, and will think more of saving his own

skin than of anything else."

The Inspector was slowly but surely marshalling the facts and was

almost finally convinced.

"That's an idea, too," he declared. "But Welland's always been a

good friend of ours, Adair. He's--ah--respected everywhere and----"

"He's made a fortune out of that sham respectability, sir," Hector

said. "His friendship was carefully planned from the time we first

came in--I'm sure of that now. He was probably whiskey-trading as a

side-line when we arrived and, instead of really welcoming us, he

hated to see us come. After that he could only carry on with safety

by doing it secretly, while he played the friendly respectable on the

surface. That tune went down well with the decent people in the

country; and how were newcomers like ourselves to know him for what

he really was? The only man who could possibly succeed at the head

of the organization I've described, sir, was a man we all considered

respectable--I saw that when I first became suspicious that such an

organization actually existed. Welland is thought to be one of the

most respectable in the country, as you've said--and tonight what

Wild Horse has said leaves me absolutely convinced."

The Inspector looked Hector in the eyes.

"I believe you're right!" he said. "Send out for Randall."

VI

Hector's estimate of Randall proved absolutely correct. He told them

all he knew.

"Ya've caught me with the goods, I guess," he said, nervously

twisting his big hands and rolling his bloodshot eyes, "so I may's

well 'fess up. But for God's sake, don't give me away to Welland.

That feller, he's a hound o' hell, Mr. Denton. He beats that there

squaw o' his----"

"Beats his squaw, Randall?" queried the Inspector, astonished.

"Yessir, beats the hide off'n her. There ain't many knows that but I

know it--blast him! An' he's----"

"That'll do. Get on with your story," the Inspector said.

"Well, sir, he come to me an' he says, 'You got to start a story

against Adair,' he says. 'He's been interferin' a sight too much in

my business lately--' Hector flashed a triumphant look to the

Inspector, a look that plainly said 'I told you so!'--'an' I want him

broke. I want him ruined!' he says. 'That case o' whiskey,' he

says, 'that gives us what we want.' Then he tells me I gotta tell

everyone Sergeant Adair was as bad a whiskey-runner as any in the

North-West, that he was gettin' whiskey up reg'lar from th' East--you

know all about it, Sergeant! I wouldn't 'a' done it, I wouldn't,

Sergeant, that's straight--but that human devil, he made me."

"He's got you, too, eh?" the Inspector interjected. "What had you

done, Randall--theft or murder?"

"Eh? Eh?" Randall jerked, jaw dropping.

The shaft had struck him fair and square.

"It wasn't anythin' like that, Mr. Denton, I swear. That's--"

"Look here," the Inspector rapped. "You're lying! You'll deny

you've traded whiskey for him next!"

"Whiskey?" Randall's face was ghastly. "Mr. Denton, for God's

sake----"

"I knew it!" the Inspector exclaimed remorselessly. "Hand in glove

with that Indian there, too, I'll bet!"

Wild Horse jumped uneasily. Randall cast a frightened glance in that

direction.

"Ah, Inspector," he cried, desperately. "No--I never seen that

feller before. That's Gospel true! I'll admit I smuggled whiskey,

but----"

Hector cut him short.

"You see, sir," he said to Denton, "he's one of the minor cogs in the

machine. Wild Horse is another. Both work under Welland--neither

knows the other from Adam!"

The Inspector nodded.

"Tell us what happened after your scandal-mongering failed," he

ordered.

Randall hesitated--then made the plunge.

"Well, sir, 't was like this. Welland come to me one Sunday, 'bout

three weeks after Sergeant Adair treated me so rough. He reckoned

the game had failed. Sergeant Adair was still workin' on the whiskey

business and was more of a hero than ever. Welland was rip-snortin'

mad--said he'd like to have Adair shot. 'Adair ain't done nothin' to

shoot him for,' I says. 'Oh, hasn't he?' says Welland, 'He's done

more'n you think. Always pokin' his nose into other people's

affairs.' That's all he said an' he never mentioned Adair ag'in. He

never said nothin' to me 'bout usin' Wild Horse to shoot the

Sergeant. I never knowd nothin' 'bout that."

"All right, Randall. We'll believe you," said the Inspector. "At

any rate, Adair, he confirms Wild Horse's statement to this

extent--that Welland actually threatened to settle you. After the

whiskey fiasco, he thought--ah--murder a better scheme than any.

Taking all the evidence, Adair, we've got about enough to give

him--ah--at least ten years. Frankly, I--ah--think you've landed the

biggest fish and--er--uncovered the biggest thing you've come across

since the Force started. This will cause a sensation! And--er--if

you bring him in and he's found guilty, I--ah--shouldn't be at all

surprised if it meant--ah--promotion. In the meantime, we must

collar him as quickly as possible. Think you'd better try the

arrest? It might be--ah--rather risky, for you!"

"That's just why I want to do it, sir!" Hector declared, with all the

emphasis possible. "This is a personal fight between Welland and

myself. He's made it so; and I must see it through. Besides, he's

my meat, anyway. I trailed him. I showed him up. I must see it

through. And I'd rather do it single-handed, sir, if you don't mind."

The Inspector leisurely filled his pipe.

"I--er--appreciate your viewpoint, Sergeant," he said at last. "By

George, if any one should arrest him, it's you! Where is he?"

"At home," Randall interrupted. "I know, 'cos he went back there

yesterday."

"Right. Handle it your own way, Adair. You'd better start at once,

though there's no particular hurry. You're sure to catch him by

surprise. But do as you please. It's your hand."

"I won't leave anything to chance, sir," replied Hector. "I'll start

wow."

"Right." The Inspector lighted his pipe at the lamp. "I'll expect

him within twenty-four hours. And, oh--as you pass the guard-room,

tell 'em to send over an escort for two prisoners. What's that,

Randall? Why, of _course_ you're going behind the bars, too, my good

man. You surely don't imagine--Good luck--ah--to you, Adair."

"Thank you, sir."

Hector saluted and was gone.

The Inspector had said there was 'no particular hurry.' Hector

himself believed that there was 'no particular hurry.' Both were

lamentably wrong.

One of Welland's spies had overheard every syllable of the discussion

in the Inspector's parlour and, before Hector had saddled up, had

left Fort Macleod two good miles behind and was galloping hot-foot

for Welland's to warn him of his danger.

VII

On clearing the barracks and turning his horse into the trail to

Welland's ranch, sixty miles distant, Hector saw that the moon was

rising among the scattered clouds above the distant foothills, and he

studied his watch by its radiance: eight o'clock exactly. He planned

to reach Welland's before dawn. Setting a brisk pace, if all went

well, he should have his enemy under arrest within six or seven

hours. The trail was so clearly revealed that he could safely

proceed at almost any speed. He settled down for the long ride.

As he went, he found himself unable to put out of his mind the

night's startling revelations. Having long suspected Welland of

whiskey-smuggling, horse-stealing and cattle-rustling, confirmation

of these suspicions caused him no surprise. But that Welland had

plotted his disgrace and afterwards his death came home with

unexpected force. He saw now that, from the time when they first

met, until that moment, Welland's feelings towards him were nothing

but sham, maintained for purposes of his own. Welland had recognized

him long ago as a man who would probably become dangerous and had

gone out of his way from the first to hoodwink him--to produce in

Hector's mind an impression strongly favourable to himself. As with

Hector, so with the Force generally, to a lesser degree, and so also

with the civilians of the district. To discover that Welland's

friendship had always been false, that, while apparently well

disposed toward him, the rancher had long been plotting against him

and had actually attempted to murder him--this was a very bitter pill.

Running over various incidents, Hector, now that his had been opened,

could see traces of Welland's deceit everywhere. The warmth with

which he had condemned all evil-doers and especially all

whiskey-traders when he first came to Fort Macleod had been nothing

but hypocrisy, to blind them to his own misdoings. The energy with

which he had worked to make their first Christmas a success had been

born, not of generous good feeling, but a selfish desire to increase

his own popularity with the Force and thus lend further concealment

to his real character. He had pushed Hector into prominence on that

occasion simply to strengthen the latter's good opinion. The

interest he had always shown in Hector's work--as when he enquired so

tenderly after the progress he was making with the whiskey-runners

when they met in Weatherton's store--that, too, was a sham, an

attempt to win useful information. One by one, Hector took these

things from their dusty pigeon-holes, examined them in this new light

and added them to the damning evidence he had collected against

Welland.

So much for that friendship!

Other matters came back to him, bits of evidence of which he had just

hinted to Inspector Denton. There was, for instance, the fright

displayed by Welland when the party of Police arrived unexpectedly at

his house on the way to 'Red-hot' Dan's and asked for shelter. The

rancher had been so startled that one might have almost fancied him

anticipating arrest. And later, when he endeavored to scare them

with wonderful stories of the desperate character of the wanted

man--what was this but a sign that he was in league with the trader

and desired to gain time to warn him and secure his escape into U.S.

territory, while the Police returned to Fort Macleod for

reinforcements? They had found 'Red-hot' Dan ready for them, even as

it was, and Hector suspected, now, that Welland had obtained means at

least to warn him in time to put up a resistance. Hector remembered

the shrieks he had heard on the way to the Sun Dance and knew that

Randall's tale of Welland beating his squaw was true. It was then

that Welland had shown him the buffalo skull used by the

smugglers--an effort, that, to put him off the scent. The man had

been cunning as the devil; but not cunning enough. These things,

together, betrayed him at last as a liar, a traitor, a brute, an

arch-criminal.

And it was with this man--no petty law-breaker but a foeman worthy of

his steel--that Hector had his quarrel. He was almost glad that such

a man had chosen him as a special enemy, had in fact forced him to

take up as a personal fight what otherwise would have been only a

matter of duty. He leaped to meet the challenge. 'This is a

personal fight between Welland and myself,' he had told the

Inspector. 'He's made it so; and I must see it through. Besides,

he's my meat, anyway. I trailed him. I showed him up. I must see

it through. And I'd rather do it single-handed....' The words came

back to him as he rushed through the night and he looked forward,

keen as mustard, to the moment which should bring them face to face,

in the struggle which had been approaching year after year and was

now at hand....

He was so absorbed in these pleasant anticipations that, in spite of

the bright moonlight, he failed to notice a hole in the trail. His

horse, half asleep, though cantering, was as blind as himself.

Somersaulting heels over head, horse and rider fell. The horse

stumbled wildly to its feet. But Hector lay stunned.

And the spy ahead went galloping on.

VIII

At three o'clock in the morning Joe Welland woke from a sweet dream

to find his squaw beside him. On the arrest of Wild Horse, he had

sent Lizzie to Fort Macleod to watch and report developments. Her

return was now sufficient evidence to tell him that something

momentous had happened.

A horrible fear swept over him and, sitting up in bed, he frantically

ordered her to speak.

In her halting English, Lizzie obeyed. Long a familiar and pathetic

figure in barracks, no-one had suspected her and she had been able to

maintain a close watch on Wild Horse's prison. When she saw him

brought to Inspector Denton's quarters, she guessed that vital

developments would follow. Going round to the Inspector's kitchen,

she begged for food. Mrs. Denton knew her quite well and thought her

harmless. She gave her a seat in the kitchen and a bite of supper.

Lizzie, when left for a moment alone, slipped into a hiding-place

under the stairs, whence she overheard everything going on in the

parlour. As soon as she learned that Sergeant Adair was to start for

Welland's, she escaped from barracks unobserved, mounted her pony,

which was tethered in a gully not far off, and had ridden over the

sixty miles at the best speed possible.

Then she gave the rancher full details of the conference.

It was typical of Welland that he had no word of thanks for the woman

who had dared and endured so much for his sake. Day in and day out,

through the years, he had used her as a slave, working her to

exhaustion and often flogging her. Yet, with the dumb devotion

characteristic of the Indian woman, she had borne it all, content to

suffer his injustice if only she might dedicate her life to him. And

now, in his great need, when she might have left him to the fate he

well deserved, when circumstances had offered her an opportunity for

retribution, she had unhesitatingly done her best to save his

wretched hide. Years of selfish brutality had made him incapable of

gratitude for the greatest of services, and he would have regarded

the sacrifice of her life for him as a matter of course.

It did not take him long to see that flight was his only refuge. His

day was done. The Police--represented, in his view, by Hector--had

at last unmasked him, had gathered conclusive evidence against him

and were at that very moment on their way to take him. When they had

him safely in jail, he realized, they would set about gathering more

information. With the Chester murder against him, it would be at

least a life sentence. To attempt to bluff it out was madness. If

the Police laid hands on him, he was doomed. The United States

boundary was only a few miles away. Once on American soil, he could

quickly hide himself so that not even the Yankees could find him.

After that, he could begin life over again somewhere. This life, the

life of Mr. Joseph Welland, rancher--had crumbled to pieces round him

and only instant action could save him from burial in the ruins.

A man of quick decisions, his mind was at once made up. Jumping out

of bed, he began to dress, throwing instructions at Lizzie the while.

"And don't make a noise, or I'll kill you," he adjured.

Fear lent him swiftness and strength. Already, he fancied he heard

Hector's voice, summoning him to surrender. Hector! At thought of

him, Welland was possessed with fury. To Hector, he knew, he owed

his downfall. With infinite patience and cunning, beginning years

before Hector's arrival, the rancher had built up a criminal machine

of amazing efficiency, a machine which had made him rich. He had

hidden his own connection with the machine so cleverly that, as time

went on, he began to consider himself absolutely safe. One by one

his vassals were jailed but no evil consequences for himself

resulted. He had taken good care, from the first, to see that they

were men who knew it best to keep their mouths shut. So, to all the

world, he had continued to be Joseph Welland, most respectable of

ranchers. The world might have lingered on in this illusion for

Heaven knows how long, at least until the day when, made wealthy by

the machine, he might have scrapped it and became truly respectable.

That day, of late, had seemed near; and he looked forward to it,

since, to do him justice, he was not a master-criminal for the love

of it nor a secret associate with low-down whites and Indians for any

love he bore them. That day had seemed near; and now, thanks to

Hector, it was gone forever.

It was no satisfaction to him at this moment to recall that from the

first he had recognized the quiet, immensely keen young giant as a

dangerous factor. But the knowledge that he had been unable to

maintain Hector in ignorance of his real character, that he had

failed to realize until too late that Hector was on his track, and

that, when realization came, he had made so poor a job of his attempt

to 'settle' him--this knowledge tortured him.

Well, he would see to it that he was not taken by Sergeant Adair or

any other Mounted Policeman! If he hurried, he might still get away

to such a start that no-one could overtake him. But he must hurry.

Hector could not have been far behind Lizzie in leaving Fort Macleod.

The black horse stolen from 'Lazy G' was the best in the stable! He

ran out into the moonlight to saddle him.

IX

Hector's struggling return to consciousness ended when he felt

something soft and warm against his hand and found his horse

anxiously nuzzling him. For a minute or two he was powerless to

think or move. The moon and stars went wheeling weirdly round and

round, while a sticky stream coursed slowly down his cheek. Feeling

horribly sick and weak, he yielded to an intense desire to sleep and

closed his eyes again.

Meanwhile, precious time was flying.

From this condition he recovered with a start and a dawning sense

that something important was hanging in the balance. His next

thought was to get to his feet; but, when he tried to rise, agonizing

pains shot through him, dragging a groan from his lips and forcing

beads of sweat to his face. He sat up gasping, teeth clenched. The

spasm past, he tried again, got to his knees, then, catching at the

stirrup, dragged himself slowly up and so at last to a standing

position. Had he not had the saddle to cling to, he would certainly

have fallen. As it was, he reeled drunkenly and only the dim

knowledge that he must pull himself together gave him the power to

hold on.

So, as he hung there, everything came back to him. He remembered

that he was on the trail to Welland's to arrest the rancher. Then he

saw that the saddle was twisted to one side and the oak cantle

broken. The horse, too, was cut and grimy about the knees and blood

had dried in its nostrils. Next he realized that his tunic had been

ripped up the back and was hanging in shreds. His hat was gone, his

face covered with dirt, the clammy streams on his cheeks were blood,

flowing from wounds in his forehead. Then he recollected the fall.

The horse had apparently put its forefoot in a hole and turned a

somersault. In the fall, pinned beneath the horse, he had been torn

along the ground. Gradually he realized that had he not been

exceptionally strong, he would have been killed by the fall, in which

he had been dragged twenty feet.

As things were he was in no condition to go on. Even the iron code

of the Mounted Police had no quarrel with a man who yielded when in

such a state as Hector found himself. But his first thought was for

the business in hand. The moon was going down. His watch had

stopped at three o'clock. Then probably he had lain there hours

afterwards. In desperate haste, he set about making up for lost time.

The whole secret of his reputation was revealed in that crisis.

He was sick and sore and his brain was whirling like a top. Yet

somehow he twisted the saddle back into its rightful position,

thanking God that his horse had remained faithfully beside him

throughout, thus enabling him to complete his journey on horseback

instead of on foot. Then he got somehow into the saddle, somehow

started the horse and so, the reins twisted round his hands, while

his fingers clung to the mane and he held on from hip to heel, urged

gradually into a steady gallop.

"Am I in time? Am I in time?"

Drumming in his head with the beat of hoofs, that was the only

thought he could retain.

The rest of the ride was sheer torture, without dimensions of time or

distance. The road staggered under him, the horse rocked, the moon,

now almost out, did idiotic things. Every shooting pain, every bump,

went through him with terrible violence, his desire to end this agony

and get to grips with Welland became a consuming fire.

"Am I in time? Am I in time?"

More dead than alive, he pounded into Welland's yard at last. Dawn

was gilding the mountains. The shack showed only one feeble light.

In a daze, biting back the cry of torment beating at his lips, he

slid to the ground.

Now!

He opened the door cautiously. From Welland's bed-room, the light

burned dimly. Hector entered.

At the entrance to the room, he found confusion everywhere. A dark

form crouched, moaning, in a corner. She looked up at him--Lizzie!

The sight gave him a nasty shock, for he fancied her at Fort Macleod.

Suddenly possessed of a vague uneasiness, he strode quickly in.

Welland, acting on some strange freak, had left a message for him

under the lamp on the table. He snatched it up and read:

"You have won this time. But I will win yet. I owe you my ruin and,

if it takes me twenty years, I'll get even. Remember, I'll get even,

if it takes me twenty years."

The threat was lost on Hector--at any other time he would have

laughed at it. But now he turned swiftly to Lizzie.

"Where is Joe?" he demanded.

Surely, surely Welland had not escaped him, after all that had passed?

"Where is Joe?" he repeated fiercely.

Lizzie laughed in mad triumph.

"He gone--hour ago! You no' catch him. He over the medicine-line!"

Hector rapped an inward oath of agony. White man--ghastly in the

lamp-light, with pale, bloody face, and tattered scarlet--and Indian,

they stared at each other.

BOOK TWO: _Spirit-of-Iron_

Chapter I

I

Until comparatively recently, the destinies of nations depended

mainly upon roads. A nation might be judged by the state of its

roads. Civilization and Progress moved along good roads, bad roads

were the symbols of Barbarism. Rome, the Imperial power of the

ancient world, the greatest apostle of Civilization and Progress born

before the Renaissance, built the best roads ever made.

For the past century the railway has been to nations and Empires what

the road once was.

Western Canada, marching under the wing of the Mounted Police, had by

this time emerged from barbarism. A decade of strong government had

done its work. Homesteads dotted the vastness of the plains, small

islands in wide seas of grass. Little towns were rising up like

magic at the forks of the long, lone trails. The country was slowly

waking, like a young giant, from the sleep of untold centuries,

awakening to a vague yet definite conception of its destiny. Faintly

visioning its mighty future, it carefully took the measure of itself

and looked around for what it lacked to fill its deficiencies. Where

one homestead stood it knew there should be a hundred. Where little

shack-towns rose, it knew there should be cities. The future held

its promise of these things. But until the country's crying need was

filled, the future remained a promise--nothing more.

The country's crying need--what was it?

The railway.

And the railway was coming now. From Atlantic to Pacific, one poem

with an heroic theme was in the making--the epic of the

Transcontinental.

To the East, in this epic, belong the giants of vision, the planners,

the intellectuals. The West saw only the men of action, the giants

who did the bidding of the fathers of the dream, the surveyors,

plate-layers, navvies, engineers. These men of action were organized

like an army. Like an army, they had their officers, their N.C.O.s,

their rank and file, their hangers-on and camp-followers. The men

who supervised--the construction-bosses, skilled engineers, managers

of one thing or another--were the officers; the foremen and

master-mechanics were the N.C.O.s; the lesser labourers--mostly

called Dagoes--who laid the road-bed, dug ditches, carried sleepers,

rails and fish-plates--were the rank and file; while the

camp-followers and hangers-on--gamblers, whiskey-smugglers, robbers,

cut-throats and lost women--were scum clean through.

Though organized like an army--these people--they were actually a

crowd. An army is distinguished from a crowd by its discipline. And

they had very little discipline. It was necessary, for the good of

the great work, that their unruly elements be kept in hand. As far

as such men could be, they were kept in hand. And, through their

labours--this fact will help them at the Day of Judgment--the great

work marched steadily towards completion. Slowly but surely, the

thin thread of steel pushed its way through the trackless wastes of

rock and burnt-out timber north of the Great Lakes; thrust itself

across mile after mile of sunlit plain; climbed step by step over the

foothills and into the mountains; clambered along sheer precipices,

sprang over dizzy gorges, bored through vast walls of granite; and,

tracing always the pathway of the pioneers, pushed forward month by

month in the wake of the setting sun.

The crowd was kept in hand--partly by the iron rule of its chiefs but

mainly through the unceasing vigilance of the Mounted Police, who

soothed their discontent, caught their robbers, suppressed their

gamblers, baffled their whiskey-smugglers and forestalled their

murderers.

The 'end of track,' by this time, had reached Regina; and Hector was

the senior N.C.O. of the Mounted Police on that division.

When Sergeant-Major Whittaker, six months before, had left the Force

to take up land in the North, his departure had left a great gap in J

Division; but nobody had been surprised when Hector was called upon

to fill it.

"He's one of our best N.C.O.s," was the general comment. "Besides,

he has the luck of the devil, anyway!"

So Hector was now Sergeant-Major, at twenty-eight, and it was more

than probable that before he was thirty he would easily realize his

dream of a commission. There was no cloud on his horizon. He was

very happy.

For some time after Welland's escape Hector had feared for his

prospects. A criminal involved in innumerable crimes had slipped

through his fingers; he thought the Big Chiefs would consider this

inexcusable. Hector's fall, which to some minds might have

exonerated him, seemed to him to add to the disgrace. The result of

sheer carelessness--so he considered it--that fall should never have

happened to a Mounted Policeman; and he was certain the Big Chiefs

would hold the same opinion. But when the Commissioner and Inspector

Denton heard the details of his condition when, ragged, gory,

white-faced and held up only by his indomitable will, he returned

from Welland's, and realized just what he had done, they acted as

they thought best. Hector, after all, had unmasked the man--one of

the most dangerous in the country--and at least driven him out by his

own unaided effort. It was good riddance of bad rubbish; and

Welland's escape did him no harm.

That was two years ago now and Hector had almost forgotten the whole

affair. Even Welland's dramatic little note, with its vindictive

threat, 'I'll get even, if it takes me twenty years' he had

contemptuously banished from his mind. And today he was

Sergeant-Major of J Division, maintaining the law along one hundred

miles of the line of construction.

The job carried very heavy responsibilities, which aged him

daily--not physically but mentally. He had, where duty was

concerned, the outlook of a man twice his age. He was the

connecting-link between officers and men, his task to see that every

order and regulation was obeyed. Besides these matters concerning

the internal economy of the Force, he had also to deal direct with

law-breakers. So he came in touch with all the vice, wretchedness

and stark tragedy abounding in the tent-towns and construction camps.

He knew all the thieves, 'rollers,' toughs, shell-game experts,

whiskey-peddlers and ladies of doubtful reputation by sight and most

of them by name. When the scarlet-coated patrols swooped down on

crowded caboose or side-tracked box-car at dead of night to catch the

drunks in full carouse, he was almost always in the offing. When a

gambling-joint was raided, he led the rush. When, in pauses between

dances, the dirty men and painted women at the little tables in the

reeking dance-halls became suddenly silent to watch a lone man in

uniform pass vigilantly among them, the lone man was generally Hector.

In his turn, through all the seething, howling world whose axis was

the railway, his was the most familiar figure. They knew him as the

kindest and best-hearted of men to those who slipped through

ignorance or foolishness, and, to those who slipped from choice, the

most merciless; loved him or hated him, according to their lights;

went out of their way to meet him or to avoid him; and feared him,

one and all, far more than they feared God.

II

In spite of all his responsibilities and hard work, Hector found

opportunities to have a little harmless fun; as witness Mr. Augustus

J. Perkins, gambler and whiskey-smuggler, temporarily resident in the

mushroom city of Regina.

Hector first spotted Mr. Perkins on the way to Qu'appelle, a few

miles down the line, where Sergeant Cranbrook was stationed. His

attention was drawn to Mr. Perkins because, firstly, the man's face

was unfamiliar, secondly, he was a book-agent. Book-agents were

frequently seen along the line and Hector had learned to regard them

all with suspicion, as most of them adopted the profession to hide

their true identity, which was generally criminal. And Mr. Perkins'

appearance was against him. He was a plump, ruddy, cheery soul and

might have passed muster but for his eyes, which were shifty and

bloodshot; also, his nose was red. His hands were pudgy, too, and

covered with cheap rings. He wore a little bow-tie, a wide-awake

hat, a vile flowered waistcoat, a Prince Albert, very baggy trousers

and a dazzling gold watch hung with many seals. His face was too

good to be true and he studiously kept his eyes away from Hector.

These things condemned him.

"I'll try him out," thought Hector.

He approached Mr. Perkins, who greeted him with a convincing smile

but was still unable to hide his aversion to Mounted Policemen.

Hector noted the fact.

"Nice day," he began, sitting down opposite the book-agent.

"Augustus J. Perkins, I presume?"

"Yes." Then, doubtfully, "Le's see now, where'd we meet before?"

"It wasn't in jail, was it?" Hector smiled.

"Quit your jokin'," Mr. Perkins returned, shifting uneasily. "Where

was it, though?"

"I don't know. I saw your name on your grip, if that's what you

mean?"

"Oh, yas. Yas." Followed a pause, Mr. Perkins evidently searching

his whirling brain for something to say. "Have a cigar?"

"Thanks. I'll smoke it later, when no-one's around."

The book-agent lighted up.

"How's business?" Hector resumed.

"Pretty good," Mr. Perkins admitted.

"Sold lots of stock?"

"Oh, yas. Yas!"

"I wonder if he's foolin' me?" Perkins was thinking. But Hector was

perfectly serious.

"I'm quite fond of reading myself," said Hector. "You've a lot of

books there. What have you?"

The book-agent pondered.

"I've got Scott, Thack'r'y, Dickens, an'--Dickens--an'--le's see; the

Waverley Novels, Shakespeare, Pickwick Papers--that's a new book,

just out, by--by----"

"Scott, isn't it?" Hector suggested.

"Yas, Scott--tha's right," Mr. Perkins hastily affirmed. "Oh, an'

lots more."

"Good, I'd like to see one or two. Fetch down the big bag and let's

have a look at it."

The agent reached a hand to the rack, laying hold of a small bag.

Hector did not let the action pass.

"The _big_ bag, I said," he reminded the agent pleasantly.

Perkins pretended not to hear.

"The _big_ bag," Hector repeated.

"Eh?" Mr. Perkins jerked suddenly.

"I want to see the big bag."

The agent found his voice.

"Hell, that's my stock," he protested. "My samples are in this."

And he pulled the small bag down.

"All right, my buck," Hector thought. "I understand."

They looked over the books together.

"Well, you've a fine stock," Hector asserted, after a time. "Now,

I'll tell you where to find me in Regina. Come up there when you're

next in town and I'll buy twenty books from you."

"Say, that's real white of you, Mr. Adair. An' I'll be there first

chance."

Though he tried thereafter to pump Mr. Perkins, the book-agent would

not be drawn. But he was well satisfied.

"A smuggler and probably a gambler," he thought. "He'll never come

within a mile of my quarters, of course. That's a certainty. Never

mind. We'll land him."

They parted at Qu'appelle. Cranbrook was waiting for Hector, who

pulled him under cover and pointed out Mr. Perkins, instructing him

to keep an eye on the gambler.

Together, they prepared a combined plan for the downfall of Mr.

Perkins.

Returning to Regina that night, Hector delved into certain records

and finally unearthed data concerning a gambler answering closely to

the description of the suspect. Moreover, he was nicknamed 'Artful

Gussie.'

Hector advised Cranbrook of this discovery and passed word along the

whole line setting detachments on their guard.

In one week's time they amassed sufficient evidence to arrest Mr.

Perkins, and landed him behind the bars.

III

The Press Association's special train was speeding towards

Qu'appelle, its whistle screaming, its noisy little engine pouring

out long trails of sparks. From the windows of the cars were thrust

serried rows of heads and strings of handkerchiefs. As they neared

the little town, one lively young lady, wearing an especially smart

hat and a particularly large bustle--her name was Nita Oswald and she

represented a leading Eastern paper--gave voice to the sentiments of

the company:

"Oh, here's another of these horrible holes! When _are_ we going to

meet the _real_ 'Wild West'? I've seen plenty of picturesque scenery

and some lovely cut-throats. But I do want to see something truly

romantic. _Please_ send us something romantic, O Lord!"

And she rolled her very alluring eyes towards Heaven.

Whereupon, suddenly, the prayer was answered. From the woods

fringing either side of the line at some distance, came all at once a

startling succession of blood-curdling yells. Everyone became

galvanized to attention, with thoughts of Indian attacks and gory

massacres. But they had no time to yield to their alarm. The first

war-whoop was still echoing through the August woods when out burst

two racing lines of horsemen in dazzling scarlet. They dashed across

the intervening ground, swung to left or right with thrilling

precision and so, at utmost speed, galloped alongside the train.

"Oh, oh!" screamed the young lady with the bustle, "How lovely! A

whole army of the Mounted Police!"

The windows of the train grew clamorous, the handkerchiefs fluttered

like frantic birds, the engine answered the continued yells of the

flying horsemen with shriek on shriek. A trumpeter at the head of

the troop stirred the watchers with a glorious ripple of music and

the horse at the tail, wildly enthusiastic, put down its head and

tore over the ground with terrific bucks but without lagging a yard

behind or disturbing its impassive rider by the breadth of a feather.

The gleaming scarlet and steel, the brilliant horsemanship, the dash

and movement of the whole picture roused the journalists to mad

applause.

_This_ was something like the West and no mistake about it!

At Qu'appelle, a halt was made, and journalists and policemen

fraternized. A group of admiring press-men offered respectful

congratulations to the tall young Sergeant-Major who had argued with

the horse. Attracted by the little crowd, a man on the platform of

the nearest car came down and joined it. A moment later the

journalists were thrust aside.

"Hector!"

And Hector, wheeling, gave joyous answer:

"Hugh!"

After that, of course, there was nothing for it but that Hector

should hand over his horse to one of the men and to return to Regina

with Hugh. This was easily arranged; and, while the train rattled on

to the 'end of track,' Hector and Hugh enjoyed a splendid chat--the

first in ten long years.

There was naturally a tremendous lot to tell, but certain facts stood

out. Hugh had been a journalist a long time now--Hector knew this

already, having watched his career with a good deal of interest--and

when the editor of his paper in Toronto looked for a man to send

Westward with the Press Association, his choice had fallen upon Hugh.

Why had he kept his coming secret? Oh, he wanted to give Hector a

real surprise.

"Well, you've done that, all right," Hector declared. "You're the

first man from home I've seen since I came West, Hugh!"

Speaking of home inevitably led to a cross-examination covering all

the latest doings of Hector's mother--Cousin John--Allen--and the

others. Hugh, to satisfy Hector's craving, described everything in

detail. Then, suddenly, he was struck with an inspiration:

"But look here, Hec'. You've earned a holiday, God knows. Why not

come back with me and see it all for yourself? I can't possibly do

it justice, you know. Now, Hec'!"

The suggestion brought a light to Hector's eyes. But presently he

shook his head.

"I can't, Hugh," he said. "We're up to the neck just now. I can't

be spared. Don't argue. There's no-one to take my place."

"Oh, bosh!" laughed Hugh. "You're not so darned important. Of

course they can spare you! You've got swelled head, old boy."

Hector rapped him playfully.

"Yes, haven't I?" he replied. "Never mind--it can't be done. No

such word as 'can't' in the Police vocabulary? There is, in this

case!"

Hugh thereafter exhausted his arguments. Hector was a Gibraltar.

"Oh, tell us--who's your C.O.?" asked Hugh, at last.

"Superintendent Denton. Why?"

"Never mind," said Hugh, abruptly changing the conversation. And

Hector forgot the matter.

But, later on that day he was greeted with the dazzling information

that Hugh, while Hector was absent a moment on duty, had seen the

Superintendent and the latter had consented to allow Hector six

weeks' leave.

"Six weeks' leave, Hec'! Six weeks! Think of it! He didn't say a

word against it. Said, in fact, he'd been contemplating sending you,

as ten years without leave was quite enough for any man. And when I

told him you'd refused to ask for it and I was seeing him without

your knowledge, he said it was just like you--that you had a

wonderful sense of duty! What more can you want? Isn't that great?"

"Hugh!" said Hector.

He was going home!

IV

News of all kinds runs swiftly through organized formations and

within an hour every man at headquarters, including the prisoners in

the cells, knew that Hector was going East.

While he was putting the finishing touches to his hurried

preparations, the Sergeant in charge of the cells came to him.

"Sergeant-Major, can you spare a moment?"

"Well?"

"You know that gambler that's awaiting trial--the fellow Sergeant

Cranbrook arrested at Qu'appelle?"

Hector smiled.

"Oh, yes--Perkins. What about him?"

"He's heard you're going home, S.-M., and he wants to know if you'll

go and see him first."

"Eh?"

"Yes, that's right."

Hector considered a moment. What could Perkins want? It was not in

him to refuse.

"All right. I'll be over in a little while."

When Hector entered the cell, the gambler greeted him with a cry of

joy.

"Here I am, Perkins," he said. "What do you want?"

Perkins looked abashed and his head dropped.

"Come along," said Hector, more kindly. "Speak out, man."

"P'raps I ain't entitled to it, Mr. Adair--but--but--I want to ask a

favour--a favour of you."

"Go on," Hector encouraged him.

"The boys have been tellin' me about you, Mr. Adair. An' it appears

you come from--from th' same part o' the world as I do."

"Where's that?'

"You're a Blenheim county man, ain't you?"

"Why, yes," replied Hector. "And you----?"

"Me? I'm from Arcady,"--Perkins was grinning with sheer joy--"just

in th' next county. You know it?"

"The little village of Arcady?" Hector asked, in an uncompromising

tone. "I know it well. I thought you were an American."

Perkins looked sheepish.

"No--ah, that's just a--a business nationality, with me. I'm a

Canuck, born in Arcady, Ontario. An' I want--if it ain't asking too

much, Mr. Adair, I want you to do me a little favour there."

"What is it?"

"My old mother lives there yet, Sergeant-Major."

Hector felt his sternness melting; but he said nothing.

"I wasn't--wasn't always a--a shell-game expert, Mr. Adair. I ran

away from home, though, when I was nineteen--more than twenty years

ago--I was wild--couldn't stand the apron-strings. Well, for a while

I ran straight--an'--my mother, she forgave me, when she heard I was

doin' well--an' for a long time I ust to write to her an'--an' tell

her, God help me, what a fine feller I was. Then--well I left the

straight an' narrow, Mr. Adair, but I couldn't bear to let my mother

know, 'cause it 'ud 'a' broken her heart. So' I just kep' on

pertendin' I was doin' awfully well. I wrote her a pack o' lies, Mr.

Adair, but if she'd known the truth, I guess it 'ud have killed her.

"So all these years I been foolin' her, Mr. Adair. I ain't wrote to

her just lately but that wasn't my fault. An' now--well, I want you

to help me out, Mr. Adair."

Perkins had fired the one shaft capable of piercing Hector's

otherwise impregnable armour. Before Hector left the cell he had

pledged himself to go and see the gambler's mother and give her that

message from her prodigal son.

And perhaps--who knew?--it might be the turning-point in Perkins'

career.

"God, you're a white man, Mr. Adair," declared the gambler, as they

parted, "the first white policeman I've ever met."

"None of that," growled Hector. "And mind you behave while I'm away."

"It's not much to do," he thought, as he walked back to his quarters.

"A small thing----"

A small thing, yes; but then he did not know that on it was dependent

an epoch in his destiny.

Chapter II

I

The journey Eastward was one bewildering revelation to Hector. The

changes in the past ten years had been marvellous. It pleased him to

think that without the Mounted Police they would have been impossible.

Staying nearly two days in Winnipeg--now a thriving town--he enjoyed

a personal triumph. Word of his arrival brought hosts of people to

see him and showers of invitations. Big Jim Hackett, one-time owner

of the _Hell's Gate_ saloon, now proprietor of one of the best

hotels, insisted in quartering Hector and Hugh under his roof, though

the place was already jammed. Andrew Ferguson, whose bakery had

grown stupendously, fought with little Johnny Oakdale, now monarch of

a bustling hardware store, for the pleasure of showing Hector round;

and so on; and so on.

But what amused Hector was their anxiety to know just why he was

going home and their unshakable conviction--in spite of all he could

say--that his was a mission of love.

"Of _course_ you're going home to get married, Mr. Adair!" pretty

little Miss Sinclair--Mrs. Jim Hackett now--declared, a roguish look

in her eyes. "Now, listen to me--don't deny it, because I know

better. I can see it in your face. And is it any wonder? What else

should a man go East for, I'd like to know? You men are all

alike--lose your hearts to the first pretty girl who comes along to

tell you about 'Home.' Who is she--one of those prying visitors,

perhaps, or that moon-faced newspaper girl I saw you with when the

train came in?--The hussy! But I don't blame her, Mr. Adair. You

know, I once had quite a soft spot for you myself--and _now_! Such a

fine, big, bronzed fellow, handsome as a dream, so young to hold the

rank, that beautiful red coat--oh, don't blush! You know it's true,

young man! Yes, you do! Would any of your men dare to talk to you

like this? I guess not, eh? Never mind. Don't deny you're bringing

a bride back with you, because you surely will. She's a lucky girl,

whoever she is!"

"I tell you, you're talking nonsense," Hector laughed. "What should

I get married for?"

"I like that! 'Nonsense!' 'What should I get married for?'! It

isn't nonsense. It's quite time you were thinking of it."

When the sojourn was over and Hector was once more in the comparative

solitude of the train, he began to ponder over this attitude. It was

a strange thing that all his friends should naturally assume that he

was going home to get married and, finding themselves in error,

should insist that it was time he began to think of it. Obviously,

they considered it inevitable that he should now contemplate entering

into the holy state. As he had never given it a moment's thought

till now, it was equally obvious that he must be unlike the general

run of men of his age, by whom his friends, of course, judged him.

Strange that he had never realized it before!

Struggling against this knowledge--the knowledge of his peculiar

individuality--he next tried to tell himself that most men of his age

were unattached or, at any rate, single. But his own experience

rebelled against the lie. He saw that most men had at least been in

love--honestly, desperately in love--before they reached his years;

and he had never been in love; no, not once. Perhaps, though, this

was easily explained. He had left Eastern Canada while still far too

young to feel a great passion; since that time he had been so busy

with his work that he had not had time to think of anything else.

Besides, he had never found in the North-West a woman of such radiant

beauty and soul as to meet with his ideal, which he knew was

extraordinarily high. Many had pitched themselves at his head; none

had satisfied him. In the East, where women were so much more

numerous, now that he was to see the women of the East with a man's

eyes, he might come across some-one who could light the divine spark.

On the other hand, he wondered if he was one in whose life love had

no place. There were people, after all, who had gone through life in

that loneliness. Or perhaps he was one of those to whom Destiny

allots one and only one grand passion, which was still to come.

In the end he laughed, calling himself a sentimental ass. Time

enough to think of love when it came, and when love came, of marriage.

At Alma John met them and Mrs. Adair. And Hector gathered her into

his arms, murmuring rapturously:

"Mother, I'm so glad to be home!"

II

The week following Hector's homecoming was a strange, swift medley of

joy and sorrow, gaiety and festival and pain, of renewing

acquaintances, paying visits, exchanging reminiscences. Hector

passed a sad half-hour in the churchyard where so many of those he

loved best--his father, Maintop, Long Dick, Nora and the gallant

Sergeant Pierce--were sleeping. He made a special journey, also, to

have a look at Silvercrest; but at the last moment could not bear to

see the old place in a stranger's hands, and came away.

At the end of the week he remembered Arcady and his promise to

Perkins. As it happened, no-one could spare the time to go with him.

So he went alone, bearing as passport a letter of introduction to a

Mr. Tweedy, friend of Allen's and owner of half the village.

Tweedy was all that could be desired. He insisted on carrying Hector

home with him for supper and later on demanded that he should stay

with them for the duration of his visit, whatever that might be.

After supper Hector broached his errand, intending to lead up to the

main point in a roundabout way and to conceal such facts as he deemed

advisable. But Mrs. Tweedy--a bright little woman with glasses and a

tireless but mercifully charitable tongue--in her first reply, made

further questioning almost unnecessary and settled poor Perkins'

perplexities for ever.

"Mrs. John Perkins?--Mrs. John Perkins?--Let me see, now. A widow,

eh? There was a Mrs. Perkins here--very old--son ran away--only

child--the rascal!--you say that's the one? Oh, yes, I know whom you

mean. Oh, _she's_ dead!"

The news gave Hector an unpleasant shock and his heart went out to

Perkins. A little later, he decided to confide everything to the

sympathetic couple. Tweedy shook his head a great many times, Mrs.

Tweedy wiped her glasses and murmured "Poor thing! Poor boy! Oh,

dear! Well, well!" and both offered to do everything possible to

assist Hector if he wished to give the affair any more attention.

"Then," said Hector, "You'll take me over to the Post Office and the

old lady's grave. I want to make some enquiries about Perkins'

letters and I'd like to be able to tell him----"

In the morning, Hector learned that Perkins' letters had been duly

delivered to the old lady up to the time of her death and that those

received since had been sent to the dead letter office. Perkins had

received nothing from the dead letter office. But then, he moved

round so much that this was not surprising. Tweedy then took his

guest over to the tumbledown shack which Mrs. Perkins had occupied.

The afternoon found him too busy to drive to the cemetery. Hector

obtained full directions as to the route and made the journey on

foot, took a mental photograph of the grave for Perkins, and turned

homeward.

He forgot all about Perkins a few minutes later, in the beauty of the

autumn evening. The sun, a paling disc, was dropping slowly down

towards its sanctuary behind the far blue hills. Arcady, loveliest

of all havens in Ontario, lay below him, in a wide valley brimful of

golden sunlight, glorious with the mingling greys and browns and

scarlets of woods and fields and orchards. The road on which he

stood ran winding into the distant town, resting like a sleeping

child in the middle of it all. Harvesters still lingered in the

grain. The orchards glowed with crimson apples. From the chimneys

of Arcady and the summer cottages which fringed the sparkling,

rippling lake beyond, thin threads of blue-grey smoke rose straight

upwards through the bracing, sweetly scented air and on the lake a

single sail gleamed like a flake of snow. Somewhere, near at hand, a

bird called, mournfully, persistently, while a church bell tolled

with mellow voice a long way off. The picture was all that Home and

Peace and Canada could mean to Hector and for a little while it held

him, fresh as he was from raw, unsettled wildernesses and scenes of

fierce toil and sordid crime, in a rapturous enchantment.

He felt, then, as if be was poised upon the edge of Paradise, as if

marvels that he could not even guess were about to be made known to

him.

In this strange mood, he walked steadily down into the valley and

along a lane which would take him to Tweedy's by a short cut. Tall

hedges bright with changing leaves enclosed this lane and it was

fringed by autumn flowers and overhung by loaded boughs. A wind

brought to him the rich smell of hay and apples and stirred the

rustling leaves which strewed the ruts before him. A small bird

piped drowsily.

Then, suddenly, as he pushed aside a screen of branches, he knew that

this visit to Arcady was not to be fruitless after all, that there

was a purpose behind it; and learnt, suddenly, why Destiny had sent

him there.

For, suddenly, he saw her.

III

His coming took her by complete surprise and, for a time which might

be measured in seconds, she remained unconscious of his presence.

She was sitting on a stile which led into an orchard on the left side

of the lane, her face and figure steeped in the golden sunlight and

boldly framed by sprays of scarlet leaves against a background of

clear sky. Her head was partly turned away but Hector could see that

she was unusually pretty. The soft freshness of girlhood blended in

her face with the character of womanhood and her hair--he had never

seen anything like her hair, a kind of ruddy gold, almost copper,

shot with sunbeams which played in it as if they were alive. She

wore a dress that was soft and white and billowy and from her arm

hung a small straw hat on two blue ribbons.

So much he saw in the first swift moment. And then he perceived that

she was crying, not noisily or violently, but quietly, with slowly

welling tears. He wondered why. Presently he noticed that she was

holding out her skirt in front and staring at it with a world of

misery in her eyes. There was a jagged rent in the skirt. A tiny

bit of stuff fluttering on a nail in the stile told him everything.

And now she found relief from her vexation in the customary feminine

manner.

Hector, sensing nothing more than its rarer beauty, was for a moment

lost in admiring contemplation of the perfect picture. The moment

passing, he wavered between pity and amusement. From this mood he

slowly fluttered back to earth, to a realization that he was staring

with unforgivable rudeness, that he was intruding on a lady's privacy

and that courtesy demanded he should make his presence known without

further delay. But still he could not bear to speak and break the

spell. And, while he hesitated, she glanced up with a startled

expression and met his eyes with hers.

Had he been a Chinese mandarin in full regalia she could not have

looked more astonished or alarmed.

"What--what--who are you?" she asked him.

And Hector, stepping back in some confusion, like a boy caught

stealing jam, stammered:

"Excuse me--er--I beg your pardon!"

By this time she had jumped hastily to her feet, dropping the jagged

tear into concealment and swiftly dabbing her eyes with the tiniest

of handkerchiefs. Annoyance crept into her face. Then came an

awkward pause and her annoyance seemed to conflict with a sudden fit

of shyness. They faced each other in silence.

"How--how long had you been there?" she enquired at last.

Hector, self-possession rapidly returning, came out from among the

screening leaves into which he had temporarily recoiled.

"Not long," he said. "Only a second or two, in fact. I had no idea

you were there, of course; and then--when I saw you--I was rather

caught unawares and I hated to disturb you because----"

He paused, the ghost of a laugh in his eyes. 'Well, because what?'

was what he wanted her to say. But she continued to look at him in

silence and he finished the sentence himself:

"Because you looked so beautiful."

She flushed a little. He wondered if she would reprove him.

Instead, she bit her lip and a hint of laughter played about the

corner of her mouth, reflecting back his whim.

"I know I ought to have coughed or something. I most certainly

should have coughed. I really am very sorry."

The apology was genuine. She accepted it and said so, not in so many

words, but in continuing the parley.

"I tore my dress," she explained ruefully, as if in self-defence. "I

wanted to go home by a short cut. So I thought I'd try this lane.

The stile here makes it a shorter cut than ever. I--I wanted to get

over it ... and couldn't. And my dress caught on that nail; and it

was a new one, too!"

She struggled with a fresh outbreak of grief and an obvious confusion

which seemed to say: 'I know that ladies don't scramble over stiles.

But the truth is the truth and must be told. What do you think of

me?'

Hector looked at her gravely.

"That really is too bad," he sympathized. "It's a fine dress; and a

very awkward stile."

She was grateful.

"Yes, isn't it--or aren't they--is that what I mean? I shall have to

walk back by the long way now."

With that, she prepared to go. The dialogue was obviously over and

Hector had received his dismissal.

But he could not let the matter end so soon and in this manner!

"Excuse me," he said, gently extending a detaining hand, "excuse me

for intruding further and for contradicting, but--you don't really

have to, you know!"

She looked at him quickly--apparently decided to ignore this

assertion--moved on a step or two--thought better of it--and,

halting, asked him calmly:

"How is that?"

Again the bantering look crept in Hector's eyes.

"Well, if I may suggest it, I can help you across."

He nodded towards the stile.

She looked puzzled, followed his glance, and smiled amusedly.

"I don't quite understand," she told him.

Hector smiled back.

"I don't believe you're very heavy. I'm sure--" greatly daring, he

ventured the plunge, "I could easily lift you over."

She raised her eyebrows gravely. Hector felt that he had damned

himself.

"Lift me over?" she queried.

He bowed his head.

"But--I--I don't even know you," she laughed delightfully. "You're a

complete stranger."

Hector echoed her laugh. Then, becoming serious again, "I can soon

put that right. Name, Adair, Hector. Rank, Sergeant-Major.

Regiment, the North-West----"

"Oh, I know _that_," she exclaimed. "North-West Mounted Police,

aren't you?" There was a good deal of pride in her voice, as of one

who parades his knowledge. "Why, of course--you're staying with the

Tweedys--down----"

She stopped, ashamed of her enthusiasm.

"You'll think I know too much," she said. "But news travels very

quickly in a quiet little village like this. And anything is news.

Oh, I didn't mean----"

Hector smiled.

"I know," he said. "I understand. So I needn't really go on with my

explanations now. You have my name and credentials. In turn----"

"Yes?"

"To complete the introduction, you must of course tell me yours."

"Mine? Oh, I couldn't do that!"

"Come along," Hector urged. He was thoroughly enjoying this episode.

"That's only fair. Why not?"

"But----" she seemed doubtful. "This--this is all so very informal."

"Still," said Hector, "even so--you can at least tell me your name

and where you live. You might as well, you know, because I'll find

out anyway. You forget that we of the Police can find out

anything--yes, anything. And we generally have our way."

Looking at him, she knew that he spoke the truth, But she fenced

skilfully.

"Then I'll leave you to find out," she smiled.

"Please tell me."

She shook her head. His earnest gaze discomfited her.

"Come along. Considering that I'm going to render you a service,

it's the least you can do."

"Service?" she enquired. Then, remembering, "Oh, but I really don't

think it should be done."

"Nonsense," he laughed. "I'll do it so quickly--so nicely--that you

won't even know it till it's all over."

She shook her head again and began to move off.

"Don't go. Think of the short cut!" he urged.

"It's not right," she said.

He wondered if she really meant it or was only laughing at him.

"Come on!" he said firmly, eyes discreetly challenging.

Suddenly she tossed her head, with a little laugh.

"Come on, then!"

Fatal things, stiles! Instantly he had swung her lightly off her

feet. His face was so close to hers that he could count the lashes

of her eyes and smell the soft perfume of her wonderful hair. For

some reason unknown, he felt intoxicatingly dizzy. Deadly things,

stiles!

He had her at an advantage. But she had trusted him and he was a

gentleman. Climbing easily over the stile, he set her down.

Breathless and laughing, she drew back a stray strand of hair with

her small white fingers. He waited.

"Thank you," she said quietly and extended her hand. Surely this was

not the end?

Hector took the hand.

"Won't you tell me who you are _now_?" he asked.

She laughed, her eyes dancing.

"Please!" he said. "Remember, I can and will find out in any case,

if I wish!"

His square jaw backed his words.

Suddenly she seemed to relent.

"You remind me of Gareth, the Knight of the Round Table," she

declared solemnly. By this time she had gently withdrawn her hand.

"Do you remember? He rescued a damsel in distress--" her eyes

lighted up mischievously, "and----"

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"She was very unkind to him. Her name was Lynette."

"Well?"

"You may call me Lynette."

Then she turned swiftly and left him. He hoped she would look back.

But she did not.

IV

Moving rapidly through the orchard, the girl passed on to a square

white house, and slipped upstairs to her room. Her heart was beating

furiously, her eyes were bright and her head bewilderingly full of

Indians, teepees, pistols, horses and Mounted Policemen, Mounted

Policemen everywhere.... Impulsively she dropped to her knees at the

window, head on arms, and let the evening breeze ruffle her gleaming

hair. Her eyes were full of dreams....

That night, when she had gone to bed, the visions of the afternoon

came back to her and, getting up again, she resumed her place at the

window. The darkness was more soothing than the sunset and the light

breeze cooler than at dusk. For what seemed hours she knelt there,

trying to put aside the pictures in her mind, yet glad they would not

leave her. Beneath them all, something she had once read ran

persistently through her head, a bit of poetry, going something like

this:

_When may Love come to me?

In the cold grey hush of the dawn,

In the fierce brilliance of noonday,

In the soft warm blue of twilight

Or the depth of night.

Perhaps in the freshness of Spring,

Perhaps in the fulness of Summer,

Or the blazing glories of Autumn

Or the white silence of Winter,

Then Love may come to you!_

_How may Love come to me?

Like a monk, colourless, solemn,

Or perhaps a little boy, weeping,

Or a sinner, pleading repentance,

Or a poet, listlessly dreaming,

Or a soldier, radiant, glowing,

Passionate, terrible, merciless,

Girdled with lightning and thunder.

Hailed with a pealing of trumpets,

Thus may Love come to you!_

So the words ran. From them, boldly, perplexingly, continuously,

these few phrases stood out before her:

"In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of

Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing.... Then Love may come to

you.... Thus may Love come to you!"

"_In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of

Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing...._"

The words would not leave her. And, every time she saw them, they

conjured up before her eyes--again, she could not tell why--a picture

of the man she had met that afternoon.

Hector finished his walk that night in a pleasant reverie, thankful

that the gods had rewarded his charitable visit so swiftly and so

kindly. After dinner, careful to conceal the depth of his interest,

he described the girl to Mrs. Tweedy.

"Sort of red-headed girl, eh?" said the good lady. "Well, not

exactly red-headed--more goldish, copperish, bronzish! With

beautiful features--almost classical, I think--but not so

inhuman--taller than most girls--and such a voice! _Of_ course I

know her! That's Frances Edginton--Major Edginton's daughter--an

only child. She has the sweetest little mother--oh, such a sweet

woman! He's a bit of a tyrant, though--regular martinet--stuck up, I

think--well off, retired Army, and very strict in his ideas. No,

they don't live here. Where do the Edgintons live, Arthur? Don't

know? Neither do I. I don't believe anyone does. They're only here

for the summer. In fact, this is the first summer they've been in

Arcady. Yes, that's his daughter--Frances Edginton. Lovely, _I_

think--yes, that's the word! Lovely!"

"I'll have to meet her again," thought Hector, "just to show I've

found out. Lynette--eh?--Frances--not much alike--both awfully

pretty----"

Turning in that night, he was astonished to find that he could not

put Frances out of his mind. Her face remained before him, sometimes

with that bantering little smile upon it, sometimes sweetly serious

and framed, always, with that radiant halo of red-gold hair. Now he

was watching her sitting on the stile in tearful contemplation of her

torn new dress. Now he was holding her hand again, feeling the

gentle pressure of her fingers when she thanked him. Now he was

listening to her laugh, heir merry, bubbling little laugh, now to her

voice, that was one moment level, smooth, passionless, the next

intense and earnest and always soft and melodious as running water,

caressing as a summer breeze. Really, her voice--it was something

quite extraordinary. He quite agreed with Mrs. Tweedy there!

Voice, laugh, face, eyes, hair--one after another, round and round,

they all came back throughout the night. It was a pleasure simply to

think about them. Was he growing sentimental, he wondered? What was

the matter with him, anyhow?

In the morning, he knew--or thought he knew.

"I must be in love--at last."

He saw, now, that the prophecies of his friends in Winnipeg had been

heralds of this moment, sent by Destiny.

He _was_ in love--at last!

V

Few men reach mature years without experiencing a sincere 'affair.'

Those that do are generally leaders of monastic lives remote from

cities or settlements where women congregate--are soldiers, sailors,

missionaries, pioneers. But when love comes at last to men of that

stamp, especially when their segregation has preserved their boyhood

ideals regarding women, especially when stern discipline of soul and

body and close contact with Nature--another name for God--has

prepared them for its coming--then they love as men love at their

noblest, deepest and best, bringing with them the fiery ardour of

strength developed and the reverent rapture of youth.

Hector was 'of that stamp.'

Having discovered that he loved Frances, he shaped his campaign, as

usual, with a sure, determined hand. The first thing, of course, was

to see her again, as soon and as often as possible. He had

originally intended to leave Arcady by the earliest train. Therefore

as a preliminary, he sent, in the morning, the following wire to John:

'Unavoidably and indefinitely detained. Important business.'

"Well, it _is_ important business!" he excused himself.

Next, he went to Mrs. Tweedy.

"Mrs. Tweedy, I like Arcady so well that I've decided to accept your

invitation and stay on a while."

"There, now!" said Mrs. Tweedy. "Why, I'm just delighted! And we'll

have _such_ times!"

Mrs. Tweedy, true to her word, immediately launched him out like a

debutante among the villagers and summer visitors, who asked him to

all their picnics, dances, and parties. At the first of these

affairs, he met Frances. Catching the amused recognition in her

eyes, he forestalled Mrs. Tweedy's formal introduction:

"Oh, yes--Miss Edginton. I've already had the honour----"

Mrs. Tweedy melted away.

"You see, Lynette," he added, "I told you the Police always find out!"

"O, marvellous young knight!" she answered.

Thenceforward he constantly sought her company.

In due course he met the Major, who was all and more than all that

Mrs. Tweedy had said. He reminded Hector, to a certain extent, of

his own father. A middle-sized, very soldierly man, with keen eyes,

snow-white hair and drooping white moustache, he conformed to a

distinct type of which Colonel Adair has been a taller and finer

edition. Toward Hector he adopted an attitude of distant politeness,

which seemed to say at every turn, 'Thus far and no farther.' 'He

knows I'm a gentleman,' Hector decided, 'and consequently feels that

he must be at least courteous, though it hurts him terribly--because

I'm an N.C.O.' But, knowing the Army officer of the Old School, he

neither heeded nor resented Major Edginton.

Mrs. Edginton he fell in love with at once. She was small, dainty

and faded, very sweet and gracious. From Mrs. Edginton Frances had

stolen her pansy eyes, clean-cut features and extraordinary hair.

Hector decided that Mrs. Edginton had long played second fiddle to

the Major. But he also saw that Frances was all the world to her.

'If anything ever happens,' Hector thought, 'she'll find herself torn

between her duty to her husband and her love for her daughter;

though, everything considered, I think a man might count her an ally.'

On the whole, she reminded him of his mother, just as the Major

recalled his father.

These observations were made at odd moments, when he was not busy in

pursuit of Frances. In this pursuit, he threw his whole heart and

soul towards the objective, forgot everything and everybody else and

was thoroughly and completely happy.

Every hour with Frances brought forward some delightful discovery

serving to bind him still more closely. Her beauty did not fade on

closer acquaintance, as that of other women did, but became, if

possible, more obvious than before and revealed some fresh and

striking charm that dazzled him. The sun, striking through her hair

from this angle or that, gave it a tone which hitherto he had not

seen. Her eyes, in such a light, took on a purple mystery as yet

unknown to them. And so on and so on, as the youth in him directed.

He found out other things, concerned, not with her appearance but

with her personality and character. The sweetness which had first

attracted him proved even deeper than he had imagined. She developed

an unexpected serenity of strength. Her sense of humour, of which he

had learned something at the stile, he discovered was a charming,

eager, whimsical thing, quaint and illusive as a fairy, brilliant as

a sunbeam, subtle as far-off laughter. He loved a woman with a sense

of humour, such as that possessed by Frances. He loved a woman with

insight and understanding. She had both. She possessed, in fact,

everything necessary to create between them a powerful bond of

sympathy. Her ideals were just as he would have them. Quite

obviously, she was meant for him.

In the meantime, what practical knowledge of her had he acquired?

From her own lips he acquired it, in short order. Her father was

English, her mother a Canadian. They had met while the Major was in

garrison at Halifax and had been married there. She looked on

herself as a Canadian and Canada was her home but she really had no

home at all, unless it was her father's in England, which she barely

knew. The Major had retired long ago and the family had been

wanderers ever since she could remember. She had lived and attended

school in the States, in France and England until old enough to 'come

out' and had made her debut in London. Today she knew 'Society'--as

distinguished from 'society'--amazingly well, after only two seasons.

Her stay in Arcady was in the nature of a rest cure. Her normal life

lay in fashionable circles, among titles and flunkies and

millionaires. In a short time they would be going back to that life

but had not yet settled on their movements.

To Hector, this was discouraging. It meant that their paths, though

Fate had brought them together for a time in Arcady, lay really far

apart. Hers led through worlds of wealth and ease, inhabited by the

fortunate few, his through poverty and toil, inhabited by suffering

millions. Well, never mind. Here, in Arcady, they were on common

ground, The future?--He dared not face the future, so he let it go.

So, day by day, beneath her influence, his love developed and grew,

not like a sun leaping suddenly over the horizon or a flower opening

slowly into radiance but like a strain of music that marches from a

soft, plaintive opening through a spreading, quickening crescendo to

a glorious, crashing climax which has in it immeasurable power and

majesty, peace and tenderness and a hint of terrible storm. And eyes

that understood saw her wakening and responding, like a placid lake

stirred gradually, almost imperceptibly, to movement by gathering

winds. Hector could not see it. He was a child in such matters.

Mrs. Tweedy saw it, though, was thrilled to ecstasy and did her level

best to make a match between the two.

Day by day--and all that remained now, for Hector, was to make the

plunge. Had he been anything but a child in such matters, he might

have read his answer a thousand times in her eyes. As it was, he

kept putting off the fateful day. But time was moving on. Within

five days he must leave for the West. Of his total leave period of

forty-two days, thirty were already gone. Seven days were required

for the return trip West. Of the five days remaining, he owed his

mother the majority. His scheme was to speak to Frances first, then

to her father as soon afterwards as possible and then, whatever the

outcome, to go home. If he was successful at this, the greatest

moment of his life, he would make further plans later on. All

arrangements, whether successful or not, he had to fit into this

essential--his return to duty on time.

Seeing her at the Post Office one morning, he seized his opportunity.

"Meet me at the stile tonight--at any time that suits you," he

whispered.

"You sound like a popular song," she whispered back.

She had never had a rendezvous with him before.

"Don't laugh," he pleaded. "Will you? Don't joke with me--now.

Will you?"

She nodded, secretly overwhelmed.

"At nine o'clock," she told him.

VI

At half-past eight Hector left the house to walk to the stile.

The night was perfect--an ideal night in autumn--with all the mystery

and magic that go with it. A harvest moon, like a great balloon of

orange silk illuminated from within, rode low in the darkness,

apparently tethered among ghostly trees in the heart of a valley

beyond a sheaf-crowned ridge. A filmy veil, all shadowy blues and

mauves and greys, invested day's familiar objects with a strange and

supernatural beauty. The night air was soft and cool and murmurous

with the music of innumerable insects. The wind sighed gently in the

trees, with an eerie whisper, and brought with it a hundred subtle

perfumes.

At nine o'clock he reached the stile.

She was there.

"Is that you, Hector?"

Her voice was startlingly distinct.

"Yes, Frances."

They began to talk--at first in broken, uneasy sentences--later

settling down into their customary ease. After a time, he slowly

swung to the personal. She knew that he was paving the way to the

vital matter and she helped him cleverly.

Now, haltingly but indomitably, he began. He was very close to her

but staring into the darkness before him. She could see his face in

firm silhouette against the moonlight sky.

"All my life"--he was saying--"I'd been in a military atmosphere,

with soldiers and sailors all round me. The thing was in my blood.

You can't understand--well, perhaps, you can, because your father was

a soldier, too. But you're a woman. Only men, I think, can feel

the--I suppose I mean the fascination of it, though that isn't just

the word I want. And even men can't understand it, unless they're

born in it, too. It's a wonderful thing, reserved for Service

families. Besides, I'd been encouraged. I was to have a Commission

and be a soldier. That's what I was told. So, when I was a baby,

even, I was dreaming of some day being an officer and--well, I admit

it--a great man."

"Go on," she said; his quiet voice holding her.

"Well, my father's death seemed to smash all that. I was a youngster

and it broke my heart. However, I plucked up courage at last--and

began to look out for a chance. I was determined I was going to be a

soldier, anyway, and if necessary I'd work my way up to a Commission.

I hung on to my dreams."

"Poor little Hector!" she murmured.

His words conjured up a pathetic picture. She touched his hand

sympathetically. He went on.

"One day my chance came. They were organizing the Mounted Police.

Not exactly soldiers--but soldier-policemen. I joined--and set out

to work my way up."

She was silent, enthralled. She knew that a strong man was paying

her the greatest tribute in his power--was showing her the most

secret places of his heart.

"It was hard work--hard, hard, hard. But I loved it--do still. I

had luck, of course. Early this year, they made me Sergeant-Major of

my division--after ten years. The next step is either Regimental

Sergeant-Major or a Commission. I hope it's a Commission--I'm almost

certain it will be. Probably next year. You know what it will mean

to me."

She thought she knew--the goal of a lifetime and of innumerable

trials and struggles achieved at last, by sheer will-power and stark,

unaided effort.

"But that's not all. You know, I couldn't talk to everyone like

this, Frances. It sounds--well, I don't know how it sounds. You can

see what I mean. Never mind! I'm going to finish. Where was I?

Oh, yes--that's not all. Remember, I said just now, I wanted to be

not only an officer, but--but a great man! When I get my Commission,

my first dream is reached. The other one remains.

"During those years, Frances"--his voice took on a more intense

note--"I never--I never thought of--well, love. That is, in a

personal way. Somehow, it never entered my head. I was busy--busy

all the time. Women are few and far between out there. I suppose

I'd have--well, fallen in love, like most people, if I'd met anyone

that attracted me--or fitted in with my ideals. But I never did. I

suppose I'm hard to please--thank God. I wanted," he was stumbling

now, like a man on a rough road, in the dark. "Oh, you know--a

woman--well," he laughed, "of course, that was beautiful--but a

_good_ woman--strong--and fine as true steel. Well, they're rare--or

I'm blind. I began to think--when I thought of it at all--that they

didn't exist. But they do!"

Her heart pounded. He had taken her hand in his, in a strong grasp.

"I've found one in particular."

For a moment he was silent.

"Now, with that girl--well, there's nothing I couldn't do--nothing!

With her to work for, nothing in the world could hold me back! I

want her, because--well, my dream of greatness might never come

without her--it wouldn't be worth while even if it did--and the road

would be--well, the longest, hardest road that ever man trod. I want

that girl's love to help me. Together--but, God knows, I don't want

to brag.

"I've found her--Frances--but I hardly dare to tell her. I'm

only--well, I'm only an N.C.O., with a precarious future. My

Commission is almost a certainty but even that won't add much to my

pay, which will be a pittance to the end of time. Even after that,

if I do ever amount to anything, it will still be a pittance. Today,

in the eyes of the big world and of those this girl associates with,

I'm nobody; and if I got to the very top, I'd still be nobody, to

some of them. She has millionaires and famous men in bucketsful to

choose from--and she's so wonderful that they're fighting to be

chosen. So how could I hope she'd look at me? Out where I come

from, of course, it's different, Frances. A man's a man not because

of what he has but what he is. And that's right. It's not money

that counts, in this world, really. It's the big things--the

things--well, the things worth fighting for. I think I'm fighting

for a big thing. And I--do you know, Frances, I think this girl will

see things with my eyes? So I'm going to tell her that I love her

and--leave the rest with her. Do you think I'm right?"

His heart--all his hopes, dreams, ideals, his simple, noble creed and

code--were lying before her now, for her inspection. In that moment,

she saw him a giant, remembered what he had said, 'With that girl to

work for--nothing in the world could hold me back!' and felt herself

dominated with his strength and courage.

"Frances," he repeated, quietly--close to her, now, and both her

hands in his--"do you think I'm right?"

Her heart was hammering.

"Yes," she whispered.