you--Frances--_you_!"
For answer, she lifted up her face to his. Then she was in his arms
and nothing else mattered....
She was the first to break that rapturous spell, with words that
stabbed him like knives or caressed him like soft hands.
"You've been--so honest with me, Hector," she said, a little
tremulously, "that I'm going to be the same with you."
He bowed his head.
"You said you were afraid of famous men and millionaires--why,
Hector, they sicken me. Hector, you're the first real man I've ever
met. Oh, it isn't just that nice red coat--though that goes to my
head like champagne, Hector. You are--you really are. Every girl
has dreams, too. 'Some day,' I dreamt, 'I'll meet a
real--real--man--brave, strong, chivalrous, with great, yes, great
ideals--a fairy Prince, a Knight of the Round Table!' They say they
don't live now--Oh, but they do! Perhaps the armour's gone, but they
are Knights and Princes just the same. 'Well,' I said to myself,
'some day, God willing, I'll meet a man like that. How will I know
him? Oh, I'll know him, never fear! And he'll come'--well, just as
you came, Hector. And--it was you. I knew at once. Hector, I'd go
with you to the world's end, if you asked me. But--Oh, Hector,
there's----"
"I know," said Hector calmly. "Your father! He doesn't care for
N.C.O.s----"
She looked away hastily.
"Oh, don't be ashamed," he added. "It's quite natural."
"You must see him," said Frances at last. "But you don't know him.
He has a terrible temper and he's like granite--just like granite.
Well, you must ask him--dear. We have to risk it. I don't think
he'd--hurt me, Hector. Besides, you're a soldier's son--and--it
isn't as if you had no prospects. But oh, I'm afraid--I'm
afraid----" Her head sank on her breast. He took her two hands
again and turned her towards him suddenly.
"Look at me!" he ordered, terribly earnest.
She obeyed.
"Frances--if--if your father says 'No'--will you wait? Will you
stick to me? Only say that, and _I'll_ wait for ever--to the very
end, Frances. You say you know me. Well, believe me now."
Tears brimmed in her eyes.
"Will you, Frances?"
"Oh, Hector, I'll promise! But my father--my father----"
"I know. But I'll speak to him. I'll bring him round. For you,
Frances"--his voice rang--"I'd fight the whole wide world! You must
trust me."
"I'll tell Mother," she whispered, in return. "She'll be on our
side. She'll help--prepare him, Hector. And, because you've got to
go so soon," she faltered, but went on bravely, "I'll arrange things
for tomorrow night. And I'll--I'll be praying for your success,
Hector. You--you don't think me miserably weak?"
"No," said Hector swiftly, "of course not. Then that's settled.
But, Oh----" for the first time his voice quavered with a note of
agony, quickly suppressed, "if I fail--if I fail--wait for me. Wait
for me! Will you?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Frances----!"
The moon went out behind a bank of cloud and the wind freshened,
wailing.
At last they parted ... till 'Tomorrow.'
VII
"And so----?" said Major Edginton.
The two men faced each other in the Major's big living-room.
"And so," said Hector, "I want, sir, to marry your daughter."
The Major remained silent for a moment. Hector's heart beat
furiously. Outwardly, he was perfectly calm.
"You--want--to--marry--my--daughter?"
Astonishment and stinging scorn!
Hector held himself strongly.
"Yes, sir."
Then suddenly the Major dashed his mask aside.
"And who the devil are you?" he almost shrieked.
The cry was to Hector a violent slap in the face. Deadly insult and
utter defeat dominated it. But he stood firm. He had anticipated a
hard fight.
"I don't know what you mean," he replied calmly, "I have already told
you who I am."
The Major stared at him. For a moment Hector's personality beat him
into sanity.
"But, good God, man--my daughter!" he exclaimed, under his breath.
His hard eyes glared sombrely beneath their white brows. "_My_
daughter!"
"Yes, sir."
Whatever happened, Hector must keep his temper. To lose it would be
fatal.
"But--but----" the Major was incredible now and inclined toward
laughter, "why--do you realize who I am?"
"Yes," said Hector, quite unawed.
"I'm a Major in the Regular Army! And you--and you--why----"
"Well?"
Hector's voice was very gentle but it said 'Be careful!'
The Major was deaf to the warning.
"You're nothing but----" he choked, "You're nothing but a N.C.O!"
The assertion goaded. Still Hector kept his temper. After all, this
was Frances' father, who could make or mar their lives.
"That's true--nothing but a Sergeant-Major. From your point of view,
sir, that's my misfortune. But many N.C.O.s are gentlemen. Anyway,
I'm not asking your daughter to marry a Sergeant-Major who will be a
Sergeant-Major for ever. I've already told you, sir, of my
prospects."
"Prospects----" muttered the Major, "prospects are--prospects, sir,
nothing more. To me you're a ranker and always will be. Have you
got your recommendation for a Commission yet?" he concluded swiftly.
"No, sir."
"Well, then--but, good God, what's the use of my wasting time? I
don't care whether you've a thousand recommendations! I look for
something better for my daughter than a man in the ranks--or an
officer who's served in the ranks. Confound it, they're all one to
me--understand? My God, it's like your--your colossal
impertinence----!"
He flashed into fury.
Hector had paled under his tan. He put out a hand.
"Steady, sir, please. Let's take this thing quietly."
"Hang you--now you're attempting to dictate--damnation, sir!"
"No, sir, I'm not. I want a chance, that's all. Your
daughter--loves me, sir. You wouldn't break her heart?"
This was only adding fuel to the fire.
"Loves you? Break her heart? My God, but you--you have the most
colossal impertinence I ever beheld!"
"It's true, sir. She's told you so herself."
"Pah!" the old man snarled. "She's a child--a child! A mere
infatuation! A mere infatuation! Puppy-love, sir, puppy-love. You
sweep her off her feet, swaggering about in your wretched red
coat----"
"Wretched red coat, sir? The Queen's uniform, don't forget--the
uniform you wore!"
The blow went home. The major mumbled.
"Well, in any case," he resumed at length, "it's a mere infatuation!
As soon as you're gone, she'll forget all about you!"
Malicious vindictiveness inspired him.
"Do you think so, sir?"
Hector's voice was very unemotional.
"Yes, sir, I do! Why, good God, Sergeant-Major"--Hector knew that
the 'Sergeant-Major' was slightingly meant and for a moment a strange
light glowed in his eyes--"my daughter associates with men of
position--men--men--hang it all, gentlemen!"
Again another slap in the face, vicious, stinging!
"Do I take it, sir," again Hector let the insult pass, fighting his
battle for Frances with all the strength he had, "that the fact that
I'm in the ranks is the big objection?"
The Major remained gloweringly silent.
"Is it?"
"M-m-perhaps," the old man snapped.
"And--and----" try as he would, Hector could not prevent his voice
trembling as he put the fateful question, "will it stand against me
always--Commission or no Commission?"
"Certainly," the Major replied firmly.
"That's final?"
"Good God, yes! How many times must I tell you?"
"But--_you're_ a civilian now. I associate with gentlemen-civilians.
We all do."
"Gentlemen-rankers do not associate with the circles in which my
daughter is accustomed to move, sir! But I will not prolong this
discussion. I don't know you--I don't want to know you----" the old
man, rising to a pinnacle of temper, leaped suddenly to his feet.
"Who are you? Nobody! Where do you come from? God knows! Who the
devil was your father? God only knows! Your mother? God knows!
Oh, leave my house, sir, leave my house!"
Insult on insult, stonily endured, for Frances' sake; but this last
tirade was more than Hector could stand. He forgot everything
now--Frances--the future--everything but the fact that this ranting
old bigot had cast unforgivable reflections on his dead father, his
mother and his own personal honour. Standing rigid under the rain of
abuse, he remained so now, but his fists were clenched and his eyes
blazing in a deathly face.
"Major Edginton," he said hoarsely, "thank God, you're an old,
helpless man or nothing in the world would save you now! You can
take her away, you can do what you like, but you can't kill her love
or mine! We'll beat you, in the end. I'm sorry you took things this
way. The fault for tonight's breach lies with you. Remember
that--always!"
"Leave my house!"
Hector turned on his heel and marched blindly out of the room.
Frances, on the landing upstairs, fearing the worst, was praying
incoherently, desperately. And then--the door of the living-room
swung open, was softly closed and she heard Hector's firm
tread--one--two--three--four--go through the hall, out of the house
into silence, awful, heart-breaking silence.
Those measured sounds beat on her brain. She never forgot them.
They marked this fact: Hector had failed.
Drunk with agony, she heard her mother's quavering, pitiful voice,
'My dear, my dear!' ...
Three days later the tearful Mrs. Tweedy smuggled a note into her
hands.
"What was he like?" she asked.
"Oh, don't ask me--don't ask me," said Mrs. Tweedy.
This was the note--dated from John's:
"Frances, my Darling--
"I'm sorry I couldn't see you before I left. It was useless to
attempt it, as your father would not allow it. Frances; your father
and I had a terrible quarrel. He wouldn't hear of our marriage and
he insulted me as no man ever dared to do before. I stood it as long
as I could but, though I regret it now beyond any words, I couldn't
put up with what he said in the end. Perhaps when I've got my
Commission, he may relent. You must do your best to influence him.
But in any case, I ask you to keep your promise to me. Keep it, and
your courage. No matter how things go against us or how long we have
to wait, I'll never change. Before God, I swear this, Frances. I
know you have the strength to be true also. And if you ever can
write or come to me, 'North-West Mounted Police, N.W.T.' will always
find me. I'm going back today.
Till we meet again, then--
Hector."
The letter was written on a piece of John's notepaper with the Adair
crest upon it. She looked at the crest and at the proud, stern
motto, 'Strong.--Steadfast.' The words seemed to her the very
embodiment of Hector, of his promise, of everything she must be and
had sworn to be in the long and hopeless night before her.
Chapter III
I
Hector and Superintendent Denton walked over together to
headquarters, a group of sunlit buildings in the shadow of the
straining Union Jack. A brilliant young sentry paced the path
between trim rows of whitewashed stones, an orderly kept guard in the
ante-room and the atmosphere breathed the ceremonious and formal
efficiency invariably surrounding such places. Somewhere within this
group of buildings was the Holy of Holies, the sacred and inviolate
sanctum which held the High Priest of this Canadian Order of Knights
Templar, the terrible and all-powerful Commissioner of the North-West
Mounted Police.
They entered the Presence.
"Sit down, Denton." The Commissioner cordially waved the
Superintendent to a seat. "Good afternoon, Sergeant-Major."
Hector saluted. The Commissioner looked at him quizzingly.
"I called you 'Sergeant-Major,' Mr. Adair. As a matter of fact, my
recommendation which, as you know, was forwarded to Ottawa after
Major Denton had brought your services to my notice in a very
laudatory manner, has been approved and your appointment as Inspector
is gazetted. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on an
unusually well-earned promotion."
He held out his hand. Thus was Hector's lifetime ambition achieved.
Presently the Commissioner told Hector to draw up a chair.
"I haven't had you brought here merely for this, Adair. I'm going to
entrust you with an important--a very important--mission and I think
it as well for me to give you some details myself."
In a hushed voice, he proceeded to explain.
"You've known that for several months we've been fearing trouble with
the Indians and half-breeds; but I doubt if you know just how serious
the position really is. Ever since the Government surveyors
appeared, Adair, there's a storm been brewing. The half-breeds want
their land parceled out in their own way, not the Government way; and
they mean to have it. That's the main grievance. They have others.
In addition, they see the railway making rapid progress and they know
what that means. Once the railway goes through, settlers will follow
in tens of thousands and the old order--the order we found when we
first came here--will have received its death blow. They don't like
this and they mean to prevent it. I think they'd be all right if it
wasn't for the agitators. They're in every settlement and camp and
they're doing their best to bring about a revolt. Our business is to
keep the peace; and I mean to see that it is kept.
"I'm having all camps, settlements and agitators carefully watched.
Every movement, every event is known to me. One of the reserves
which needs especially close watching is Bear Tooth's, near Broncho.
Bear Tooth's all right, I think, and so are most of his chiefs; but
his young men are warlike, there's a lot of them and Broncho is
temptingly close by. If they kicked over the traces, the results
might be terrible. So I must have them watched night and day--but
diplomatically. Bear Tooth mustn't be offended. Nothing must be
done to stir up suspicion or hatred. This needs a good man. I'm
sending you, Adair. Your qualifications are exceptional. You've
proved yourself over and over again. And you've made it your
business to know the Indians thoroughly. It's a devilish big thing
for a new officer, Adair. But you're an old Policeman--and big
enough."
Then, while Hector expanded with pleasure inside, he added:
"Inspector Lescheneaux will be working with you but you'll be
independent of each other. He knows and likes you, so it will be all
serene. It means your posting to 'I,' of course. Major Denton will
be sorry to lose you, but it's inevitable. And, as you'll
understand, it's wiser to post a newly-commissioned officer to
another division. This is one of the most important tasks I could
give you, Adair. Your appointment and transfer will appear in
tomorrow's orders. Good luck--and, again, my congratulations!"
II
There are moments in life, great moments witnessing the realization
of a cherished ambition or embarkation upon some fateful enterprise,
when one prefers to be alone. This, to Hector, was one of them. He
left the Superintendent at headquarters and, going to his room, tried
to grasp to its full extent the meaning of what had just occurred. A
wild exultation had hold of him and he was for the time being drunk
with success--so drunk that he could not think. He wanted to drag
himself out of this mental state and soberly to contemplate the
situation.
Gradually his mood became less intense and he was able to con things
quietly over, like a child lingeringly, one by one, over a string of
new toys.
What did his Commission mean to him?
Firstly, it meant that the goal of all his lifetime and especially of
the past ten strenuous, passionate years had been achieved, that his
long fight for the leadership which had been his birthright was ended.
There was joy enough in that.
Secondly, he told himself, it meant that the second, more distant and
ultimate goal of his life was now within reach if not within sight.
The soldier-blood in him had always longed for the opportunity of
great service to his country, for advancement and distinction, not
from selfish motives, but from the pure, clean motives underlying the
highest form of patriotism. 'Give me power, that I may use it for my
country's good'; that was the sentiment animating him. The power,
though not yet given him, was now close at hand. The long, toilsome
pilgrimage had brought him at last to the edges of the dawn.
There was also joy enough in that.
But thirdly--and perhaps, chiefly--it meant--Frances; not that
Frances was now his, by any means. But he could stand up now before
her father and say: 'You wouldn't listen to me before, because I was
not an officer. I am an officer today. What is your answer?'
When Hector left Major Edginton's house, he had suffered a
broken-hearted agony far beyond any physical torment he had ever
known. Injured pride, self-pity and, above all, outraged love had
combined to harry him and he had tasted their torture as only strong
natures can taste it in the first tragic shock of disillusionment.
This agony had driven him out of Arcady early on the following
morning without an attempt to say 'Good-bye' to Frances. It made
itself more acute because it forbade him to tell Mrs. Tweedy what had
happened, though he knew that she sensed the crash and he was longing
to give way to his misery. It persisted in even fiercer form during
the last few days at John's, but during that time, in spite of it, he
had forced himself to write a note to Frances for secret delivery by
Mrs. Tweedy. At Winnipeg, on the return journey West, it laughed in
bitter mockery in his ears when he saw his prophetic friends and was
compelled to make a jest of the absence of the bride they had
expected. And it reached its climax when, writing Mrs. Tweedy for
news, he learned that the Edgintons had left Arcady, immediately
after his own departure, for an address in New York given her by
Frances--the only message the girl had been able to leave.
Gradually, however, the first acute pain passed, leaving a dull,
lingering torment which in time became almost a part of himself.
With this transition, he recovered something of his old buoyancy and
determination. Destiny had made a mock of him but its trickery,
after all, might be only temporary. He knew what he would do! He
would redouble his efforts, by hard work and untiring study, to win
his Commission. And then, when he had his Commission,--well, Major
Edginton would relent, if Destiny so decided. And if he did not
relent--well, he would still have his old dreams of advancement to
follow and would be on the threshold of achievement.
Having made up his mind, he at once set about the task with his usual
vigour. The task was not difficult. Long before meeting Frances, he
had made great progress. His officers were interested and helped him
along in the kindest possible way. Eighteen months after his return
from Arcady, six months previous to this day of days, Superintendent
Denton had dropped him a hint of what was coming.
And today--today!--
He was happier than he had been since that fateful night now two
years past.
He knew that, as far as Frances was concerned, he was not yet on dry
land. Nevertheless, he had her address--the lifeline holding them
together, without which he felt he would certainly have drowned. It
was enough, today, to know that he might at last stand up before
Major Edginton to claim Frances. He was determined not to admit any
possibility of failure, to leave no room for fears that Frances might
have moved again or, worse, forgotten him. She had not written him?
That was nothing; the Major might have prevented her. It was
sufficient that he had her address and that she had promised to wait
till the end.
So then and there he wrote to her, telling her everything and saying:
'Please let your father know and, if there is any hope whatever, just
advise me accordingly and I'll write to him....'
The letter finished, stamped, sealed, his thoughts drifted to the
work awaiting him near Broncho. He recalled the Commissioner's
words: This needs a good man.... One of the most important tasks I
could give you....' and, recalling, realized that this was a
marvellous opportunity. He felt a return of the exultation which had
lately possessed him. The possibilities were endless. Let him but
handle this situation successfully, receiving the distinction which
would naturally follow and Major Edginton would probably change his
mind soon enough!
III
With the spring came War.
In spite of all the efforts of the Commissioner and his followers,
the Old Order, as he had prophesied, seeking to stave off the
inevitable, broke out in arms against the New.
Lescheneaux, much excited, told the news to Hector.
"_Mon Dieu, mon_ leetle _camarade_! She 'as com', _oui_! She 'as
com', _en fin_! 'Ave I not said so all along? An' af-taire all we
'ave don' for dem, _les_ dam' scoun-drelle! De way we 'ave slave',
we 'ave toil', we 'ave sweat' an' freeze an' starve'--_sacre_!
_Écoutez vous_, 'Ect-eur! De 'alf-breed an' de Indian--dey 'ave
risen, _oui_!"
"What details?"
"Dey 'ave risen--risen everywhere! Dey 'ave attack' our fellows an'
kill nine and wounded I don' know 'ow many more up dere near Goose
River. De Commission-aire 'as march' wit' all 'ands, dey bring in
outlyin' detachment' everywhere as can be spared. De Crees, de
Assiniboines are up wit' de 'alf-breed, Calgary, Edmonton, all de
Nort'-West is alarm'. An' we--we 'ave about t'ree-four 'ondred men,
among twenty-t'irty t'ousan' Indian! By Gar, 'Ect-eur, I t'ink we in
for 'ot time, _oui_!"
Rubbing his hands, the little Inspector grinned ecstatically.
"You're right, that's certain," Hector agreed. "But it won't last
long. They're sure to send troops from the East. Why not
before--eh?"
"_Oui_! But don' as' me. _Mais, restez tranquil_! We see plenty
fon, all de same. But I'm sorry, ver' sorry--for _you, mon ami_!"
"Why for me?"
"_Eh_? _Mon Dieu_, I 'ave forgot to tell you de mos' important t'ing
ov all! I leave you today an' tak' _mes enfants_ along, too. You
are to stay 'ere an' watch Bear Tooth. Me? Maybe I get into de beeg
war. But you, _pauvre petit_, you mos' stay 'ere an' eider Bear
Tooth rise an' eat up your leetle 'andful--goolp!--in one modful or
'e stay quiet an' you 'ave no fon at all. No alternative, _mon ami_.
Nevaire mind. You will 'old a position alone even more important den
before!"
Hector looked at his companion blankly.
"Hold on!" he urged. "You're going away with all your men and I am
to remain, watching Bear Tooth, with ten? Is that right?"
"_Absolument_! _Regardez_--'ere is de order."
Hector looked at the document.
It was quite true. He was to be left alone to watch Bear Tooth; and
the tribes were up through all the North-West!
The hell the agitators had brewed was boiling over everywhere. Bear
Tooth was quiet but his braves might rise at any moment. The
Commissioner looked to him to sit on the lid of that particular
cauldron with his little detachment and see that they did not do so.
He took a deep breath.
Lescheneaux, seeing himself already engaged in hounding the rebels,
slipped jubilantly away with his command that night and Hector was
left alone.
IV
The uprising, as everybody knew, was the product of the campaign
which had been continued throughout the winter, among the ignorant
and inflammable half-breeds and Indians.
That winter had been a busy one for Hector. In co-operation with
Lescheneaux, he had kept Bear Tooth's reserve under constant
observation. Indian and half-breed scouts helped the Police in
watching the camps, attending the meetings and patrolling. Hector
did his best to allay the mischievous talk. The Indians knew they
were being closely observed but they did not know that no man went to
or from the reserve or spoke a single word of sedition without
Hector's knowledge. Night and day, week after week, in thaw or
blinding blizzard or bitter cold snap, Hector and his men were in the
saddle--silent, inconspicuous but never-resting guardians of the
Queen's peace on the great frontier.
Meanwhile, the shadow of revolt grew darker and darker over the land.
And now--the shadow had become substance. Broncho lay at Bear
Tooth's mercy--unless Hector could hold his warriors in check.
It was a terrible position.
Fortunately he had two staunch allies: Bear Tooth himself and Father
Duval.
Hector had kept in touch with Father Duval, whom he knew to be using
all his tremendous influence to divert disaster. He had also sounded
and consulted Bear Tooth. The chief, he felt, was reliable and loyal.
Between them, Hector felt, the situation might just possibly be kept
in hand.
For the fortnight following Lescheneaux's departure, he was
constantly on his feet and in constant communication with Father
Duval and Bear Tooth.
His first move was to consult and advise Father Duval.
They met secretly.
"Whatever we do, Father," said Hector, "we must use tact, logic and
persuasion. Threats? Useless!"
Father Duval smiled.
"Eh-h-, but you are a man af-taire my own 'art, Inspecteur. Dese
_pauvres sauvages_--dey are joost children--_bébés_. Show a beeg,
beeg stick--dey be'ave! _Vraiment_! But show a leetle stick--poof!
Dey knock you down! Ef you 'ad all de Police be'ind you--ah! All
right--shake de fist! But as you 'ave only ten men--ah! Talk
quiet--ver', ver' firm but always no t'reat! _Mais, attendez_! Dese
fellows are no fool. We give dem logic, as you 'ave said an' I bet
you all stay quiet."
"My sentiments exactly, Father," Hector agreed. "Now, you are a man
of peace; and they know it. There's not an Indian from here to the
Arctic Circle that doesn't trust you, Father. Whereas--well, they
know the Force is in arms against this revolt and they might think I
was just talking to bluff them if _I_ see them first. What I
suggest, Father, is this: go to them, get them together, point out
how we have helped them and treated them fairly always. Show them
the treacherous side of this uprising. Tell them the mistakes the
rebels have made. Then go on to point out the power of the Great
White Mother--how we've already avenged the Goose River affair--how
an army is already on its way to crush the enemy--how the flow of
troops will continue, thousands and thousands of Shagalasha, until
the war is ended at any cost and the leaders of the rebels hanged.
Don't forget the rope, Father. Then--"
"Den--_pour fini_,--tell' dem 'ow much wiser to stay on reserve, till
de ground, sell to de Government an' be true to de Queen. Eh, _mon
enfant_, I know! 'Ow you say? Count on me, count on me! _Mes
pauvres petits_! _Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_!"
"Then that's settled. _I_ will stay away--it will be more
diplomatic. Afterwards--well, we'll see how you get along first."
"_Bon, bon, bon_! I go. Pray for me!"
And Father Duval departed on his great mission.
After forty-eight hours of--for Hector--intense anxiety, Father Duval
returned, victorious.
"I saw every-one, Bear Tooth an' all," the priest told Hector. "I
talk joost as we agree, you an' me. We are not yet escap' from de
wood, _vous-comprenez: mais, le bon Dieu_, 'e as bless our effort,
_oui_! You go yourself now to Bear Tooth! You see."
"Father," said Hector, "the country owes you a great debt--"
"Could I leave _mes enfants_ to go stray at de word of fools an'
demons?"
In the meantime, things were marching steadily to a climax in the
field. The number of rebels had increased. The Mounted Police had
been driven out of their northerly posts. Troops were moving
steadily Westward, from all Canada, to reinforce the little bands of
settlers and Police in whose hands the safety of the country rested.
Would they be in time? Heaven alone knew.
In Broncho, Colonel Stern was organizing a column to co-operate with
the soldiers when they arrived. Hector longed to be with him, so
that he might bear an active part in the operations. But he could
not leave the reserve without orders. To leave it at that moment, in
any case, would have been madness. The cauldron, despite Bear
Tooth's pledge, was still bubbling. The dashing, brilliant role was
not for Hector; his was the harder, less attractive part of mounting
guard. Fate was cheating him out of the glorious opportunity of a
lifetime. But he was too good a soldier to complain.
Suddenly came splendid news--a letter from Colonel Stern, 'through
the usual channels,' offering Hector command of the body of scouts
then in process of formation for work in the Broncho column.
This was the Colonel's way of showing his long-established affection
for and confidence in Hector. The temptation was immense. Hector
decided to see Father Duval and abide by his decision. He had been
fretting out his soul for action; but without a clear conscience, it
was--of course--impossible to leave.
"Father Duval, can you control Bear Tooth without me? Is it safe for
me to go to Broncho?"
"_Mon enfant_," the priest smiled, "you 'ave don' your share. Today,
Bear Tooth an' me--we 'old de 'ole tribe in our two fists--so!
Go--and de Lord go wit' you!"
There was no doubt of it. Between them, they actually had kept the
most dangerous tribe in the North-West in check for good and all.
"If you feel, as I do, that Father Duval is capable of dealing with
the situation henceforward," Hector wrote to his chief, "I would
recommend that Colonel Stern's request be granted."
This answer placed his fate in jeopardy. But he was honest to the
last.
Came, after torturous suspense, the following:
"In view of Father Duval's opinion and yours, you will withdraw to
Broncho with your detachment forthwith."
Conscience was satisfied and the Road to Glory laid open! When
Hector told the men, they cheered like mad.
"Tak' good care yourself, _mon petit ami_!" said Father Duval. "An'
don' worry about us no more!"
That night they marched to Broncho.
V
Broncho was in a turmoil. Already overcrowded with settlers,
cow-punchers, loyal half-breeds and their several families from the
surrounding district, it was daily becoming a richer prey for the
bloodthirsty rebels. Appalling rumours kept it on the rack. Special
trains, loaded to capacity with women, children and faint-hearted
men, pulled out for the East and safety in an unending stream. The
streets were full of galloping horsemen, raw bands of eleventh-hour
recruits and long-faced citizens hastily organizing themselves for
defence. Saloons, eating-houses, stores and stables talked War, War,
War.
Through this turmoil, hailed as a troop of angels descended from
Heaven to the rescue, Hector and his scarlet-coated policemen rode to
Colonel Stern's headquarters. The Colonel, wearing a gunner's
uniform of incredible age and an expression of the utmost calm, met
them at the door.
He was obviously delighted to be back in harness.
"Well done, well done, Adair!" he exclaimed, returning Hector's
salute. "You're the best thing I've clapped eyes on since I got
here. Just the man I need--chose you myself! Come inside! Glad to
see you--at last!"
In the office, the Colonel explained the plan of campaign--a push
northwards of three columns, of which the Broncho crowd was one, as
soon as the Commander-in-Chief was ready, to converge on So-and-So.
The Colonel's lot was to consist of a squadron, under Hector, two
battalions of militia from the East--'all the way from the lower
Provinces, Adair--there's your united Canada!'--and a detachment of
artillery--'Yes, they've given me a pop-gun!' The advance would take
place very soon, as speed was essential if the northern settlements
and Western Canada were to be saved from a general conflagration.
The Colonel was having some difficulty in arming his men, with whom
fire-arms had become unnecessary of late years, owing to the
protection afforded the country by the Mounted Police; but that
difficulty was in the course of solution.
"And I've an ideal Sergeant-Major for you; an old friend."
"An old friend?" Hector was puzzled. "Who--let me see--"
The Colonel's eyes twinkled under their deep thatch of eyebrow.
"Sergeant-Major Whittaker! You couldn't have a better man!"
"Whittaker! Well, I'm--; Jove, that's splendid! Is he here, sir?"
A short time later, these two, who had last met as Sergeant and
senior N.C.O., were shaking hands as officer and civilian.
"Yes, sir, I came down right away," said Whittaker, smiling all over
his bronzed hatchet face. "Fact is, I heard Colonel Stern was here
organizing a column and--well, anyway, I'm like that old warhorse in
the Bible, saying 'Ha! Ha!' among the Capt'ins. I smell the battle
afar off an' there's no holding me. Once a soldier always a soldier,
Mr. Adair!"
Things were looking up! With Sergeant-Major Whittaker and his little
troop of constables to stiffen it, Hector could make such a corps out
of the splendid raw material at hand as would write a new chapter in
the history of frontier cavalry.
It was at this time that Hector was introduced to the machinations of
the political press, with which he was to have a close acquaintance
later on.
Newspapers from the East came in regularly, full of prophecy,
criticism and advice, each more hysterical than the last. Issue
after issue, blatantly headlined and editorialed by know-nothing
party reporters fifteen hundred miles distant from the scene of
action, reached the hands of Hector and his constables, uttering such
things as these:
ARE THE MOUNTED POLICE ASLEEP?
IS THE COMMISSIONER AFRAID?
SOME DRIVING POWER NEEDED.
KOW-TOWING TO THE REBELS.
One day he saw his trumpeter tearing one of these papers to shreds,
crying:
"Damn them! Damn them!"
"Never mind them, Mason," Hector said. "All servants of the
Government have to put up with such attacks. We'll just show we're
too big to pay attention to them."
But when he realized that these papers were believed infallible by
the militia regiments and half the people of Canada, he found it hard
to preserve that equanimity.
In a week of desperate work, Hector produced a body of over a hundred
scouts drawn from the world's best sources, of no uniformity but
fully supplied and able, with its string of pack-mules and extra
horses, to move independently of the main body, go anywhere, do
anything and fight anyone on earth.
In ten days' time, they received orders to advance. At the head of
the column, cheered frantically by hysterical citizens, they swept
out of Broncho.
VI
From the naked woods on the rolling brown ridge beyond the valley
came the echo of the last lingering shots of the enemy. In the
deserted rifle-pits which pocked the hillside lay many motionless
forms, dark, dwarfed by distance. Two or three white-faced corpses
sprawled on the open ground in front of the pits. One of them wore a
red coat, which, in the afternoon sunshine, stood out startlingly,
like a blot of blood, the one bit of colour in the entire picture.
Near by was a dead horse, legs in air, repulsively grotesque.
Colonel Stern's column had attacked and completely defeated the rebel
right wing that morning in a position several hundred miles beyond
Broncho. Covered by a weak rearguard, the enemy were now rapidly
retiring.
In the distance, out of range, the transport--heavy farm-wagons,
light carts and pack-mules--were clustered. With them were Hector's
cavalry.
Colonel Stern stood with his staff close behind the firing-line,
studying the enemy's country.
Utterly unflustered, he began to talk rapidly to his senior officers.
They were all agreed. The time had come for a vigorous pursuit.
"Boy," said the Colonel to an orderly, "give Mr. Adair my compliments
and tell him to come up here at once."
In five minutes, Hector joined his commander.
"Adair," the Colonel said shortly, "it's evident we've shaken 'em
badly. A hard, merciless pursuit now may end everything. Are you
ready to start?"
"At once, sir."
"And, oh--Adair. I didn't mention it before; but I had a despatch
from the C. in C. this morning and it appears--" he whispered a
smiling sentence.
"The man himself?"
Hector for once was shaken out of his calm.
"The man himself--the cause, the leader, the keystone of the revolt!
Joined 'em three days ago, the General says. Chase 'em night and
day; give 'em no rest; harry 'em; smash 'em; capture that bird and
you'll be the hero of the whole campaign. It's the chance of a
lifetime, Adair; but I'm glad you've got it."
For a moment Hector paused, his eyes far away. He thought of that
night in Regina when he had seen in this uprising a marvellous
opportunity. But he had never dreamed of it developing such an
opportunity as this! For a moment he felt as if everything were
already his--Frances--success--the world--
"I'll follow you, Adair."
"All right, sir."
To get back to his men was a matter of a few minutes. Rapidly he
gave his orders:
"Trumpeter, the 'Fall In'--look sharp. Quartermaster, follow up with
the pack-mules. Sergeant-Major, detail an escort. 'Tion! Number--"
The trumpeter rattled out the call. The men fell in, their horses
plunging. The scouts swept off in front. Then, in single file,
their scarlet-coated leader at their head, Hector's dashing frontier
cavalry circled the camp at full gallop, tore through the ranks of
yelling infantry, waved a hand in farewell and thundered down the
slope and away.
VII
In a wide and desolate expanse of open country patched with sloughs,
Hector's men, after twenty hours of unceasing pursuit, were suddenly
and definitely checked. They had lost the trail.
Gaining touch with the enemy soon after the start, they had
maintained it all through the night, through the grey hours of the
morning and so on till nearly noon. The night's pursuit had been
fierce, wild work, like some mad vision of a disordered brain,
fierce, wild work at a furious pace, over ridge and hill, round lake
and wood, through brawling river, down broad valley and deep ravine
and full of fearful, unforgettable sights and sounds: scouts on their
knees, like ape-men in the gloom, feeling the ground for telltale
tracks left by the rebels; the rattle of sliding stones as the
cavalry plunged along the steep face of a gully; distant shouts of
the scattered enemy, trying to keep touch; loud shouts, near at hand,
of warning--fear--command; strings of horsemen, glimpsed for an
instant, gigantic and pitch black against the lighter blackness of
sky; the faraway drum of many galloping hoofs, sensed rather than
heard; the flash of rifles, darting from rock to rock; the swift
glare of light on the face of a rebel scout, firing his last round
home; horse and man dashed for a breathless moment in a sudden blaze,
like a man and horse of living flame, as the nearest cowboy answered
surprising shot with shot; and now and then, cleaving the darkness
from some unknown source, the unearthly scream of a wounded animal,
expressive of the hate and terror of it all.
Daylight found the pursuit still hanging on, though reduced in
numbers and still pressing the rebels hotly, though splashed and
drenched from head to heel, parched with thirst, racked with hunger,
worn out and running short of ammunition. By that time the
battlefield of yesterday and Colonel Stern's column were alike far
behind and they were alone on the verge of the great lake district to
the north. But Hector drove his men tirelessly forward, with a
merciless 'Push on!'--'Push on!'
And now the trail had been utterly lost for over an hour and they
were checked, willynilly, for good and all.
With a little party to cover the operation, the scouts were working
on a cast, in a wide circle, like questing hounds. Hector had with
him some of the best scouts in the North-West and he was among the
best of them himself; but they could not find the trail and all hands
were near despair.
In this crisis, he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to
have old Martin with him. But Martin Brent had been in his grave for
years.
He had no-one like him to rely on.
The situation was agonizing to Hector. This was his first great
experience as an officer and he knew that not only his own men but
every man in the Police would judge his capacity as an officer by his
present success or failure. Besides, Frances--his dreams of
progress--everything he most desired was dependent on this one issue.
He had built up a thousand visions with victory in this trial as
their foundation. To fail now--after pushing his men and himself to
exhaustion, after hounding the enemy on and on for twenty desperate
hours--would mean the end.
Then, above even these things, there was the country. Its eyes were
on him. Colonel Stern looked to him. He had it in his power to save
a welter of bloodshed, to smash the revolt, to bring its leader to
the scaffold--if he could only find the trail.
But the trail was lost.
He remembered, too, the newspapers, in his mind's eye saw headlines
like these:
REBELS TOO SMART FOR POLICE.
INSPECTOR ADAIR'S FAILURE.
RESULTANT LOSS OF LIFE.
LET HIM RESIGN.
He heard, too, in imagination, the sneaking, mocking whispers of
malice and jealousy condemning him on every side.
He went on searching relentlessly; but in his heart the spectre of
defeat had already risen.
Till, all at once, the light came--sent, once more, by Destiny. With
Mason, his trumpeter, he had moved off to a flank, on the slope of a
hill, covered with small bushes, the crest just above them. Suddenly
the bushes on the crest parted and an Indian appeared. Mason threw
his carbine to his shoulder.
"Don't shoot!" Hector roared.
He saw that the Indian was a squaw and unarmed.
But it was too late. The boy's jumpy nerves had pulled the trigger.
"Oh,--!"
Hector ripped out an oath that none had heard him use before and ran
up the hill.
He found the woman lying in the bushes. The bullet had gone straight
through her chest. She was done for.
Hector, seeing that the damage was done, had now only one thought--to
question her about the rebels.
He lifted her--she was small and light--kneeling and holding her in
his arms. He did not yet recognize her.
Speaking her own tongue, he began.
"Where have you come from?"
She opened her eyes with a great effort and looked at him woodenly.
A vague perplexity crept into her haggard, deathly face; a faint
smile; then all her perplexity vanished and, smiling almost
rapturously, she put out a trembling hand--touched his
cheek--whispered--
In a flash, he knew her--in spite of her thinness, suffering, faded
beauty. His mind went back through the mists of three--four--five
years and more, back to Milk River, Fort Walsh and Sleeping Thunder's
teepee--
It was Moon.
He uttered a strange, inarticulate cry--struggled to speak--could
not--
She touched his cheek a second time. Agony was in her smile, making
it terrible.
"Oh,--they've killed--me," she said.
"Moon!" Hector burst out, "What are you doing here?"
She still smiled--the old sweetness always in her face--through tears
of pain that dimmed her beautiful, soft eyes. Every word was an
intense effort.
"So--you have--come," she whispered. "I stayed--behind--to meet you.
I was--so tired--so tired--and Loud Gun--he beat me. I knew--you
were--following us--everybody knew it, for--everybody--knows you.
You will--not beat--me. You have always--been kind--to me. I
thought, 'I can--go no--further. I will stay--behind--and go to him.
And he--will protect me.' So I--stayed. That is why--I am here. I
was waiting--till you came--near. I--thought I--would jump out at
you--as children--do. I--thought 'How pleased and surprised he--will
be.' But, oh--they shot me!"
Hector held her closer. A thin trail of blood trickled pitifully
from the corner of her trembling, childish mouth. The sight pierced
him. He took her shaking hand.
"Where is Loud Gun?" he asked, his voice like flint.
By this time the trumpeter and some of the men were standing near, a
silent group, puzzled, unable to understand what the woman said but
able to see that their leader had been deeply stirred. Hector barely
realized that they were there.
"Loud Gun?--He is with--the rest of them--the rebels. He is--chief
of the band--now. My father--is gone. He rides the ghost-trail.
Had he--been--living, his people, my people--they would not--have
been--led away--into this--cruel--madness. But--" she repeated, "he
rides the ghost-trail. And I--will soon--O, I am happy!--I will soon
be with him!"
"You say Loud Gun has been unkind to you?"
Hector's voice was trembling, though he tried hard to control it.
"At first--he loved me. But then--he--tired--of me. But now--all
that is over; and I do--not--care."
The words came heavily, painfully, from her lips, like cripples, one
by one. The blood from her mouth still trickled down. Hector tried
to stop the thickly welling flow from the hole in her chest with his
handkerchief but could not.
"Listen, Moon." He steeled himself for the effort. "Tell me--where
have they gone?"
She looked at him, striving always to smile. But her eyes were
already clouding, her voice and senses failing.
"Will--it--serve you--if I tell?"
He answered swiftly: "It will be the greatest service man or woman
ever rendered me, Moon. And it will end this miserable, useless
rising."
"So?" she said. "Then--I will tell--you. Why should I not--tell
you? Loud Gun--and his--people--have cast me off. Then, why should
I--not--tell you--whom I love--ah, yes I love--as much as--ever?
They have gone--they have gone--"
He felt her slipping away and made a desperate attempt to hold her
back.
"Yes, yes! Where have they gone? Quick, Moon--tell me!"
"They have gone--gone--that way." She pointed with her shaking hand.
"They--rode--through--that slough--there--to hide the tracks--and
down a little stream--on the other--side. So--for three hours--and
then--for--"
"Yes?"
"For the--great lake--in the north. Its name--its name--"
"I know it!" said Hector. "I know it."
She had shown him the trail.
And she was fast nearing another trail--a longer trail--herself. He
felt her clutch his hand convulsively.
"Then--I--_have_ served you, after all!" Her voice was very weak but
there was great joy in it. "I--could--not have--you for my own self;
and you--would not let--me--be your servant then. But the
Great--Spirit, He--has--been--so kind to me. He has--let me--aid
you--serve you--when you--most needed me--and in the--end. Oh, you
of the gentle heart--see how your kindness to the--poor and
lowly--brings you--a reward!"
Her eyes rested now with a vague longing on the heedless, bright blue
sky, the dazzling sunshine, the long sweep of the empty hills and the
slough, a sheet of silver. To renounce all this--and lose him with
it! All the agony of all the partings and renunciations that have
ever been was in that one wistful glance.
Hector's heart--soft as a woman's, as are the hearts of all really
strong men--was breaking and this was more than he could bear. A
slow tear coursed down his face. He did not heed it. But she saw it
there.
"Tears--for me?" she said wonderingly. Again she smiled, the bravest
smile he had ever seen. "Ah, do not weep for--me. I am
happy--to--die--for--you--with you. It is--just as I--have
always--wished."
A moment more and the fierce grip of Death seized her. She felt it
coming, shook convulsively, torment indescribable on her face--
"Moon!" Hector implored.
She opened her eyes--smiled again into his--
"Hold me--tight!" she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms.
The story was ended.
At last he set her down and was instantly back to the business in
hand.
He shouted an order at the staring men and cleft the silence with a
blast on his whistle that brought the others racing in.
"All right, Sergeant-Major--send the scouts off--this way! Follow up
with the rest--follow me!"
Mason, the innocent cause of Moon's death, came running up with the
horses, recalling to Hector's mind--Loud Gun.
Then, once more, but for the last time, the astonished trumpeter
heard his leader ripping out most fearful oaths.
"I'll settle him! By God, I'll settle him!" he ended.
Savagely spurring his horse, he put himself at the head of the scouts
and flashed off on the trail the rebels had taken.
VIII
Broncho was _en fête_--spreading herself. The uprising was
over--every spark of revolt completely quenched. That afternoon,
there was to be an official 'welcome home' to the city's heroes.
At the head of the column forming for the march to the platform was
Hector and his cavalry--a rejuvenated troop, happy as larks.
But Hector was more serious than the men had ever seen him.
"C.O. got the hump? Just look at him!"
His mind in a turmoil, Hector obeyed the order to march off. The
Broncho band, of citizens of all ages, uniform caps their only
regalia, burst into semi-harmonious strains and led the way through
the crowd.
And the crowd--looked at the bronzed young officer on his noble
horse, remembered his record--and worshipped.
Hector heard their Hosannahs thundering to the sky, saw men, women,
children, all madly excited, swirling round him, waving innumerable
handkerchiefs, flags, hats--and still floated in a world of dream.
They were grouped round the platform now. The Lieutenant-Governor of
the Territories and his party appeared; 'God Save The Queen'; a
salute; hysterical cheering!
Colonel Stern, a wonderfully handsome figure, with his keen face,
hooked nose and long moustaches, came riding up with his staff.
Passing Hector, he smiled kindly; then joined the
Lieutenant-Governor, who began a speech in his praise.
Bursts of cheering! The Lieutenant-Governor shifted to a new theme.
Hector, still in a daze, caught snatches of these remarks.
"The dashing young leader ... officer of the gallant and well-beloved
Mounted ... spearhead of the advance ... exposed himself recklessly
throughout ... when the time came, swept fiercely in pursuit ...
engaged them finally at ... where they were caught between the lake
and ... could not escape ... though greatly outnumbered, smashed the
rebels utterly ... captured not only the remnant ... but their leader
... head of the whole revolt ... himself ... thus single-handed
bringing ... campaign ... swift and glorious conclusion ... yes,
Inspector Adair!"
Then a wonderful thing happened. The impatient crowd broke its bonds
and instantly filled all the space about the platform. It rushed
round Hector. He found himself suddenly walled in by a field of
exultant faces and dimly realized that they were cheering him ...
cheering him....
Over this heaving mass a voice suddenly threw a roaring word, hailing
Hector by the name long given him by the Indians and sometimes by the
civilians, in token of the strength and fearlessness which they
considered him, the embodiment of himself:
"_Manitou-pewabic!_" shouted the voice. "_Manitou-pewabic!_"
Instantly the crowd took the cue and roared the name, sometimes the
translation of the name, in one great tumult of sound:
"_Manitou-pewabic!_"--"Spirit-of-Iron! Spirit-of-Iron!"
For a moment, then, coming out of the clouds, Hector felt, for the
first time in his life, the tremendous exultation of wide fame and
brilliant success. This crowd, these cheers, were his. That name,
that wonderful name, they had given him. In their way, those people
represented all Canada. The whole country was applauding him.
Destiny had given him greatness. He was no longer struggling to
advance. He had advanced!
"Spirit-of-Iron!" thundered the crowd. "Spirit-of-Iron!"
Afterwards, those who had seen him returning their salutes, remarked
that he had not once smiled.
If they had known the reason why! ... They did not know.
The fact was that, the first wave of exultation past, the
intoxicating drink turned to gall on Hector's lips, became a curse
and a mockery.
Just before falling in for parade that afternoon, an orderly had
handed him a sheaf of letters, his first mail since leaving Broncho
to fight the rebels. Among the letters was one which brought his
heart to his mouth. It was his letter to Frances--returned 'dead'
after wandering over half America.
On the envelope was stamped 'Address unknown.'
In the hour of success, Fate, after her playful manner, had kicked
him off his pedestal and crushed him like a beetle.
The laurels had developed spines that lacerated his hands.
He had lost Frances, utterly lost her.
What did he want with this cheering?
But still the crowd yelled on tumultuously and the great moment
lingered--the moment of universal acclamation--mocking
him--glorifying him----
Spirit-of-Iron!
IX
Autumn dawned. The epic railway lay completed from sea to sea. Its
last spike had been the last nail in the coffin of the Old Order.
The dead heroes of the little war, who had made that victory
possible, slept peacefully, heedless of the thunder of the vast tide
of humanity now bearing down upon the plains for which they died--the
tide which was the first wave of the iron-spirited nation to come.
BOOK THREE: _The Clash_
Chapter I
I
On the open prairie outside the growing city of Broncho, in the heart
of the cattle country, the Mounted Police held their Queen's Birthday
sports.
Mrs. MacFarlane, not long made wife of Inspector MacFarlane, looked
on the scene from her seat in the front row of the officers' marquee
and felt herself quite intoxicated with the glamour of it all.
Mrs. MacFarlane was an American, brought up in the Eastern States and
hence new to the West and particularly to such martial pageantry as
this.
She was also an uncommonly pretty woman, small and graceful, with
seductive eyes of baby blue, fringed with very long lashes; well
marked and arched eyebrows; a mass of hair so fair that it was almost
white; a little tip-tilted nose; and lips that seemed perpetually to
ask for kisses. She had a voice which alternately cooed and purred
and sometimes did both at once. Intensely feminine, she revelled in
her frills and ribbons and exotic perfume, had always an eye for a
good-looking man, craved masculine attention as a child craves candy,
and, when any prospects of the kind were in sight, was alive to
nothing else whatever. If attacked, she would instantly resort to
tears. Altogether, she was of the type which some women call 'sweet'
and others 'cattish.' Most men would call her 'pussy.' But she made
her presence felt; and there was 'more in her than met the eye.'
No one could quite understand how a pretty woman of her stamp, who so
admired physical beauty in men and was herself able to appeal to them
after a certain fashion, had come to marry a big, grumpy, bear of a
fellow like MacFarlane. Some months before, returning from the East
on leave, MacFarlane had electrified every man and woman connected
with the Force by bringing with him this unknown beauty as his bride.
How on earth had he managed it--when, even now, she clearly revealed
her preference by furtively ogling all handsome men, even the
constables? Never mind; she _had_ accepted him. Some day, perhaps,
when the novelty of her present life wore off and she had settled
down to await Eternity in the rough dreariness of pioneer barrack
life with MacFarlane for company--well--things might happen.
Time enough to think of these things when they came! At present,
reclining in her chair, watching the sports with the dreamy little
smile which she knew became her so well, she was perfectly content.
Beside her sat Mrs. Jim Jackson, wife of the now prominent rancher, a
large, good-humoured lady of much animation, with an insatiable love
for gossip. From Mrs. Jackson she learned much concerning the sports
and the sportsmen.
"See that bunch over there--where the big, red-headed man is
standing? They've got an outlaw," Mrs. Jackson explained--"a horse
no one can ride, you know. That particular beast is a corker. He's
killed two men already."
Mrs. MacFarlane shuddered.
"Then why do they use such a horse?"
"Oh, but they have to. Unless the horse is a real snorter, it makes
the competition too easy. Donny, the man looking on--Corporal
Donaldson, y'know, the Superintendent's teamster--can handle him,
don't worry. He's one of the best rough-riders in the Force."
Amid roars from the spectators, Donaldson flashed past the marquee,
the horse bucking furiously. Mrs. MacFarlane caught a glimpse of its
devilish eyes and of the face of Donaldson. She caught Mrs.
Jackson's substantial arm with a pretty terror.
"Oh, he'll be killed! He'll be killed!" she gasped. "And--he's
actually smiling!"
"Why, that's nothing to Donny," Mrs. Jackson soothed. "He's enjoying
it. I've seen him stick till the blood ran out of his mouth and ears
and the brute had jolted him insensible. No one can touch him unless
it's Dandy Jack. _He's_ a wonder. There he is! In the roping
contest--last on the right!"
"Is _that_ Dandy Jack?" queried Mrs. MacFarlane incredulously,
singling out a young puncher in brilliant regalia, who looked as if
he had just stepped from a cocoon and possessed the face of Sir
Galahad. "But--but he's only a child! And just beautiful, Mrs.
Jackson. Who is he? _Do_ tell me!"
"He's an American, aged sixteen, no one knows where from--originally.
Landed in at my husband's ranch one day, dressed just as you see him
now, a regular dream, and asked for work. Jim thought he was some
romantic kid tenderfoot. '_You_ ride?' he says. 'Listen,' said
Dandy Jack, 'if I show you, will you take me on?' 'Sure,' said Jim.
So young Jack climbs up on the cross-bar over the corral gate.
'Drive your worst horse under here--no, never mind saddle or bridle.
I don't want 'em.' As the horse ran under, didn't Jack drop onto his
back and ride him out? So my husband naturally took him on. And
he's been in this country ever since."
"But how wonderful!" sighed Mrs. MacFarlane, gazing adoringly on the
young puncher. "Do tell me more!"
Mrs. Jackson, thus encouraged, chattered on.
"He looks a perfect angel, but my dear--the language that boy can
use! He's the most original cusser west of the Mississippi. They
say he had to cross the line because he killed three men in the
States--brutes who wiped out his father, mother and sisters--a feud
of some kind. The sheriff was a friend of theirs, so he had to hit
the trail for Canada or swing. But that's just a story. It can't be
true, or he wouldn't be busting horses for the Force now--that's his
job."
"Oh, I hope it's true! I hope it's true!" sighed Mrs. MacFarlane.
"And now do point out the new C.O. You know, I haven't met him yet.
Mac's jealous--you've no idea! Of course, he only arrived yesterday,
but still----"
"Do you see that very tall, straight man, joking with your husband?
Well, that's him!"
"Is _that_ him? " 'Dandy Jack' was instantly forgotten. "Oh,
but--but, my dear! I simply must meet him right away. Really, Mrs.
Jackson, never----"
Mrs. MacFarlane, completely carried away, concentrated her attention
on the new C.O. and was instantly brought to her figurative knees.
It was not merely his superb physique and its effect in brilliant
uniform which gave her the feeling that she was in the presence of
one unconquerable--a master of men, a builder of empires. It was his
face--the face of a man still in his prime, but not to be measured in
years. He might have been thirty or thirty-five, but was probably
just on the right side of forty. To a strong regularity of feature,
years of hardship and exposure had given an intense bronze and a
network of stern clean lines, lending the face great character and
nobility without adding much to its age. The man's smile, she
thought, would have melted stone; but he did not smile often.
Otherwise, there was more than a hint of sadness in his serenity.
Once he glanced in her direction and she thrilled under eyes that
were like the frosty blue of mountains seen from a great distance.
Till that moment, Mrs. MacFarlane thought, she had never set eyes
upon a Man.
Mrs. Jackson was babbling away. She silenced her with an impatient
gesture.
"But--tell me about _him_," she insisted. "He must be awfully
interesting."
"He _is_. Let's see--well, now, first of all, you must know he's a
great friend of your hubby's. Why, I thought he'd have told you!
Oh, yes--great friends. They were in the ranks together. The men
love him and would follow him anywhere. He's about six months senior
to and a step higher than Mac. Did brilliantly in the
revolt--seven--ten years ago. Since then he's just mounted steadily.
It wasn't long before he'd got a district. And they've transferred
him up up all the time. His coming here is really a promotion.
Broncho's one of the best plums going. You'd think he was a god, the
way people look at him."
"I'm not surprised," murmured Mrs. MacFarlane, under her breath. "Go
on, dear."
"He's supposed to be a fearful martinet. Jim says he worships Duty
and says his prayers to Discipline. They send all the tough nuts of
the Force to him, and my dear, he cracks 'em. The extraordinary part
of it, Jim says, is half of it's done by kindness. Imagine, my dear,
kindness! But the other half--wow! You know, 'gentle persuasion
first and, if that fails, the torture chamber.' Naturally, it seldom
fails."
Mrs. MacFarlane asked the question which for five minutes had
trembled, wings spread, on the tip of her tongue.
"Is he--married?"
"No," answered Mrs. Jackson promptly. "Nor even engaged. Curious,
eh? Personally, I think there's something mysterious about
him--desperate love affair in his youth, jilted or something. But
Jim, who's known him twenty years, says positively 'No.' Never cared
for women at any time, Jim says. But I've my own ideas--nothing to
go on, of course--just guesswork. Certainly he hasn't a thought or
glance for a woman now. Perfectly sweet but thinks only of his work.
I don't believe the woman lives who can move him!"
"I--_wonder_," Mrs. MacFarlane said softly. Her eyes were shining.
"You must introduce me."
The sports over, the usual prize-giving and speeches followed. The
Lieutenant-Governor led off in 'short but happy vein.' Followed Mr.
Steven Molyneux, M.P. for Broncho in the Dominion House.
His speech was clever, humourous, apt and obviously sincere.
Hector watched and listened to Mr. Molyneux with intense interest.
Until that afternoon he had never met Molyneux. He saw and heard him
now for the first time.
The speaker was a man of about fifty, with a neatly trimmed beard.
Hair, beard and moustache were black, well powdered with grey. Once
lean and hardy, he was just beginning to incline towards the soft
fullness of inactivity and advancing years. His voice was ordinarily
pleasant and he spoke slowly and impressively, but in addressing the
crowd his delivery was hard and rapid, giving him an air of alacrity
which went down well with a western audience. He was well dressed in
the style common to the country, with a low white collar and a bow
tie. In his hand, as he spoke, he waved a broad-brimmed felt
sombrero and a much-chewed cigar, to lend force to what he said.
The Lieutenant-Governor spoke to Hector suddenly.
"A good speaker, Molyneux. Do you know him?"
"No, sir, I do not. Do you?"
"Only officially. A shrewd man."
Molyneux finished his speech and took a seat amid a patter of
applause. Inspector MacFarlane--a heavier, more stolid MacFarlane
than the Sergeant MacFarlane of twelve good years before--was on
Hector's right. MacFarlane had been stationed in the Broncho
district a long time. He should know Molyneux. Hector began to
question him in an undertone.
Molyneux, it appeared, was one of those human sky-rockets common to
new communities. Rising from unknown depths with the starting of a
Broncho livery stable three or four years before, he had climbed
rapidly into the western firmament to blaze suddenly forth as a
prominent citizen and a candidate for the House at Ottawa. No one
knew much about his past and very few cared. In a young country,
where the oldest old-timer can count the years of his citizenship on
two or three hands, where the scanty population is largely nomadic
and where the vast majority concentrate exclusively on making use of
their opportunities, a man's credentials are seldom demanded and
those he offers are accepted as genuine. Mr. Molyneux, coming from
nowhere, had simply set up business. Cash rolling in had given him
good standing. Popularity and more cash had given him his
nomination. Then came the election--and there you were!
"Doesn't he remind you of anyone?"
"No, sir," said MacFarlane, surprised. "Why?"
But Hector did not answer. He was busily delving into the
pigeon-holes of that tenacious memory.
Strip off fifteen years--so his thoughts ran--from the body, with the
fat that goes with it; take away the grey and the dye--it's probably
dye--from the hair and most of the wrinkles from the face; shave off
the beard; put him in riding rig, on a spirited horse; and----
Vague trouble stirred in his mind as he looked at the
politician--almost a sense of coming conflict.
He remembered the keen-faced, lean, sinewy, tawny-headed man with the
smooth ways and false professions of friendship, with whom he had
waged war many years before; remembered how that man had sought his
life, sent Chester to his death and Wild Horse to the gallows;
remembered, above all, without fear--though perhaps this memory was
mainly responsible for his vague foreboding--the note left behind by
that man when he drove him out of Canada:
'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 voice--somewhat disguised--the eyes--which could not be
disguised--and a dozen smaller things; these told him, against every
point of reason, against all his better judgment, that--the Mr.
Steven Molyneux of today was the Mr. Joseph Welland of long ago!
As the crowd left the field after the National Anthem, Mrs. Jackson
introduced Hector to Mrs. MacFarlane.
II
On the morning following the sports Corporal Donaldson, the
Superintendent's teamster, came 'round to Hector's quarters in the
Police barracks at Broncho with his smart turnout, a shining
two-seated trap drawn by two magnificent roans.
"Drive to Mr. Molyneux's office," Hector ordered.
"Yes, sir," said Donaldson. "Giddap there, John A.! Hup there,
Laurier!"
The equipage bowled majestically out at the gate on the road to
Broncho.
Hector had decided overnight to call on Molyneux for several reasons.
His chief object was to ascertain, by diplomatic methods, whether, as
the new commander of the Broncho district, he could rely on the
support of Mr. Molyneux, as M.P. for that constituency, in all
matters wherein that support was to be legitimately expected. His
secondary object--to a certain extent dependent on the first--was to
discover, to the best of his ability, whether Mr. Joseph Welland and
Mr. Steven Molyneux were actually one and the same.
Upon the outcome of his visit, much would depend. In steering his
course through the uncharted waters ahead, it was essential for
Hector to know from the outset whether the local M.P. could be
counted friend or foe; and he was taking no chances.
Hector had already heard certain allegations concerning Molyneux. He
intended, during the interview, to test their truth.
When the Mounted Police first came into the country--these were
Hector's reflections as he sat in the trap--the Northwest had been
free of a certain great influence now beginning to make itself
strongly felt. That influence might be summed up by the one word:
'politics.'. The population was small; it was too busy to care about
the details of government; and it was glad to leave those details in
the hands of the authorities appointed by the Crown, who were the
instruments of a kind of benevolent autocracy. But, as time went on,
the population increased and became more settled, the standard
improved and British democracy demanded that the people should have a
greater voice in the Territories. The years following the
construction of the railway had brought these powers with them. The
people began to send their own representatives to the local
legislature and to Ottawa. The benevolent autocracy passed away and
the double-headed monster lying beneath the surface of all
representative government began to worm its way from the East into
the Northwest--the monster politic with the twin heads, 'favoritism'
and 'pull.'
Climbing gradually upward through this period of expansion, Hector,
eyes and ears open, had come to a full realization of just what the
change meant and could mean. By observation, he had learned
something of the tremendous power possessed by politicians and
especially of its decisive effect, for good or evil, on all matters
affecting the government of the country. By watching the experiences
of others and by enduring similar experiences himself, he had
discovered that politicians can make or break not only any individual
or group of individuals, no matter how prominent, no matter how
worthy or efficient, who chance to be members of a government
service, but even a whole department--an institution--worst of all, a
regiment. And he had at last discovered that the life of such an
individual, especially if he holds high authority, is apt to be one
long fight for the preservation of himself and his subordinates from
the machinations of the monster politic.
From this had risen the further knowledge that, in dealing with
politicians, the personally helpless crusader must remember the old
battle-cry, 'He who is not for us is against us'--that the officer
fighting for his corps under the terrible handicap of an oath binding
him to obey political authority, must do everything possible not only
to deal with the enemies already threatening it, but to prevent other
politicians from joining the hostile alliance, even descending, if
necessary, to the bitter humiliation of 'bootlicking.'
All this Hector had learned in his steady progress up the ladder.
And that was why he found it necessary, this morning, to visit
Molyneux.
Had he not been so utterly bound up in his work, had the good of his
corps been further from his heart, he might have left Molyneux to
declare himself at leisure. But for almost a decade now he had
thought of nothing but Duty and Regiment. The day which had
witnessed his public christening as 'Spirit-of-Iron' and had brought
back his letter to Frances had marked a new era for him--an era when,
convinced that his destiny lay along a lonely path without a woman's
love to brighten it, he had given himself with renewed ardour to his
country. Changelessly true, certain that he could never care for
anyone but Frances, he had waited, hoping always that she might
re-enter his life, until the creeping years had killed the last
remaining flicker of hope. But, though his faith in her had never
wavered, though he always felt that she would have come to him had
she been able, the belief had steadily grown upon him that, after
all, she had not been meant for him. If he could not have Frances,
he wanted no-one. With this in mind, he had plunged headlong into
his work, making it his absorbing interest. Today--except for
occasional moments of fierce regret--he thought of nothing else.
Today, as a result, he held the reputation Mrs. Jackson had given him.
But these years had brought him face to face with no tremendous
personal issue. Thousands of little problems had confronted him in
the ordinary course of duty and he had so dealt with them all.
Nothing in the nature of something predestined--an immense test, a
vast struggle involving, say, the whole course of his existence or
the progress of the country--had appeared to try him.
He was wondering now if all that had passed had been merely leading
up to this issue. In plain words, was his big fight to be
against--Welland? Had the events of fifteen years before, which had
laid the foundations of a lifelong enmity, been as a prelude to a
tremendous drama in which Welland--in the guise of the politician,
Molyneux--and himself, as the champion of straight dealing--were to
come together in terrific conflict?
"Who-o-a-hup, here!"
The trap, after speeding through the fierce sunshine down the long,
unpaved streets between the wooden shacks, past the bleached hotel,
the banks, the red saloons, had pulled up before a pretentious
building sheathed in imitation stone--weakness dressed up as
strength, falsehood as truth. The nicely polished window bore the
legend:
STEVEN MOLYNEUX
FLOUR AND FEED CATTLE DEALER
MORTGAGES MONEY TO LOAN
A moment later the M.P. and the Mounted Police officer--craft and
honesty--politics and patriotism--sat face to face.
The interview was apparently amiable. Hector kept himself keyed up
to the pitch of vigilance, studied the politician's face closely and
tried to trap him into betrayal.
Molyneux, without gushing, was cordial. He offered Hector a cigar.
As they lighted up, Hector opened the ball. "Having just assumed
command of the district, Mr. Molyneux, I called to pay my respects to
the local M.P. There was no chance for us to chat yesterday."
His smile was disarming.
"Quite so, Major. Glad to see you. Beautiful day, isn't it? How
long have you been here?"
"Only since the day before yesterday."
"Ever been in Broncho before?"
"Not since the revolt."
"Oh, yes. You were the hero of that affair."
"Not at all. Luck was on my side. You're a newcomer, I think?"
"Yes, comparatively. About three years now."
"You got in by a big majority, Mr. Molyneux. You must be popular."
"I suppose I am." Molyneux flashed a keen glance at him. "It takes
it to get in nowadays."
"Yes--and to stay in. Of course, you're a Canadian."
"You bet--Maritime Provinces."
"New to the West?"
"No. Spent years in the Western States--even before the railroad."
"Indeed? Ranching?"
"Yes."
"Do you know the--Macleod country?"
Again the politician's eyelids flickered. But Hector met his gaze
unflinchingly.
"You see, I spent a lot of time there myself."
"Never been there in my life," said Molyneux.
"A grand country. I would have liked to have been posted to that
district, I think."
"Oh?"
"Yes," asserted Hector. "I know the people well there. Besides, I
heard they didn't want me here."
"Didn't want you here, eh?"
"Yes. In fact--well, it's been said that _you_----"
"_Me?_"
"Yes--idiotic, isn't it? But it has been said that you were against
my coming."
"Oh, nonsense, Major."
"Of course it is. I'm glad you're behind me. I never doubted that
you were. It makes things so much easier--and, of course, safer."
"But--but--I tell you, Major Adair, you don't know what we M.P.s have
got to stand for! Why, you'd think that the moment a man tacks
'M.P.' after his name he becomes a crook of the first water."
"Yes--strange, isn't it? Never mind, Mr. Molyneux. Your word is
good enough for me."
Molyneux puffed angrily at his cigar.
"We're going to get on well, I feel sure," Hector went on. "I feel
as if I'd known you years already. Together, we can do wonders. I
want the Police here to be safe-guarded from the attacks of
unscrupulous politicians--members of the other party, for example.
The senior officers are united in this desire. It's pleasing to know
I can count on you."
Molyneux looked at Hector solemnly--a hard look in his eyes.
"That's right, Major. As long as they do their duty and the
administration in this district is efficient, they can count on me.
And I've lots of power, Major--lots more than some people think. I
control a great deal of organized----"
Was there a threat beneath this assertion? Hector refused to see it.
"Thank you, Mr. Molyneux," he said, rising to go. "And you can count
on me to fight any attempted political interference in my district
tooth and nail. Make the mess your home if you want to. Goodbye."
Their eyes met; then their hands.
"Goodbye, sir, goodbye!"
Hector was absolutely convinced now. Welland, after hiding himself
for years in the States, had ventured back to Canada. Today he was
Mr. Steven Molyneux. And Mr. Steven Molyneux had not forgotten.
With the closing of the door on the Superintendent, the politician's
face changed. He pitched his cigar away savagely.
A fierce thought was lacerating him:
Had Hector discovered his identity?
In his own mind, he was almost certain that he had.
Much depended on the question. The memory of the ruin Hector had
brought upon his former plans just when they were at the point of
fulfilment was still bright within him. The pangs and
disappointments of his struggle to advance under a new name in a new
country, in constant fear of being detected and denounced, still made
themselves felt. Venturing back to Western Canada when he thought it
safe, in order to avail himself of the country's greater
opportunities for acquiring power and wealth and to work up at the
same time to a position whence he might easily crush Hector, as he
had sworn, he had endured a further struggle of three years'
duration, a struggle which, but for Hector, had been unnecessary; and
this struggle was too recent to be forgotten. If Hector had actually
seen through his disguise--a disguise so perfect that it had
completely deceived all others--even the old-timers who had known Joe
Welland--then, not only his own future was at stake, but the
retribution he had promised himself would be denied him. Hector
would unmask him, have him brought to trial, utterly break him and,
in so doing, save himself. Had he held his hand so long, awaiting
his chance to make Hector's fall the more terrible, only to be caught
in his own trap?
Altogether, Mr. Welland alias Molyneux was in a very pretty panic.
He meant to smash Hector, anyway. It now behooved him to act
quickly. As long as there was the least likelihood that Hector had
discovered him, he could not rest. He decided to put the wheels
instantly into motion.
III
_I am the voice of War and Fame,
Of Truth and Might and Chivalry.
I am the soul, I am the flame
Of all that heroes love to see.
I hailed the day when Rome was born,
I watched the ancient Peoples rise,
I sang a song of laughing scorn
When Dissolution closed their eyes.
Supreme were they one little day
And then--their glory passed away!
Their lips are dumb, their suns are set--
My voice, my voice is ringing yet!_
_In every age, in every land,
When fierce and fell the battle grew,
I bade the hard-pressed army stand,
I steeled the yielding line anew!
I charged the breach, I drew the sword,
And, when the fateful hour was come,
Above the storm I spoke the word
That hurled the howling squadrons home!
In red retreat, in dread defeat,
When Life is Death, when Death is sweet,
When Valour reaps its golden yield,
My voice, my voice controls the field!_
_I am the voice, the brazen voice,
The ardent voice of States and Kings.
Let fools and dreamers cast their choice
With milder music, softer things--
The mistress, I, that heroes love,
I sing the songs they leap to hear.
A guardian spirit, poised above,
I serve the Soldier. Year by year,
By day, by night, 'tis my delight
To guide his eager steps aright.
He lives--or dies--howe'er I will.
My voice, my voice directs him still!_
_And when he sleeps at last
Under the stainless Flag his hand defended
On Death's dark camping-ground--
The battle past,
The long march ended--
Mourning his loss with dirging fifes and drums,
His comrades fire the harmless round
And silence follows--Then my moment comes
And, note by note, with music sadly splendid,
The last to speak, my grief to tell,
My voice the final tribute pays,
Shatters the hush--and says
"Farewell! ... Farewell!"_
'The Song of the Trumpet,' recited with immense fervour by the author
to the accompaniment of a 'flourish off' between verses, though of
the type at which soldiers are apt to sneer, began with the
audience's sympathy and ended in tumultuous applause. Mrs.
MacFarlane, in the front row--she was always in the front row--turned
rapturously to Inspector Cranbrook, her nearest companion, who, in
his whimsical way, was entertaining her.
"Wasn't that just--delightful?" she cooed, flashing him a dazzling
glance. "Now--_who_ was that? Isn't he handsome? My! I never can
understand how you get men like that in the ranks of the Police.
Most policemen are so common."
"You forget this is no common corps," Cranbrook laughed.
"That's quite smart!" she laughed, in return, patting his hand
coquettishly. The action stirred Cranbrook strangely. "But tell me
about him. He speaks like a gentleman--English; and he can recite.
He seems very popular, too."
"Yes, he's not bad-looking. I should think he's public
schools--Eton, Harrow, y'know. He was in my division at Edmonton a
year ago. Name's Humphries--a buck constable. Quite a card--rather
wild, I'm afraid, but humourous all the time. Of course, he's got a
past--must have."
"A woman?" she questioned quickly.
He flushed a little.
"I suppose so. He's too fond of 'em, I'm afraid."
"Can one be too fond of a woman?" she cooed.
"It depends on the woman--_of_ course!" he answered with a touch of
gallantry. "There are other things--cards--and--er--" Suddenly
realizing that he was playing traitor to his sex and also touching on
matters best left alone, he switched abruptly to a former line.
"Yes, he can recite, as you say. Writes 'em all himself, too!"
"_No_--really? _How_ romantic!"
"Yes. Oh, he's rather unique. Does conjuring tricks, plays the
guitar, composes his own music for his own songs, and spouts Latin
when he's--when he's under the weather."
Mrs. MacFarlane clasped her hands in an ecstatic and calculated
gesture.
"O-o-h! I do hope he comes on again."
"Oh, he'll come on again."
The conversation flagged. Mrs. MacFarlane, for the twentieth time,
cast furtively anxious eyes 'round the crowded room, with its row on
row of laughing, eager men and girls, of mingling black and white and
scarlet--scarlet--scarlet, the colour which made her tingle from head
to foot. This was the C.O.'s concert--a special concert to welcome
the new Superintendent, now with them seven days. Why was he not
here?
As a matter of fact, he _was_ there! Had she arrived earlier--the
desire to make a sensational entrance plus natural laziness had made
her late--she would have seen Hector in the forefront. Unexpectedly
called away, he had now returned and was at that moment chatting with
Inspector Forshaw, his adjutant, in a corner, on the very subject of
Humphries, the entertainer.
"That man who just recited, Forshaw," Hector enquired. "Who is he?"
"That, sir?" Forshaw, a short, good-humoured Englishman with
intensely bright eyes and a round, ruddy face, beamed and smiled.
People always smiled at mention of Humphries. "That's a new man to
this division. Name's Humphries. Fact is, sir, he's not much
good--not exactly a bad hat, but wild and unreliable. Gentleman gone
wrong--you know the sort, sir. The usual story, I expect--younger
son--felt his oats--a girl."
The C.O. smiled.
"I'm sorry. He looks whole-wool. I wonder if we can't snatch the
brand from the burning?"
Between Forshaw and Hector had sprung up immense sympathy. Forshaw
was not an old hand in the Force and his service had not brought him
into contact with Hector--they had met for the first time a week ago.
But he was a man of insight, who knew Hector by repute and had with
him much in common.
He immediately saw that the C.O. had become unusually interested in
Humphries.
"Fact is, sir, they've been wondering the same thing at Regina.
They've transferred him to us, sir, as a sort of last resort, for you
to discipline him."
Hector nodded again. The reformation of 'bad hats' was his specialty.
"I see. Well, perhaps I can manage him."
"I'm certain you can, sir," said Forshaw quickly. "You know, he's
clever, in his own way--probably a lot in him. Rather extraordinary
humourist. The story goes,"--the Adjutant's face radiated
merriment--"that he was a remittance man before he enlisted. You
know what _that_ means!"
"So that's the style of fellow he is?" said Hector. "Well, bring him
in, in the morning. Mr. Humphries had better make my acquaintance
before it's too late."
Hector parted with the Adjutant and walked forward. Mrs. MacFarlane
saw him coming. Cranbrook had left his seat on an errand for her.
Her heart beating curiously, all eyes upon her, she beckoned Hector
to the vacant place. He smiled abstractedly and sat down.
The next number started. It was a comic song of the red-nosed
variety. Mrs. MacFarlane hated the song, the comedian, the vulgar
crowd that roared at the jokes. She wanted to talk to Hector. But
her companion was laughing quite as heartily as the rest of them and
she felt obliged to conceal her annoyance and laugh with him.
The number concluded, Hector turned to her.
"You didn't seem to care for that song, Mrs. MacFarlane."
She started.
"What amazing insight you've got, Major!" she declared. "I thought
I'd fooled everyone."
"You're a clever actress," he said, quietly bantering. "But I saw
through you."
"It's just terrible to be so transparent! That's why I'm always
natural."
"It's the best policy," said Hector gravely. "Besides, when one is
so naturally charming----"
The gallantry caressed her and, pussylike, she purred.
"Thank you, sir! Really, for a woman-hater----"
"A woman-hater? Who gave me that reputation?"
He was looking at her keenly with just a hint of amusement. Unable
to fathom his mood, she compromised.
"Oh, there just seems to be an impression 'round--nothing
definite--that you don't care for the sex. But I--just guessed."
"_You're_ the penetrating one now, madam!" he jested. "As a matter
of fact, you're quite wrong. Truly, I _don't_ hate women."
"Honest In'jun?" she smiled. "Then"--dropping her voice--"why have
you avoided me so often?"
"_Avoided--you?_" Real astonishment seemed to move him. He was at a
loss now. Was she serious? "Oh, but you're joking."
"No, I'm not," she pouted. "You've passed me on the parade-ground
dozens of times without a word. You've seen me at the window when
you inspect in the morning----"
"Mrs. MacFarlane"--he still smiled but his tones were earnest--"if
I've ever passed you without speaking, it was because I was in a
hurry. And you know, of course, on parade----"
"I know, I know," she laughed reassuringly. It was not safe to go
too far; and the limit had been reached. "But don't crush me more
than you can help. Nothing hurts a woman more than to be utterly
overlooked by a handsome man."
Her eyes fawned over him. He deliberately let the compliment pass.
"At least you'll admit, now, I'm not a woman-hater?"
"U-m-m!" She was still doubtful. Then, insinuatingly, with a
languid glance, "Perhaps not. But your heart--has it ever been----?"
He read the rest: 'Has your heart ever been given in vain?' This was
an outrageous probing into a hidden wound no-one had ever dared
before. After the first shock, an impulse to put her violently in
her place, as he well knew how to do, flashed upon him. But he was
too chivalrous for that--and besides, it would betray his secret. So
he answered with a smile:
"No, never."
"Never?"
She lifted her eyes and cooed the word. Cleopatra caught Mark Antony
by such methods.
"Never."
"Oh, I can't believe that. Major, you were made--just made--to be a
hero of romance."
"Do you think so?"
He was ironically amused.
"Yes, I do. Many's the pretty woman who has kissed your feet."
Figuratively speaking, it was quite true, and Hector knew it. She
laughed merrily, a hand on his arm. "Listen: I'm going to do
something no-one's ever had the grit to do before!"
"You've done that already."
She was entertaining him, in a way.
"Have I? Oh, good. Well, listen--how your men would admire me if
they knew what I presumed to say!--but it's for your good. Major,
don't be a monk--a hermit. When a pretty woman comes along, don't
shut your eyes. Pretty women and handsome men are made for one
another!"
Her intense womanliness, her warmth, brightness, colour, perfume,
were very near him. Despite himself, he felt their presence and a
hint of their allurement. He was a strong man, physically----
But he answered, rather stiffly:
"Thank you!"
The concert rolled on. She looked at her programme:
'_Song: accompanied by guitar: 'A Game of Cards' Constable
Humphries._'
"Oh, it's that sweet thing again!" she breathed in Hector's ear.
"Don't you think he's wonderful?"
"Very!"
The C.O., from Olympus, to please her, looked down upon the Marquis,
his wayward servant, and tossed him a kindly though untruthful word.
In a flutter of applause, the Marquis climbed easily and confidently
to the platform. He was a slim young man, black-haired and bronzed,
with a short black moustache, beneath which his teeth flashed, white
and even, when he smiled. His features were very straight and
regular. His eyes looked upon the audience with a kind of bitter
humour, as of one who has tasted Life's dregs and bravely bluffs that
he has liked them. One glance at the Marquis told Mrs. MacFarlane
that every word she had heard of him was true.
He carried a guitar and wore the plain scarlet tunic, blue breeches
with yellow stripes and top-boots of a constable.
Dropping carelessly into a chair in the centre of the platform, and
smiling sardonically, he began to sing and play. He had a quiet
baritone which he used as only an artist can. The tune was the
strangest affair, whimsical, yet full of tragedy and the guitar
laughed and wept by turns in his mobile hands.
All the irony of broken hearts, false pledges, loves outraged and
forgotten, was in the song, the music, the agonized but laughing
voice:
_The maid was fair as a maid could be--
Queen of a hundred hearts was she--
And out of the shuffling pack she knew
She drew a suitor she thought might do
(A common habit of flighty maids).
The lucky card was the Jack of Spades--
As poor as a rat but fair of face,
A humble fellow who knew his place,
So she gave him her hand when he made his plea,
Thus raising the fool to an ecstasy._
_But another person lived in the pack,
The handsome, rollicking Diamond Jack--
I think you'll find, when my tale you've heard,
The Knave of Diamonds the better word.
It's easy to see how the tricks turned out,
For Diamonds are trumps the world about.
She flung the Jack and his ring away,
Which wasn't exactly the game to play,
And, crushed and broken, she left him there--
But--what in the Deuce should the Lady care?_
Then slowly, on a dying note of laughter, the last line was repeated,
to trail away into silence:
_--What in the Deuce should the Lady care?_
And in a flash the Marquis was off the platform.
"Well, what a funny song!" Mrs. MacFarlane declared, applauding
vigourously. "I'm sure there's a lot in it, Major. Probably it
refers to something in his past--don't you think so?"
"Undoubtedly."
Again the ironical note struck her.
"You're laughing at me," she sulked prettily. "You shouldn't!--if
we're going to be the good friends we ought to be."
Before Hector could reply, MacFarlane came up. He was obviously
throbbing with jealousy.
Mrs. MacFarlane read his mood and was secretly amused. She loved to
torment him. But she made no reference to his annoyance.
"So glad you've come, old Mac," she said, hand outstretched.
Though he had interrupted her _tête-à-tête_ with Hector, she forgave
him. She felt that she had done a good night's work already.
In the morning Hector interviewed the talented Marquis and warned him
to be a good boy. The Marquis promised that he would.
Chapter II
I
The Superintendent's servant, Constable Blythe, was laying out his
master's mess uniform. The hour was six o'clock in the evening. A
fortnight had passed since the holding of the concert.
Constable Blythe was a man of middle age and not ill-looking,
originally hailing from some one of Her Majesty's far-flung
Dominions--no-one knew which. Like many other Mounted Policeman, he
had adventured into a thousand strange places and a dozen queer
trades before joining the Force. Of these earlier phases of his
history, little was known. But full details of his service in Her
Majesty's forces, which he had embellished for many years in other
climes, were available to those who sought them. And Blythe, though
of a naturally silent disposition, had no aversion to furnishing
these details. In fact, when introduced to the riding-school, he had
proclaimed them at full voice. The horse had gently removed him.
"Here, I thought you said you could ride?" thundered the riding
master.
"What, me?" shrieked Blythe indignantly. "I'm a marine, Gord boil
yer, not a cent-ure!" (He possibly meant 'centaur').
Result: brought up before the C.O.--who happened to be Hector--for
using insubordinate language to his superior officer.
"I can't ride, sir!" he had pleaded tearfully--for a Blythe, he was
at all times the most lugubrious man in the world--"They don't have
'em on board ship. I'm a Royal Marine, sir!"
"Then you shouldn't have joined a mounted corps." Hector's lips
closed like a vise. "C.B. and more riding for you, my lad."
But when Blythe had demonstrated his point conclusively by being
bucked off for months on end, Hector at last took pity on him. A
credit to the Royal corps, he did everything else beautifully and,
like all Marines, knew the duties of an officer's servant backwards.
That was four years ago. And Blythe had served him devotedly ever
since.
Hector came in.
Blythe jumped to attention.
"Well, Blythe--" with a nod towards the carefully folded paper,
purchased ten minutes before, Hector pronounced the usual formula,
"is there anything interesting in the _Prophet_ tonight?"
But Blythe for once did not make the usual response: 'Nothin' to
speak of, sir.' Instead, with considerable agitation, sternly
suppressed, he answered, as he drew off Hector's coat:
"Bit on the front page, sir, about us. P'raps you've seen it?"
"No. Where is it?"
Blythe handed over the paper. Hector's face grew dark with the
severity that could make a division tremble.
Splashed across the page was the heading: 'Do New Brooms Always Sweep
Clean?'
And, beneath the heading, this paragraph:
'According to the old saw, "New Brooms Always Sweep Clean." We think
this saying needs revision. We are led to think so by the strange
slackening of the bonds of discipline which until lately held a
certain instrument of the law quartered in Broncho in constant
control. Last night, our pride in the organization to which we refer
received a rude shock. Details are not necessary. The outrageous
conduct of the member of this force, who reeled up and down Main St.,
using the most blasphemous language and shooting up the town, until
gathered in by the patrol nearly an hour afterwards, is too fresh in
our memories to require full description. This is only one of the
many incidents which, since the change in command was made, we have
shudderingly anticipated. We do not blame the men. We blame the
leader.'
The paragraph, as Hector, of course, knew, dealt with the 'outrageous
conduct' of the Marquis, who, on the previous night, had enjoyed, for
the first time since his transference to Broncho, a spree in town and
who was now in the cells, awaiting punishment. Equally, of course,
the 'leader' referred to was himself.
Following his first interview with the M.P. for Broncho, Hector had
set going a part of the complicated machinery which was at his
disposal, as a Police officer, with the object of discovering
Molyneux's true identity. These investigations had proven fruitless.
It is not easy to trace a man's antecedents back through utter
obscurity to a point fifteen years' distant; and Welland--if it was
Welland--had covered his tracks too well. Hector had learned that
no-one--not even Jim Jackson or MacFarlane--connected the successful
politician of Broncho with the unsuccessful criminal Hector had
driven from the country. Why should they? Without a scrap of real
evidence, Hector had realized that he could do nothing to denounce
his man. Yet he was absolutely certain that Molyneux was Welland.
Since their first meeting, he had observed many things, small in
themselves but great in the aggregate, which his tenacious memory
recognized as traits of the one-time cattle-thief and
whiskey-smuggler. But, failing definite evidence which would hold in
a court of law, he knew that he must treat him, not for what he had
been, but for what he was. He must deal with Molyneux, at least
outwardly, as Molyneux, not as Welland. The fight--if fight it was
to be--must of necessity be fought with the weapons, not of the past,
but of the present.
And this paragraph told him definitely that fight there was to be.
It was his business to know how the _Prophet_ was controlled; and he
knew that it was controlled by Molyneux's party, if not by Molyneux
himself, and was edited by one of Molyneux's friends. That was
enough. On the surface, to those who knew not Molyneux's true
identity, the paragraph represented a well-merited--or cowardly,
according to their lights--attack on Superintendent Adair by a paper
supporting--or, as some knew, virtually controlled by--the
politician. But actually, as Hector knew, and Welland knew, but
no-one else knew or would know, it was the opening shot in the
ex-criminal's campaign of revenge.
On Welland's side, this paragraph told him, the tactics were to be
slander, veiled insinuation, deceit cunningly employed in constant
endeavour to catch him at a disadvantage and fierce condemnation of
any open error in his administration, all tending ultimately to drive
Hector out of the Force. On Hector's side, because his hands were
tied by his position, he could hope only to match his wits with
Welland's whenever an opportunity, real or maliciously created, for
an attack by the politician should occur and to frustrate Welland by
doing his work so well that there could be no complaint. The stake
was, on one hand, personal revenge for what had been, in Welland's
eyes, a wrong; on the other, Hector's personal honour and the honour
and welfare of his men; the issue, Politics versus Patriotism.
This was the conflict which Hector felt approaching as he read that
paragraph in the _Prophet_.
Remembering the issue, and holding the item as at least a malicious
and exaggerated attack on his own men, whom it was his duty to
protect, he felt hot resentment boil through him. Then his thought
went to the Marquis, who had given the paper--and Welland--this
opening, the drunken waster he was to reform. Men like that brought
discredit on any corps!
The Marquis was 'for it.' 'It' was 'coming to him.'
II
A few days after the Marquis had been banished to the cells for his
misdeeds, Blythe sprang a second surprise on his C.O. Hector came in
to change for mess.
"Beg pardon, sir, but--but a girl's waitin' to see you--been here all
afternoon."
"A girl?" asked Hector. "What does she want?"
"She wouldn't say, sir."
"Well, tell her to see me at the Orderly Room in the morning."
"I told her that, sir, but she says it's privit', sir. Wants to see
you alone, sir. I told her to go, but she swore she'd wait. 'No
women allowed in barracks after Retreat,' I says. 'Garn, chase
yerself. You go an' retreat!' she says. 'I'm goin' to see Major
Adair.'