"All right. Show her in."

The girl was very young and not bad-looking. She was, in fact,

pretty, with big eyes, clear complexion and blue-black hair. She

wore a home-made dress of more or less fashionable cut and a saucy

little hat trimmed with a marvellous assortment of flowers.

Her air, on entering, was one of bravado, but a glance at Hector

quite banished it and she hesitated, nervously entwining her hands,

near the door. Blythe surveyed her with ill-concealed triumph. She

had been very bold until confronted by the great 'Spirit-of-Iron'

himself. Where was that boldness now?

"Well, young lady," said Hector kindly. "What can I do for you?

Come in and sit down, won't you?"

Still she hesitated.

Finally, in a husky whisper, she answered, "Please, sir, I'd rather

stand."

"All right," he replied good-humouredly. "But won't you tell me what

you want?"

"It's--it's private. I wanta see you--alone."

She glanced maliciously at Blythe.

"Leave us for a moment, please, Blythe," said Hector.

"Yessir."

"Now my girl--but first--what's your name?"

She took a few steps forward. His quiet voice and friendly eyes gave

her confidence.

"My name's Nellie--Nellie Lavine. I'm a waitress at the _Golden

West_ Café (she pronounced it 'Kaif'), an' I've come--about--about

one o' your men, Major Adair."

"Yes?"

"Gennlemun by name Mr. Humphries."

The Marquis! What the devil had he been up to? Instantly Hector's

mind flashed to the Marquis, in the cells.

"He's--he's--my--my beau--my fellow."

She challenged and defied him with her eyes.

"I congratulate--er--Mr. Humphries on his good taste. Are you

his--girl?"

She simpered.

"Ye-yes. That's to say--well, I'm darn sure he's mine. That

pink-faced little goo-goo at Young's dance-hall; an' that Smith

kid--father's a rancher an' she wears cow-gal clothes an' thinks she

owns the place--they say he's theirs. But he ain't. He's mine,

'cause he says so."

She finished on a note of triumph.

"Well, in that case," Hector smiled, "it must be so. Go on."

He was wondering if tragedy lay ahead.

"Mr. Humphries--he's my fellow. An'--an'--you've put him in jug,

Major Adair!"

The last was an accusation meant to wither him; but, somehow, it

failed.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lavine. I had to."

"Had to?"

"Yes. The regulations lay down certain penalties for drunkenness and

I have to carry them out."

"But, Major--the poor boys--"

"Are fine boys. But thoroughbreds need the strong hand. Now, don't

work yourself up, young lady. You can't understand."

"I think--you're--damn crool!" she whimpered, feeling herself beating

against an immense stone wall. "You--might--give him a chance!"

"Did he send you here to plead for him?" Hector flashed.

"No, he didn't! No!"

She stamped her foot.

"All right," he said quietly. "I believe you--otherwise I wouldn't

listen. You think I might give him a chance?"

"Please, sir."

Penitent she was now and supplicating in her woman's way.

"He's had lots of chances--lots of chances. Do you think he's worth

all this?"

"Sure he is." She was very confident. "And, I love him."

"How long have you known him--he's only been here about three weeks,

remember."

"About--that, I guess," she faltered. "But I know he's all right.

He's a gennelmun--a real one--an' all he needs is a chance."

"You're a stout little lover," said Hector gently. "But he's a hard

one to save. Is that what you're trying to do?"

She hung her head.

"Yes," she whispered. Then, pleadingly, "Oh, Major,--please,

Major--if you'd ever loved like I do--"

"How do you know I have not?" he asked.

"All the better, then! Oh, Gee, I'm crazy about him--just crazy--an'

he is, too--about me, I mean. Why, he writes _pomes_ to _me_!"

"Does he?" Hector thought of the Marquis' reputation as a

lady-killer and wondered how many women could say the same thing.

"May I see one?"

"Ah-ah--s-a-y--!"

"Come along," he encouraged, "as proof!"

"There!"

From the bosom of her dress she fished a sachet. Out of this she

extracted a bit of paper, which she handed over to Hector, smiling

prettily. Then she walked away to hide her confusion in the shadows.

Hector read, in the strong handwriting of the Marquis:

_The land was still, by parching drought possessed--

A desert waste. From out the sullen sky

The sun beat down. Her burnt and barren breast

Lay naked to his wrath. She longed to die--

Exhausted, now by months of endless pain....

Till, suddenly, the far horizon's rim

Trembled with lightning and the day grew dim,

Great thunders rolled and, roaring, then--the rain!_

_And lo! Where sorrow thrived and death had been,

Gladness and life returned. The hopeless herds

Came drifting back and all the land was green,

Fragrant and fresh and loud with singing birds

Returning thanks.... O, say you understand....

The rain,--it was your love; my heart the land!_

Could the Marquis, after all, be genuinely in love with this girl?

"Thank you, Miss Lavine."

He returned the paper. She took it hastily. Her eyes shone.

"Well?" she asked.

"I'm satisfied. But--won't you take my warning?"

"Say, I can look after myself. I wasn't born yesterday!"

There was some pique in her voice.

"Weren't you?" he asked quaintly. Then, suddenly, he rose and stood

beside her. "Listen, little girl. I'm trying to save Humphries

myself."

"Eh--Oh, Major--" She looked at him delightedly. "Gee, you're a

good scout! An' I thought I was scart of you!"

Hector smiled faintly.

"You want me--to be easier on him in future?"

"That's it, please, sir!"

"Then we'll do our best to pull him up--together. But it's a secret,

mind you!"

"Oh, Gee--" she began again.

"A secret, remember! Good-bye!"

He held out his hand. She clasped it swiftly.

"By golly, Major--you're--" she exclaimed rapturously.

"That'll do!" he answered. "Good-bye."

"I wonder what he really is?" he asked himself, when the girl had

gone. "Sound at heart or--?"

"Well, I'll spare him for a bit," he decided. "Till he really does

kick over the traces."

But something soon altered that resolution.

III

The window of Hector's den commanded a view of the married officers'

quarters, and of the back door of MacFarlane's house, which was

nearest.

It was a sunny afternoon, peaceful as a dream, undisturbed by any

sound other than the buzz of flies and the distant thump of a

football from the recreation field. Suddenly this peace was broken

by a guitar, playing softly, lightly, a gay fragment of tune. The

music was pleasant, as it emphasized the calm of the afternoon.

Hector put down his book. Only one man in the division played the

guitar--the Marquis, newly out of the cells. He had taken his stand

outside the window of Mrs. MacFarlane's kitchen.

Presently the music swung into a jolly little Spanish tune and the

Marquis, very softly, in his rich voice, began to sing a ridiculous

composition of his own:

_Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta--

Caramba, you surely look sweet-a!

When you wink-a like dat--Pecadillo! My hat!--

You mak-a my heart-a go pit-a-pit-pat!

Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,

I tell you we got-a to meet-a!

I'll be mit you tonight in da moon of de light,

Tomato--staccato-Ta-Ta! (The guitar:) Pom-pom-pom!_

"The idiot!" Hector thought. But he could not help smiling.

The Marquis waltzed on. Then, for a moment, came silence.

Presently Hector heard a gentle tapping on the kitchen window and the

voice of the Marquis, plaintively:

"Oh, Al-ice! I'm waiting!"

Alice was MacFarlane's fairly pretty and decidedly buxom cook.

"Alice! A-a-lice! Wherefore art thou, A-a-l-ice?"

The window was opened.

"Wot, you 'ere again? I thought you was in the cells."

The voice was reproving but held a hint of coquetry.

"Were, Alice--were! Not 'was'."

"Well, why 'aven't you come to see me before?"

"My dear Alice, duty called. Besides, I've got to avoid the Big

Chief, y'know."

"Yes, I should think so!" Alice was indignant. "Goin' off on the

tear like that!"

"A-a-h, Alice! I came here for sympathy, not a lecture. The C.O.

gives me all the lecturing I want!"

This, Hector reflected, was not strictly true.

"Go-_hon_! Comes 'ere for sympathy! Comes 'ere for my mince pies,

y'mean!"

"Alice, that's not like you. Mind you, your mince pies are very,

very good, my sweet. Your own fair hands--"

"Naughty boy!" Alice giggled. "Oh, _do_ look aht! They're all

_floury_!"

"I care not!" the Marquis responded passionately. "It's all right.

It's only my fatigue dress."

Followed whispering. Then the Marquis sighed:

"Er--you haven't by any chance--got one--of those pies handy, have

you, Alice?"

"Well, I never! 'Ere, wait a minute, then. Missus is out, so it's

all right."

After a short silence the Marquis spoke again, thickly, through

pastry:

"You know, you're a bit of a good sort, Alice, my dear."

"Ga-awn!" cooed Alice softly. Hector imagined her passing her hand

over the Marquis' crisp black hair. "Y're not so bad yerself, Marky!

But I wish...."

"Now, Alice----" he was very earnest, "_don't_ preach."

Alice sighed.

"A-right. Finish yer pie, then!"

The Marquis complied. Hector guessed that he wiped his lips

delicately, with a silk handkerchief.

"De-licious, Alice! Fair Hebe, fit for Gods! But tell me--how'd you

like the serenade--the new song? Composed in the cells--durance

vile, Alice. Romantic, eh?"

"I think it's--silly," declared the cook pettishly.

"Oh, Alice! And it was meant for you!"

"We-ll, the music ain't bad."

She was melting under his charm.

"So glad! It's founded on Don Juan, Alice."

"Wan? 'Oo's 'e?"

"A great Spaniard--noted for his fidelity--like me. Shall I sing you

another verse? Now, I want you to imagine it: you're a Spanish

lady--at your lattice--an old castle--mountains behind--the moon, big

as a cart-wheel--blue night--and down below, among the roses--_me_."

His voice sank almost to a whisper. Then, brightly, "Got it?"

"Ye-es! 'Ow you _can_ talk! Better than the '_Family 'Ear-old_,'

any day!"

The guitar resumed its playing and the Marquis sang:

_Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta,

I love-a your hands and your feet-a.

It will mostly be bliss when we hug an' we kiss

Lak' dis-a, lak' dat-a, lak' dat-a, lak' dis!

Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,

I t'ink-a you hard-a to beat-a!

An' I lov' you each day more dan ever can say--

Stupendo-crescendo--Ping-pong! (The guitar:)

Pom-pom-pom!_

Again came a long silence, filled with whispering. And,

"I _do_ love yer, Marky!" sighed Alice softly.

Hector's impulse was to laugh--till he remembered Nellie Lavine.

That evening he spoke to Bland--Bland, who had been with him when he

arrested 'Red-hot' Dan and was now his Sergeant-Major:

"This Humphries is a bit of a Lothario, isn't he?"

"Well, sir," responded Bland, smiling after the fashion of privileged

Sergeant-Majors, "when he was with me at Slide-out, he had twenty

signed pictures of girls,--real girls, not actresses--tacked round

his bunk."

After that, Hector resolved to smash the Marquis, when next that

gentleman misbehaved himself.

But again Fate intervened.

IV

Once more the Superintendent and the M.P.--Hector and the so-called

Mr. Molyneux--sat in the latter's office, face to face.

The situation had changed considerably since their last meeting under

the politician's roof, two months before.

Welland's fears of Hector had by this time vanished. As Hector had

done nothing to unmask him, he was confident that his disguise had

not been penetrated and that he might therefore proceed with his

amiable plans at leisure.

With returning confidence, Welland had become bolder. The _Prophet_

and other papers of its calibre in other parts of the West and a few

even in the East, had incessantly attacked Hector's administration.

These attacks, so far, had dealt with small matters in a small way,

but they were too frequent to be pleasant or to be overlooked. The

time was not ripe for a strong offensive against Hector himself. In

the first place, no opening had presented itself. Secondly, the

people's confidence in him had yet to be undermined. Hector knew

that the patient blows of the hidden miners, however, were beginning

to have effect. Fastening on some garbled story in the papers, men

would say, "That's so! I never thought of that"--quite forgetting

that there might be another side to the story and that Hector was

powerless to publish it. Welland was speeding the good work by

occasional thunders which were meant to damage Hector. Like most

politicians, Welland was an adept at hiding wasps in bouquets, a fact

he had demonstrated to Hector on several unpleasant occasions.

The latest presentation--a small but poisonous barb, quite

undisguised--was an item in the _Prophet_, containing a series of

half-truths worse than lies and stupidly inspired. Hector had come

to the so-called Molyneux to tell him so and to explain his position.

Behind a big cigar, hard eyes half closed, face and body immobile,

the politician sat back and listened.

Hector was pointing out the injustices perpetrated by the papers--not

to defend himself from their attacks so much as to hold them up for

what they were. Naturally, he spoke as any Superintendent would

speak to any politician under similar circumstances and not as Hector

would have spoken to Welland as Welland.

"Now this sort of thing is bad--bad!" he asserted forcibly, "Whether

the motive is honest or not, it shakes the faith of the people in the

Force. Even if the item is accurate and the attacks are justified,

it still shakes the faith of the people. It makes our work ten times

more difficult. Take some of these attacks on the conduct of our

men. They make for discontent in the ranks because they are false

and because the men can do nothing to protect themselves. The best

regiment in the world has an occasional drunk in it. But it resents

fiercely an allegation classifying every man in the regiment with

that drunk. Now, that's what has been happening here lately. Not

long ago, you'll remember, one of our fellows shot up the town.

Well, he did wrong. He was dealt with. And, mark my words, if I

don't break him, the men will. They always do. They'll drive him

out of the Force. Then isn't that good enough? No; the papers must

immediately raise an uproar against the man, against the Force,

against me. They forget what these men do. On duty they risk death.

They endure awful loneliness in places where they never see a card, a

drink, a woman. If occasionally--they overstep themselves when they

return--what wonder? But no consideration is given that side of the

case. I'm not defending irregularities. They're wrong. But the man

to deal with them is _here_----" he tapped his breast, "not down in

the offices of the _Prophet_. Do you blame me if I resent these

intrusions?"

Welland, without removing his cigar, said:

"Well, _I_ can't stop it, Major! What do you want me to do?"

There was leering triumph in the assertion.

"When we first met, Mr. Molyneux, you promised me your support."

"Yes. And I said I'd go for any inefficiency. I've done it."

"Always without justification."

"That's your opinion."

"And the truth. I want to be friends with you. Leave your share in

the assault out of it." Hector swallowed the humble pie--with a

great effort--for the good of his cause. "I want your help--not for

myself--if this thing goes on, I can fight it alone----" The

politician, observing the great chest and shoulders and the

steel-coloured eyes in the rugged face, felt a sharp sense of his

opponent's indomitable strength. "Your help--to stop as much of this

unjust criticism as possible. That will improve efficiency, stamp

out crime and leave the men--my men--alone. You don't know my point

of view, Molyneux. I hold every man in my division----" he spoke

very earnestly and quietly--"in the hollow of my hand. I can make

their lives Heaven or Hell. Knowing this, they look to me for

justice. I try to give it. They look to me for _protection_. By

God, they're going to have it!"

His fist crashed on the table.

"You were saying--about me----?" said Molyneux smoothly.

"I want your help--no, not your help, but simply justice from you,

that's all. I want you, for example, to muzzle the _Prophet_."

"I don't control the _Prophet_. The Editor's a friend of mine but

I've got little influence with him. Don't ask impossibilities,

Major."

Hector knew that Molyneux lied. But, again, he had to accept the

assertion.

"I believe you could point out _this_ to him. His campaign goes too

far when it publishes such an item as this about Demon George, the

American outlaw. It's really that item I came to see you about."

"Have you got it there? Read it."

"No, I won't read it. It's just the worst of the series on that

particular subject. You know what they all amount to: 'This outlaw,

who killed four men in Texas five years ago, has appeared in town.

He has been recognized. Broncho is in a panic. Yet the Mounted

Police don't arrest him. Why? They must have descriptions, etc.,

etc. They ought to have done so as soon as he entered the district.

The truth probably is that they have not even discovered his

presence. Asleep at the switch, as usual. Or they think it wiser to

avoid his guns. This could not have happened before the change in

command.' That's about the sum total of it all."

"Do you want to know what I think of that, Major Adair?" asked the

politician abruptly. "While I don't agree with all that dirty stuff

about your being afraid of this outlaw and so on--I consider that

item and those that accompanied it justified. In fact, I suggested

it myself. Again, understand, I had nothing to do with the dirty

side; but I suggested the publication. Men who knew Demon George

came to me and told me he was in town. I waited to see if you were

sharp enough to spot him. Days passed and you took no action, when

you ought to have jugged him at once. Then I gave the facts to the

_Prophet_, advising them to send a reporter up to you to see if you

knew of that man's presence. The reporter was told to say nothing, I

believe, but just to sound you out. He saw you personally. You knew

nothing. That convinced the Editor you were asleep. So he published

that attack. I think, in the main, it was deserved. Why, even now,

that bird is still in town, letting on as if he owns it and everyone

was afraid of him. The paper opened your eyes. But you've done

nothing yet. That's what I call inefficiency."

The politician had thrown down his cards with a vengeance!

"So that's how the land lies?" said Hector. It was his turn now.

"Listen to me, Mr. Molyneux. I believe you're sincere but I'm going

to show you just where you went wrong, sir. Take this in a friendly

spirit, please. As a prominent man here, it was your duty to advise

me of this man's arrival. Had it been necessary, I could then have

arrested him. As it is, you send--or your Editor friend sends--a

reporter and he more or less asks me if there are any sensational

arrests in prospect or any distinguished criminals in town. We don't

give such information, Mr. Molyneux, unless the net is already so

closely round our man that publication can do no harm. Naturally, I

sent the reporter away. Immediately you jump at conclusions and the

_Prophet_ publishes the news of Demon George's arrival and says I'm

asleep--either way, with bad effect. Demon George is told that his

presence is known and so warned to make his getaway if he wants to.

Or it makes him perky, encourages him to stay on here in defiance of

me and perhaps, eventually, to break the law. Supposing he gets

away? Then the _Prophet_ is delighted. An outlaw has escaped, but

that doesn't matter, because they can say 'I told you so!' and go for

me again. Supposing he stays and breaks the law? An innocent party

suffers! Wouldn't it have been better for you to have advised me of

this man's presence, so that his capture might be assured?"

In spite of himself, the politician shifted uneasily under the keen

gaze.

"Let me tell you why Demon George is still at liberty. As it

happens, I was immediately informed as soon as he set foot in the

place. But I had nothing to arrest him on--no description from the

States--remember, the crime is five years old--nothing but

insinuations from men who might owe him a grudge. I took the best

course open to me, Mr. Molyneux, under the circumstances--wired the

Yankee officials, did my best to keep the thing dark--unfortunately,

the _Prophet_ spoilt my plan--and had the man constantly shadowed.

So far I'm still waiting for news--Texas is a long way off, five

years a long time. But Demon George has obligingly remained in town,

out of bravado, and sooner or later will give me grounds for

arresting him. Or, if he tries to leave, I'll jail him on suspicion.

The _Prophet_ hasn't made a fool of me--only of itself!"

The politician was utterly at a loss. He saw that his shot had

missed. As soon as the American outlaw was actually in jail,

Hector's apparent apathy would be explained. The citizens of

Broncho, at present worked up to some hostility, would see that the

Superintendent had done right and had been at all times conversant

with every move of Demon George. They would swing round to their old

love and the _Prophet_ would be discredited.

Unable, for the moment, to meet the situation, Welland assumed the

friendliest aspect and said:

"Well, Major, I congratulate you. I was wrong. Now, what do you

want me to do?"

Hector took his triumph quietly.

"Keep the _Prophet_ quiet till I've landed Demon George. And prevent

similar blunders in future," he answered.

"I told you I don't control the _Prophet_," said Welland. "So I

can't promise. But I'll do my best."

"That's all I want," replied Hector, rising. "I knew you'd help.

Goodbye."

With Hector's departure, Welland sat down to think. The interview

had shocked him severely. His opponent was not going to go down

tamely, he saw that. Moreover, he was apparently confident that he

could defend himself single-handed. Welland had honestly believed

that in the matter of Demon George, Hector had been caught napping.

Furthermore, Hector's appeal for silence, while humbling the

Superintendent, acted as a drag on Welland for the future. After

what Hector had said, he could not very well continue his attacks.

He wanted Demon George to escape, so that the _Prophet's_ campaign

might deeply impress the people. But his escape now seemed

impossible.

Presently, however, the politician took heart. Had the outlaw not

been closely watched, he would have warned him, so that the escape

might be brought about, but the Police would certainly trace back

that warning to its source--himself. That would never do. A better

course would be to urge on the _Prophet_ anew. Demon George might

thus be warned and the people be further incited against Hector. He

had said that he could not muzzle the paper and had no direct control

over it--a lie; but Hector, he argued, did not know it a lie. He

could tell Hector that his efforts to silence his Editor friend had

failed. And, whether the outlaw was or was not taken, further damage

might still be done to Hector. The _Prophet_ could wriggle out of

its own trap afterwards, if necessary.

"By God, he hasn't won yet!"

Whereupon he scrawled secret instructions to the _Prophet_ for a

renewal of the 'Demon George campaign.'

V

The moon lay white on the barracks and 'Lights Out' had long since

sounded. The Marquis, having escaped detection with that

unfathomable cunning common to drunken men, climbed in at the open

window of his own barrack-room and crept over to his cot--safe!

No-one had been disturbed by his entry. But for the even breathing

of his sleeping comrades, all was quiet. His brain was twirling a

roseate heaven full of lights and music. He was very happy. He did

not feel like going to bed. He wanted to sing. Many tunes and

pictures were dancing madly in his head--strains and scenes culled

from happenings of the night--from days long past, too. Now he was

drinking with a ring of convivial punchers, now with a group of

Sandhurst cadets. Ripping place, Sandhurst had been--jolly rags----

The thought of 'rags' suddenly gave him the diabolical idea: 'Haven't

had a rag for a hick of a time. Why not now?' But what? What?

Suddenly came glorious inspiration. He was said to have once 'shot

up' the town. Well, why not----? And Bacchus answered, 'Why not,

old chap, why not?'

First--in a colossal struggle--he removed his boots. Then he

tip-toed from cot to cot. The moonlight, streaming in, enabled him

to see quite plainly and his comrades slept on with miraculous

tenacity. From the head of each cot he removed the occupant's

weapons--carbine and revolver--and all his ammunition. He heaped the

carbines and their ammunition under his own bed. The revolvers he

carefully loaded and set in rows on the bed, together with the

surplus revolver ammunition. By the time he was finished--it took a

long time--he had cornered every weapon in the room.

"By Jove," he told himself joyously, "this'll make old

Spit-an'-Polish sit up!"

The Marquis' first shot stirred the hair of the corporal in charge

and lodged in the wall behind. The second rang with a bell-like note

against the cot of the next man. Then he blazed off a string of

shots, each in the general direction of a cot, so that he traversed

the whole room. Drunk as he was, the Marquis did not shoot to kill.

He aimed only to miss--closely. His aim was wonderfully accurate.

Whiskey improved it. In moderation, whiskey often performs such

miracles. The Marquis was not 'blind'--merely inebriated.

The corporal in charge, uttering one wild yell, bounced out of bed

and glanced, bewildered, round the room. The men sat up in turn,

making a thousand blasphemous comments. Was it fire or had another

revolt broken out? The Marquis sent a shot between the corporal's

agitated legs and accelerated his fire. That was enough. The

corporal went to ground under his cot and the men followed his

example.

Followed a moment's silence, painful after the uproar of the firing.

Some of the men, putting forth venturesome heads, spotted the

well-known figure, squatting on his bed like a pirate on a sea-chest,

a smoking revolver in each hand, a devilishly happy smile on his

handsome face.

"It's the Marquis, fellows!"

"You bet it is!" the Marquis grinned, showing his white teeth, "I'm

in command of this-hic- outfit! Take cover!"

Once more the storm of bullets roared. Every head vanished as if

shot back by a common string.

"Haven't any of you got a gun?" the corporal asked plaintively.

"Not me, corp. Not me," ran through the room.

"No, sir. I've got 'em all, Corporal!" laughed the Marquis,

emphasizing his remark with a shot that gouged the floor near the

N.C.O.'s bed.

This was a pretty situation. They were at the mercy of a drunken

lunatic.

The Marquis began the National Anthem, firing a shot in the direction

of a cot with each note. His own bed was in a corner, where it could

not be assailed, commanded every window and faced the door. His

strategical position was perfect.

The room, but for the firing, was absolutely silent and without

movement. Here was a case where discretion was decidedly the better

part of valour.

By this time, the other barrack-rooms had been roused and the guard

had turned out. Through the thunderclaps raised by the Marquis their

anxious calls could be heard. A crowd appeared at a window and

someone cried "I'll bet it's the Marquis!"

"You're damn-hic-jolly well right!" said the Marquis, scattering the

crowd with a shot through the open window.

The guard, arriving outside the door, held a consultation.

Meanwhile, to keep his grip on things, the Marquis sent shots

regularly through the door. Presently the sergeant of the guard

bellowed:

"Best drop it, Marquis, an' come quiet!"

"Come an' get me!" laughed the Marquis.

The sergeant of the guard discreetly withdrew to consider the

situation.

The room was now full of smoke, the floor strewn with empty shells.

In the midst sat the Marquis, one broad grin, blazing like a

fire-ship and muttering:

"Jolly rag, eh what? Cheery soul, eh what?"

Arrived the Sergeant-Major, who was given to understand that the

Marquis, surrounded by a heap of slain, was shooting up the

barrack-room with a Catling gun.

The Sergeant-Major was inordinately brave. He felt the weight of his

responsibility and thought that he could cow the Marquis.

Advancing boldly to the door during a lull in the storm, he loudly

shouted:

"Humphries, you're under arrest. It's the Sergeant-Major!"

Came the Marquis' pleasant drawl:

"I like you, Sergeant-Major, so please k'way't'oor!"

"What's that?"

"I said I--_like_ you. So keep away-hic-from that door!"

The Sergeant-Major clutched the door-knob.

A volley rattled through the shattered panels.

"I _told_ you, Sergeant-Major, _keep away_!" said the Marquis coolly.

Some of the officers now arrived, including the Adjutant, Forshaw.

The Marquis became more uproarious than ever.

Forshaw was well able to deal with any emergency. He made enquiries

and calculations.

"Well, get the fire-engine," he ordered at last. "We'll knock him

out with the hose."

But when the engine was in position and everything ready, Forshaw,

perceiving that the fire had decidedly slackened in the last two or

three minutes, peeped into the room from under cover.

"Why, he's asleep!" he whispered, suppressing a laugh.

It was quite true. Peering over the Adjutant's shoulder, the

attackers beheld the Marquis, exhausted, his 'rippin' rag' over,

slumbering like a child in a litter of empty shells.

Very quietly they took the hero into custody. He did not once open

his eyes.

VI

"Sergeant-Major, before we proceed further, I'll see the accused

alone."

The Marquis, bareheaded and strictly at attention, between the armed

escort, was 'on the carpet' before the C.O. for the offenses he had

committed in the barrack-room.

Hector's announcement came to him as a surprise--whether agreeable or

otherwise it was still too early to determine. Sergeant-Major Bland

was also surprised. But he maintained the utterly impassive

expression proper to Sergeant-Majors on such occasions, said "Yes,

sir," saluted and marched the escort out.

"Shall I go, too, sir?" asked the Adjutant.

"Yes, please."

The Marquis was now alone before his omnipotent judge. The keen eyes

searched his face. Anticipating an unprecedented bursting of the

vials of wrath, the Marquis braced his cringing soul to endure the

storm.

But the storm came not ... only, after a time, Hector's voice, more

sorrowful than angry:

"Humphries, why did you do it?"

The Marquis could not believe his ears.

"Pardon, sir?"

"I say--why did you do it?"

A flicker of a smile flashed across the Marquis' mobile face, at the

memory of his 'rippin' rag' but was quickly suppressed.

"I don't know, sir," he faltered, suddenly abashed. The C.O. had a

marvellous knack of making people feel small. "Of course, I was

drunk, sir."

"Yes but--why were you drunk?"

This was persistency.

"I--I don't know, sir."

The Marquis wished the C.O. would shift his tactics. This quiet

enquiry was terrible.

"It's time you dropped it, Humphries. It does you no good. And it's

not playing the game with your people."

A sudden pallor came upon the Marquis. He looked like a man trapped.

"My--people, sir?"

"Yes, your people. Everyone knows you're a gentleman born,

Humphries--of good family."

The Marquis breathed again.

"Is it fair to them?"

The Marquis, at a loss, bit his lip, hung his head----

"I can't see where they come into this thing, anyway, sir," he said

at last. "I'm--I'm on my own."

"They do come into it, though, boy. But leave them aside for a

moment--you're a gentleman. You should know better. You disgrace

the stock you've sprung from, Humphries, when you go on like this.

If only for that reason, I want to help you to--to pull up, before

it's too late."

Again the Marquis could not believe his ears. Was this the man who

had 'told him off' so thoroughly not long ago?-- The terrible

'Spirit-of-Iron,' whose reputation as a handler of delinquents was

enough to frighten the hardest sinner into repentance?

"You're wasting time with me, sir," said the Marquis, suddenly bold.

In his voice was defiance but defiance strongly blended with despair.

"I don't want to be reformed. Anyway,--I'm not worth it."

"Yes, you are"--still the even, passionless tone--"Because you've

good blood in you, Humphries, and also, of course, because you're a

notorious scapegrace, I mean to help you out. I decided to help you

as soon as I'd sized you up. Then--certain things occurred which

inclined me towards severity. You'd have got it, too, by

Heaven--don't mistake me--but something again intervened for you. I

said just now your people came into this thing. They _do_ come into

it, Humphries!"

The Marquis threw up his head, meeting Hector's eyes with incredulity

and frank disbelief. But the C.O. did not seem to see it. Truth was

in his face.

"My--people, sir?" the Marquis faltered and again the colour left his

face. "I--I don't--I don't think--I understand."

"Listen to this, then, and realize how mistaken you have been and

what your conduct really means. This letter was sent me some days

ago by the Commissioner, to whom it was addressed. It saved you when

I was going to put you down. It mightn't have been necessary to read

it at all, had you behaved yourself. But now, I'm afraid it's almost

the only thing to have effect."

Then he read the letter, while the Marquis, restless and set-faced,

listened, still biting his lip. It was dated from London.

"'Dear Sir:

It is only after much hesitation and with much reluctance that I

approach you to solicit your aid in a purely personal matter. Under

the circumstances, however, I feel sure you will forgive the

intrusion. I find it difficult to find words adequately to express

all that is in my heart. I will therefore confine myself to a brief

summary of the facts.

My second son, the Hon. Charles Percival Humphries Hardisty, whose

portrait I enclose'"--the Marquis winced as Hector read the name and

pushed forward the photograph--"'is, I believe, at present serving in

your Corps as a constable or trooper. He was, perhaps, our favourite

son. He was to have had a Commission in the 1st. Life Guards but,

for certain misdemeanors, was forced to leave Sandhurst. We had, I

regret to say, hard words on the subject--I am afraid I went too far

but the matter involved certain points of honour on which I felt very

strongly. And he was high-spirited and headstrong, as I should have

remembered. However, to avoid wearying you with painful particulars

in which you can have no great interest, I cut off his allowance, or

rather reduced it to a minimum, and ordered him to leave the country

for the Colonies. He chose Canada. Until some years ago, I made him

a monthly remittance and endeavored to set him up as a rancher. He

ran so into debt, however, that I eventually told him--again, to my

present regret--I would do no more. Reports had come to me that he

was leading a wild, worthless life in a small town in the Territories

near the ranch whereon he was employed. He then wrote to me, saying

I would never hear of him again. Since then, my enquiries have

intimated that he had joined the North-West Mounted Police. As he

was a fine horseman and fond of soldiering, this is probably so. I

have frequently written him, sending the letters by general delivery

as I know he would not wish his identity to become known to his

comrades but have had no answer. This does not necessarily mean that

he has not received them but he is so sensitively proud that he may

have decided to ignore them. He is probably using an assumed name

but the photograph I enclose will enable you to trace him.

My object in writing you, sir, is to beg you, firstly, to be so good

as to ascertain whether my son is actually serving in your Corps;

secondly, to entreat you not to be severe on the boy if, as I fear,

he has misconducted himself while under your command; thirdly, to

enlist your assistance to save him from the ruinous path he has

taken; and, finally, to use your influence towards inducing him to

reply to my letters, at least advising us of his health and

whereabouts. I authorize you to inform him that I have repented of

my somewhat hasty judgment and will make amends as far as possible

and also to tell him that unless a reconciliation is effected now, I

fear it never will be, for the anxiety is slowly killing his mother.

In closing, I again apologize for thus troubling you but feel you but

understand. And may God bless your efforts.

Thanking you,

Believe me, sir,

Yours truly and indebtedly,

Hannyngton.'"

A long silence was broken at last by Hector:

"That is the letter ... The photo, Humphries, is of yourself ... the

writer is a peer of very old family, Baron Hannyngton ... your

father...."

The Marquis neither moved nor spoke.

"Your _father_. Can't you read between the lines, Humphries? All

that pride of race and name ... it was hard for him to write that

letter.... He's an old man--I looked him up in the Peerage. And

he--his heart's broken, Humphries."

The Marquis made an inarticulate little sound but said nothing and

remained standing at attention.

"Tell me, Humphries. I want to help you. Was it--a girl?"

The Marquis answered at last, in a jerky voice:

"No, sir. The Sandhurst affair, you mean? It was--oh, a lot of

things."

"Was a girl concerned in any way--were you engaged or anything--when

you left England?"

"In a way."

The Marquis' lip was trembling.

"You lost her, because of the scandal. Is that it?"

With sure, deft hand the C.O. was dissecting his very soul.

"Yes, sir."

"And that's why--you go on the tear?"

"Partly," the Marquis muttered.

"And why you try to forget--with other women?"

The Marquis nodded, head sinking.

"It's foolish."

"My God, sir," the Marquis burst out suddenly, "you don't

understand--you don't know the shame--or what I've lost--or the

hopelessness of what's ahead--or----"

His was a cry of agony.

"Steady, boy," replied Hector. "I understand--perfectly. I

know--what this has meant to you."

Again came momentary silence.

"Now--about that letter. What do you propose to do?"

"I--I don't know."

"Then I'll tell you. You'll write your father, of course, and make

that reconciliation. Why, you're lucky to have a father and

mother--and have them care as much. Then you'll stop this nonsense.

You'll work hard, get your Commission"--the Marquis flashed an

astonished glance at Hector, but it was disregarded,--"go to the top

of the tree, make a name for yourself and be able at last to look

your people--even that girl of yours--in the face."

"I can't. I can't--it's too late!"

"It's _not_ too late. Why, I was once almost as handicapped as you,

Humphries. My father died when I was a youngster, my mother's been

dead six years. I started as a buck constable. But the officers

were good to me--the first Commissioner--and later Commissioners--and

Superintendent Denton, who left the Force some time ago. They all

helped. Officers don't go down on a man unjustly, Humphries.

They're all ready to lend a hand. You think I look on you as only

one man in hundreds, too insignificant to care about. But I don't.

You're as much to me as any. You're not the first I've helped make

good, by any means. And I want to help you. You can make good, if I

could. Yes, you can. Now, listen. I'm not going to hammer you this

time, though you've deserved it. I'm going to let you off easily.

In return, I want you to run straight. And the first time I get the

chance, I'll give you an opportunity--a real opportunity--to prove

yourself."

But the strain of the interview had been almost more than the Marquis

could bear. His father's letter had put him on the rack. And the

C.O.'s unexpected kindness had humbled him into the dust. Instead of

unreasoning severity he had today, for the first time, sympathy. He

began to understand why men loved and feared Hector, to see why he

had attained greatness.

"Is it a go?"

"My God, sir--I--don't know--what--to say. You're the first----"

"That'll do," Hector interrupted him. "Then it _is_ a go.

Remember--!"

And he called in the Sergeant-Major and escort.

VII

"Well, what is it?" said Hector.

Dandy Jack, the sixteen-year-old, angelical puncher, took off his

broad-brimmed slouch hat and smoothed down his elegant clothes--wide,

flapping leather chaps faced with silver, grey flannel shirt,

spotless mauve silk neckerchief and trimmings.

"Demon George, Major."

"Yes." Hector was instantly alert. "What about him?"

"I know for a fact he stuck up a puncher last night. The puncher's

too scart to report it."

"You do? Positive evidence?"

"You bet."

"All right. Go and tell the Sergeant-Major. Then send him over to

me."

Dandy Jack departed.

Hector felt triumphant. The _Prophet's_ clamour, despite Welland's

promise, had been very loud of late. Not that Hector had ever

expected Welland to try seriously to stop the uproar. His enemy was

too deadly an enemy to do that. Many citizens were muttering among

themselves, asking why Adair still held his hand? Their criticisms

had been hard to bear. But Hector had borne them stoically. The

stout confidence of his men and of many other citizens had, of

course, helped to make things easier.

He tried not to smile as he thought of what Welland would say when he

heard the news: 'Demon George, the outlaw with a price on his head,

dead or alive, taken at leisure by the Mounted Police.'

Sergeant-Major Bland came in. Hector gave him his instructions.

"He frequents the _Maverick_ saloon. We'll tell off one man to make

the arrest tonight. Warn him to do it quietly--nothing

provocative--no gun-play if avoidable--the usual thing----"

"He's a dangerous man, sir. Perhaps two men----"

"No! You know the tradition? Well, look to it. But have a patrol

at hand, in case of trouble. A corporal and two men."

"Very good, sir. Have you any suggestions?"

"Corporal Savage, perhaps."

"Yes, sir. And for the arrest? It wants a good, steady----"

"Yes. Humphries."

"Humphries, sir?"

Bland was again surprised.

"Yes, Humphries. And tell Corporal Savage to remind him of our

compact; also, that the arrest will be a real service--to me,

personally. Humphries will understand."

VIII

The night turned out dark, with scurrying clouds, a rising wind and,

now and then, a spatter of rain. The Marquis passed out of the

barrack-gate with a cheery word to the sentry and trudged off to town.

He had received his orders that afternoon. He knew exactly what was

expected of him. He knew--could he ever forget?--exactly what was

meant by 'our compact.' He also knew what the C.O. meant by 'a real

service--to me personally.' He had not witnessed the _Prophet's_

attacks for nothing. And he was buoyed up with hope and gratitude

and determined to show the C.O. that he had not been merciful in vain.

He got into town and walked steadily through the almost deserted

streets. The wooden houses loomed up, damnably cheerless, murky

lights glowing dimly from their windows. Some of them, with their

pitiful imitation second-storey fronts, reminded him of would-be

gentlemen wearing 'dickies.' Now and then doors opened and he heard

the tinkle of out-of-tune pianos, the coarse jesting of men. The

wretched cow-ponies, tails to wind, reins trailing, waited miserably

for their masters. Suddenly the utter squalor, the primitive

uncouthness of Broncho, which its citizens considered equal to any

old-world capital, came violently home to him and his spirits bumped

down to zero.

A drunken remittance man came reeling from a saloon, singing a

maudlin strain with 'Piccadilly' for its theme. A stupendous longing

touched him, for London, dear old London, and all it meant; his

people, his----; and for a moment he saw himself as he had once

been--a carefree man about town--in contrast with what he was--an

exile, an exiled gentleman-ranker, one of the Lost Legion.

No, by Jove,--not lost! The C.O.'s interest in him was like a light

in the universal darkness. He was going to prove himself, make

himself, tonight!

Passing the _Golden West_ Café, he felt an impulse to go in and talk

to Nellie. She was a good-hearted little thing. But he put the

thought aside. He regretted, now, that he had played the fool with

women--making a game of a serious matter--So he walked on.

Through the night came suddenly a long, swinging, heavy, tramp,

tramp, tramp of feet, a musical jingle of spurs--the tramp and jingle

of Corporal Savage's patrol.

"That you, Humphries?"

"Yes, Corporal."

The little, bull-necked, rugged-faced N.C.O. halted in the light from

a window.

"He's in the _Maverick_, all right. Take him easy. We'll be

standin' by. Don't draw first. An' remember the C.O. expects you to

make good."

"Yes, Corporal."

"Right. I'll wait at the corner."

The darkness and rain gulped them up. The Marquis was alone again.

The _Maverick_ was but a step away. The Marquis crossed over. The

sound of many voices and the ring of glasses swelled into the street.

The Marquis, whistling softly, removed his pea-jacket for greater

freedom of movement and hung it over a hitching post. This done, he

loosed his revolver. Then he opened the door and entered.

Instantly the hum of voices died. Every eye turned towards the tall

young constable in the doorway. Every man knew what his entrance

meant.

Demon George, a lanky, powerful, lantern-jawed ruffian in a pair of

long boots and an old suit, was leaning against the bar, joking with

the bartender, his hat on the back of his head. He was apparently

unarmed. Attracted by the general silence, he turned and saw the

Marquis. Instantly, his face contracted and the laugh died on his

lips. He, too, guessed what the constable had come for.

The Marquis, smiling easily, disregarded the staring crowd and

strolled towards him.

"I hear you're looking for a Mounted Policeman," he said smoothly.

"Here I am. And I want you."

Perhaps there was an excuse for Demon George. The Law, as he knew it

in his own country, shot first and talked afterwards; and there was a

price on his head, which only his own hand had kept on his shoulders.

That hand now flashed to his hip-pocket.

The Marquis was steeped in the Police tradition; and remembered his

C.O.'s wishes.

"Leave him to me, boys!" he sang out gaily, and closed.

They struggled fiercely, the outlaw cursing. The Marquis held his

opponent's right wrist, pointing the revolver upwards. With his own

right hand, he whipped in a terrific blow. The outlaw was against

the wall and his head could not 'give' before the blow, which broke

his jaw.

Demon George fired three shots, each shot smashing the silence but

going into the ceiling. The Marquis laughed.

Then, somehow--no one knew how--the outlaw got his wrist free.

Another shot rang out. The Marquis sagged suddenly, dropping his

arms. And, as he staggered back--back--back against the bar, the

outlaw fired two more shots, emptying his revolver into the

policeman's body....

In the utter and awful silence which followed, Demon George, still

against the wall, nursing his jaw with one hand, stared at his

victim, waiting for him to drop. Not a soul dared stir. The

Marquis, under the concentrating gaze, slowly twisted round, clinging

to the bar for support. His face was wreathed in agony--agony not

only physical but mental--of hope shattered--and he did not want the

crowd to see it.

And then, like a flash, gathering his waning strength in one heroic

and desperate effort, he whirled round. He could use a weapon now!

The six shots of the Marquis' revolver chopped the hush--six wild,

fierce claps of sound.

"You--damn--dog!" whispered the Marquis, as he fired.

Demon George had not expected the fire, since he had mortally wounded

his man. He pitched onto his face, stone dead; and the Marquis slid,

grinning, to the floor.

It had all happened in the space of a minute.

From outside came the rush of Corporal Savage's patrol.

The Corporal burst in, flinging the crowd aside. His eyes fell on

the Marquis.

"Christ!" he said.

In a moment he had the Marquis in his arms.

The awe-struck crowd stood motionless.

"Humphries! Humphries, man!" cried the Corporal.

The Marquis opened his tired eyes, heavily, smiling.

"Got me--some way. Sorry--Corp'l!" he whispered, his voice trailing

away.

"Marquis!" said Corporal Savage. The little man had a tiger's heart

but his face was twitching.

The grey-green pallor of death was on the Marquis' face.

"It was dead--or alive--dead--or--Corp! Tell the Chief--tell

him--I--I----"

The Corporal understood.

"I'll tell him, old scout!"

The Marquis smiled again; and then again came silence and the rough

crowd took off their hats....

Constable Humphries--the Hon. Charles Percival Humphries

Hardisty--heart-smasher, poet, waster, gallant gentleman--had kept

his compact.

Chapter III

I

"Look here, Adair," said the Commissioner, "what lies between you and

that fellow Molyneux? Ever since your arrival in the Broncho

district, a campaign has been going on against you in the papers and

under the surface. The preliminary business over Demon George was a

case in point. Then, afterwards, Molyneux slated you unmercifully

over the death of that man Humphries. In his papers, I mean. Just

now, in Ottawa, he concentrates on you again and every Eastern paper

is printing his speeches. I've got a copy of Hansard here with that

last outburst of his--the duel between himself and the Prime

Minister. During the debate on the estimates, Molyneux grabbed the

opportunity to attack the Force--apparently his favourite game. Of

course, we were stoutly defended and I don't think the House took

Molyneux seriously. But the papers print what he says and, because

he's a Westerner, well--the people, in the East at any rate, take it

for Gospel. Have you seen the reports?"

"Yes, sir," said Hector. "I've a cousin editing a Toronto paper."

"Then you know what they've been saying. Pretty severe--and

talkative, eh?"

"Yes, sir. But you were going to read Hansard."

"Oh, yes. Let's see--'the Honourable member'--ah, here we are: 'And

here's another case of inefficiency,'--This is Molyneux

speaking--'Not long ago, early in the summer, out there, we had a

notorious bad man, who came into my constituency from the United

States. The man was encouraged into defiance by being permitted to

walk round town a free man, terrorizing the citizens. When finally

the Police officer in command took action after repeated protests, he

ordered a single constable to carry out the arrest. This young

fellow--a brave lad, of good English family--attempted to arrest the

man without drawing a weapon, in accordance with instructions

expressly given and was, of course, shot dead. None but a fool would

have ordered such a thing. That bad man should have been arrested as

soon as he crossed the boundary. The arrest should have been made by

several men and there should have been no monkey business of not

drawing weapons. That young man was just deliberately sacrificed!"

"Now here's a smart one from the Prime Minister, Adair--right off the

bat: 'I beg to differ. That young man was a hero. He died doing his

duty in accordance with one of the noblest traditions of the

North-West Mounted Police--using no unnecessary force and no

provocative measures.' Then comes Molyneux again: 'Yes, that's

consolation to the bereaved parents! You can't arrest Western

outlaws, sir, as you would naughty boys. And please remember, I

speak for my constituents. They were up in arms about that case--and

are now.' By the way, of course you wrote----"

"Yes, sir," Hector smiled at his chief's look of concern, "I wrote to

his father. The old gentleman answered that it was the finest piece

of news concerning his son he'd ever had and that he was prouder of

him dead than ever, since--these were his words--his son had done his

duty like a man and a Hardisty."

"Jove! Fine, fine! Too bad the Prime Minister hadn't those words to

fling into Molyneux's teeth. What do you think of the other

statement--here: 'I speak for my constituents. They were up in arms

about that case--and are now'?"

"To a certain extent that's true, sir. Molyneux has the support of

many people; but I think the majority still trust me. I'm certain

they would not agree with Molyneux's remarks."

"I believe you're right," responded the Commissioner. "But his power

is growing. It's a bad thing to have such publicity given these

matters as is given by the Eastern press. Then, out here, there's

more underhand work than ever. I've had people trying to get you

pushed out of the district--Molyneux's friends, I suppose. You know

that?"

"I've suspected it."

"Mind you, he's not attempting to climb to power over us, Adair.

We're only a side issue. He's getting ahead by graft, slickness,

brains. Like an octopus, he has a lot of tentacles and they're all

fastening on something. Mark me, that fellow will be a big man in

the West before long--and a dangerous enemy."

"Yes, sir," said Hector.

He knew that the Commissioner was working up to something.

"In view--er--of all this, and Molyneux's attitude towards you

especially, Adair, I was wondering if--for your own good,

y'know--you'd care to be transferred----"

His purpose stood revealed at last. To save Hector from Molyneux, he

was offering to transfer him to another district.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the thought very much. But--well, I

doubt if it would do much good, after all, sir; and it would look

rather like a victory to our friend--and as if I'd turned my back to

the enemy. So, I'd rather stay here, for the present, anyway."

The Commissioner obviously liked Hector's fighting spirit but seemed

a little regretful.

"Is that your final decision?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"All right." The Commissioner threw away his cigar and prepared to

go. "You may regret it, Adair. However--oh, wait a minute! You've

not told me what lies between you and Molyneux. Can't you confide in

me?"

Hector had once inclined towards revealing the truth to the

Commissioner--to tell him that the hostile M.P. for Broncho was

Welland, his purpose inspired by the incidents of fifteen years and

more ago. But what was the use? He had scoured the Continent for

proofs and could find none. Without proofs, to lay such charges

against Molyneux would be idle.

"There's nothing to confide, sir. The man's taken a dislike to me

for some reason unknown. Perhaps he's the tool of someone else. Who

knows?"

"You've nothing against him?"

"I never met Molyneux till I came to this district, sir."

The Commissioner pondered.

"Queer! But there are strange men in this world. And if you ever

change your mind about the transfer----"

"Thank you, sir. I don't think I will. Don't worry about me, sir.

I've lots of stout-hearted friends. I'm not afraid."

"Don't forget you can count on me, too. Though, in a case like this,

Adair, my hands are tied, very tied----"

"I know, sir. But, so long as I satisfy you, sir, I don't care a

tinker's curse----"

"Good man, good man! It will be a hard fight, though! He's raised

quite a storm, Adair--a growing storm--growing!"

They went back to the mess together.

II

The Commissioner's promise of support increased Hector's confidence

in his ability to deal with his enemy. He had always known, of

course, that this support was to be relied on. When it was a matter

of defending one of his officers against an unjust assault, the

Commissioner's course was plain. Still, it was pleasant to hear,

from his chief's own lips, that the powerful weight of headquarters

was behind him.

But the real danger lay in Welland's influence with others. He could

so stir up the public against Hector, who was unable to make a move

to defend himself, that he might at last be forced to resign. Or

Welland might, with the assistance of his political colleagues,

compel the Government to remove the Superintendent at Broncho. No

justification would be offered--he would simply be told that his

services were no longer required. Such things had often happened,

the victim being invariably damned in the eyes of the public, who

knew nothing of the facts. A third possibility--and most

dangerous--was that Hector, through no fault of his own, might fail

the public in some big crisis and be removed, at Welland's

instigation, as inefficient.

But against this, as he had told the Commissioner, he could gather

hosts of friends, old stagers who knew him actually for what he was,

not to be shaken by every changing wind, strong men, true as steel.

Hector, on account of his position, could not, and in any case, would

not, ask their aid; but they had watched the summer's developments,

and come forward voluntarily to lend their aid.

Welland's attitude regarding the affair of Demon George and the

Marquis had been particularly effective in bringing Hector recruits.

The Eastern papers might have thought less of the politician's claim

to represent Western public opinion had they witnessed the enlistment

of, say, Jim Jackson, now among the biggest ranchers of the

Territories.

Jim Jackson came in specially from his ranch, a long journey by the

C.P.R., to tell Hector just what he thought of Molyneux.

"Represents the people, does he? I wonder! Which d'you thinks

likely to have the backing of the West, eh? This fly-by-night Mr.

Nobody from God-knows-where, or Superintendent Adair, who came into

the country with the early birds and has grown up with it to what he

is today?"

"He's very strong, Jim," said Hector, smiling a little.

"Never mind, Hec'. The ranchers will back their Manitou-pewabic to

the last ditch."

"Thanks, old man," said Hector.

At the other end of the scale was Tom Williams, Editor of the Broncho

_Branding-Iron_. Tom was eminently respectable, but, for business

purposes, assumed the air of a hardened sinner, in order to be in

keeping with his paper, which he had founded when 'up against it'

several years before. The _Branding-Iron_ was a weekly and relied

for sales on an unfathomable fund of scandalous stories, directed

against the great and would-be great, plus a marvellous array of

rejuvenated bar-room jokes of very doubtful character. The public

taste being captured, Tom's paper was regularly sold in every corner

of Canada. Its influence was greatly strengthened because it never

assailed any man without just cause but went out of its way to

'brand' every crook and grafter in the Dominion. The support of such

a champion was not to be sneezed at. It was a drunken roysterer but

could use its rapier; and its thrust went home.

So Hector had powerful allies at both ends of the ladder.

Then there were the men--behind him to a man. Let Corporal Savage's

room stand for an example. One afternoon, in the worthy Corporal's

absence, a group of them got together over the _Branding-Iron_

containing Tom's latest tirade.

There were present in this gathering of mighties the red-headed and

hideous York, constable under Cranbrook in the days when they had

arrested the gambler Perkins, and likely to remain so till promoted

to non-commissioned angel; Mason, Hector's trumpeter ten years

before, also a constable today; Dunsmuir, son of a Canadian

millionaire, driven to enlist by boredom; and Constable Kellett, once

a Colonel in the British Army, with a dazzling breast of ribbons,

driven to enlist by necessity.

They were perhaps a little prejudiced in Hector's favour but were

none the less representative on that account.

Dunsmuir, with a drawl suggestive of Toronto University, read

extracts aloud:

"'This so-called representative of Broncho and district ... a beard

that reeks crime and a nose that suggests whiskey.... We have heard

a story about him from a dear old bar-keep friend of ours which takes

a lot of beating.... I blush to print it, but Justice ... Now this

is the man who is heaving bricks at the Big Chief Manitou-pewabic ...

the kind who kicks a man when he is down and hits him when his hands

are tied ... everybody knows to whom belongs our contemporary with

the John the Baptist title, which purports to be an unprejudiced ...

everybody knows that the Superintendent cannot speak ... and, in the

Humphries affair, all hands in the Police are aware that Humphries

followed the best traditions of the Riders of the Plains ... Who is

likely to be trusted by the people, the man who has been a national

and well-loved figure for twenty years or ... If it came to a

showdown. who will stand by the big fellow? Why the ranchers, the

Indians, the punchers, the citizens, the ... and behind the other

chap? Why, the hoboes, the bums, the politicians ... We are certain

a libel action will be started by our distinguished enemy for this;

but one can wear off the effects of liquor in jail as well as

elsewhere and we would feel quite at home, anyway...'"

"I think that calls for ringing cheers," remarked Kellett, as

Dunsmuir laid down the paper.

"Huh, listen to him stick up for 'Spirit-of-Iron'!" sneered York.

The ex-Colonel flushed, squaring his broad shoulders. He had good

reason to support the man who had taken him in, though over age,

after his ranch had crashed, leaving him destitute.

"York, my lad!" he said gently, "I shall be forced to mould your

unpleasant face with my boot if you use that tone again."

"That's right, Uncle!" Mason cut in. "Give him hell! It's coming to

him."

"What'll we do to him?" demanded Dunsmuir, preparing to attack York.

"Oh, shur'rup," said York. "That fellow Williams can hand it out,

can't he, eh?"

"Sure can. I guess he'll get brought up for libel, all right," said

Mason.

"Not him. He's too poor to make it worth while," Dunsmuir asserted.

"Don't chuck your confounded money in our poverty-stricken faces,"

Kellett adjured. "I like the description of Molyneux. It's dead

right."

"Well, no one ever sues for libel unless there's money in it,"

persisted Dunsmuir. "Yes, he sure has. That bit about kicking a man

when he's down and his hands tied is just it. And every time he

kicks the Chief he kicks us, too."

"Let him kick," Kellett said. "The Chief's too big to care."

"Ho, is he?" questioned York. "Think he's not got feelin's, like the

rest o' us?"

"Have you feelings, insect?"

"Damn right. Keep off 'em. 'Course we can't do nothin', so he goes

on. But, by Gor, a touch o' tar an' feathers from the boys...."

"Stow it," said Kellett. "You're the sort that would give him a real

handle to work on. Let him talk."

"I guess the Marquis was a better man than you are, York," said

Dunsmuir.

"You do, eh? Well, I guess so. Still, I've done my job when it's

been given me."

"That's right," said Mason. "We've not forgotten the road-agent at

Golden, old man. But you've got to stick by 'Spirit-of-Iron' in this

thing; and he'd be the first to jump on any monkey business like tar

and feathers."

"Right, youngster," Kellett agreed. "The chief helped make this

outfit and his ideas go. Best way we can help is by doing our little

job o' work and following in father's footsteps. Eh?"

"You bet." The answer was unanimous. "Nose to croup, this outfit's

behind Papa!"--a sentiment but mildly expressing all the men felt in

the matter.

There was one other whose views, though stronger than most, rather

coincided with the men's. That was Mrs. MacFarlane. In common with

every woman in Broncho, she was ready to defend the rip-snorting

Superintendent with teeth and claws. Mrs. MacFarlane was prepared to

go further than any.

Her admiration for Hector had steadily increased and by this time--in

the fall--she did not in the least care who knew it. In fact, she

rather enjoyed showing it, especially to MacFarlane, who had

gradually arrived at a pitch of fierce but smouldering jealousy. He

reminded her of a slumbering furnace and she loved to prod the

terrific heat to life. In his outbursts, he was amusing. The

possibility that the outbursts might badly scorch the prodder did not

seem to occur to her. So she went gaily on.

Meanwhile, she began to think that she had melted the heart of ice,

which no woman was ever known to have affected before. She had a

physical allurement few men could resist; she knew it very well. She

believed that it had made itself felt on the mighty demigod whom

admirers called 'Spirit-of-Iron.' Once she had told him, 'Pretty

women and handsome men are _made_ for one another.' She was a pretty

woman; he a very handsome man. She thought the fact had sunk in by

this time--that she could read it in his voice and eyes. Soon, now,

she would find out if she were right.

And MacFarlane?--Where did he come in?

But he was a poor, uninteresting creature, anyway. Too bad she'd

married him! _He_ couldn't bring the blood to a woman's cheeks, her

heart to her mouth. Whereas ...

Mrs. MacFarlane had sympathy for Guinevere.

III

The first blizzard of the winter descended upon Broncho. At

midnight, in the haven of his own den, while the rest of the barracks

slept, and the Superintendent sat writing a report, the patient

Blythe, in the next room, waited to put his chief to bed.

Trailing a desperate bandit from page to written page, Hector did not

hear the gentle knock at the front door.

But it roused him at last. He crossed the room into the passage and

opened the door--

Opened it on a woman muffled in furs, covered with snow, whose wild

eyes stared over her stole and were shadowed by gleaming hair.

"Mrs. MacFarlane!"

Trained as he was to stern self-control, he could not quite hide his

surprise.

"Let me come in! Let me come in!" she gasped.

Seeing that something was wrong, he suppressed a desire to ask

questions, stood aside and shut the door.

She swayed in the passage.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"Oh, yes--I--think so."

And she tottered forward.

"I--I--you'll just have to help me----"

"I thought so!" he said quickly.

Half shyly, after the manner of men unaccustomed to intimacy with

women, he put an arm round her. She clung to him, marvellously

appealing in her helplessness.

Intent on her welfare, he brought her to an arm-chair and pulled it

up to the big stove, she murmuring little gasps of thanks.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I went--to the dance at the--Quadrille Club--with a--party from

town. I told them--I could get across--the parade-ground--alone.

But all the lights are out--and you can't see a thing--for the snow.

I--got lost. I must--have--wandered round for hours. I'm all tired

out--and nearly--frozen! If it hadn't been for your light, I--don't

just know--"

Nervously overwrought, she was beginning to cry.

"All right--all right!" he said hastily. "Soon put you right. Let's

see your face."

She obeyed, anxiously. What a pretty, appealing little face it was!

She wondered how she looked in the role of heroine in 'Out of The

Storm.'

"No frost-bite," he remarked to himself. "You must take your hat and

coat off, though, till you get over this. Your gloves, too. Absurd

little gloves for this country! Must get gauntlets! Mac should have

told you."

The intimate 'Mac,' establishing a bond between them, she liked and

the implied censure of her absent husband she fancied even more.

"Should he?" she asked, smiling woefully. "Mac doesn't take the care

of me he ought."

He felt her hands. Did he--she wondered--feel the thrill which then

went through her?

He did not answer the smile.

"They aren't cold," he said thoughtfully.

"They _were_," she answered.

"Well, it's safe to warm you up, which is a good thing. You won't

lose any fingers this time. Come, off with that hat and coat. I've

some brandy somewhere."

She stood up and removed her wraps. He assisted her with a grave,

courtly grace such as MacFarlane could never show, for the reason

that it was not in him.

"Fire now," he exclaimed.

Stoking and poking up the glow, he soon produced a first-class blaze.

"O-o-h!" she sighed rapturously, holding her little white hands to

the warmth. She shot him a grateful and admiring glance--each glance

meant to kill. "O-o-h, that's lovely."

"I'll get the brandy," he said.

She watched his tall, soldierly figure in its smart mess dress as he

delved into a little cupboard. While he searched, she surveyed the

room with eager interest. It was terribly bare, to her view, rigidly

severe, eloquent of the hard, cold, lonely life the man led. She

knew what it lacked--the feminine touch!--to make it a home! _She_

would have filled it with gew-gaws and knick-knacks tied with scented

pink ribbon.

One thing she noted, with peculiar satisfaction--there was not one

photo of a young or fairly young woman to be seen.

He had found the brandy. Turning, he looked at her a moment. She

read admiration in his eyes and suddenly felt that she must look

adorably attractive--smiling wistfully in return, so small in the big

chair, hair aglow, eyes very soft, white arms drooping, lustrous pink

ball-dress spread out like the train of a Queen all round her.

She was the reincarnation of the original Eve, with the voice of the

serpent in her ears--the serpent had a voice in Paradise.

So for a moment, neither moved nor spoke. Then he broke the little

spell.

"Good stuff, this." He moved to the table and poured out a

full-sized whack. "Drink it up."

She obeyed, loving it. He watched her calmly. Gasping a little, and

blinking, she presently paused.

"This is really very good," she said--then, for the first time,

became more personal. "I don't know what I'd have done without you.

But I'm awfully afraid I disturbed you."

"Not at all," he said politely. "I'll finish when you've gone. But

don't go till you've quite recovered."

"You're dying to get rid of me!" she pouted.

"Oh, no," he said. "I'm not often honoured so charmingly."

She smiled, with a little bow, and sipped the brandy again.

"I wonder," she said suddenly, "what--people would think if they knew

we were alone, here--at this time of night--and----"

She laughed excitedly and looked at him with bright eyes.

"And Mac away?" he finished for her. "Well, of course, if they

didn't know the circumstances, they _might_ talk."

"Yes," she agreed. "But no-one need--er--will know. And I wouldn't

care if they did," she concluded, with a taking little air of

bravado. "Do you think I'm very shocking?"

"Not _very_," he answered.

She laughed again.

"Do you know--this is the first time I've been in a bachelor's

quarters?" she jerked to a new tack, setting down the glass. "I've

often been tempted----"

"You've not missed much."

"Er--no." Her look was distinctly disapproving. "It's so bare--so

terribly priestly. It lacks something. Oh, I know what it is!"

She had been planning this ever since the idea first struck her.

"And that is?" he asked--falling--or walking--into the trap.

"Surely you know? A woman's hand, Major, eh? Little touch here,

little touch there, eh?"

"Perhaps," he answered.

She disregarded his seeming indifference.

"I'd love to straighten it out for you some time--fix it up.

Ah--would you let me?"

"I think--Blythe would object."

"Oh, yes--your servant. Nasty thing." Off again, in another

direction. "You know, Major, I can't understand why you've never

married."

Though he did not move a muscle, she felt instinctively that he

shrank into his shell. She did not notice that one hand, resting on

the table, was trembling.

"Never met a woman who would have me," he answered evasively.

"Oh, that's nonsense. Why, any woman--_any_ woman would be proud----"

"Thank you," he bowed a little stiffly, though with an amused

twinkle. "Feeling better?"

"Much! But I think--a little more brandy."

So they went on talking, she doing the leading, he following lamely.

She sipped at the brandy. The conversation became increasingly

intimate. Several times she touched him caressingly with her hand.

He was restless--anxious, perhaps, for her to go--quivering for the

conventions. But she lingered on, now quite at home, and radiating

with a physical magnetism.

She was the embodiment of the woman whose indiscriminate favours

crossed men's swords in other days.

Bit by bit, she unwrapped her true self from its manifold coverings

and bared it to his eyes.

Till then, in spite of the curious intimacy she had built up during

many months, he had never seen her as she really was.

The climax came in due time. She put down her glass.

"I s'pose--I really must go--now," she laughed. "I'm--all right now.

But--" she yawned, stretched herself luxuriously, exactly like a cat,

and smiled at him through drooping lids. "I really--don't _want_--to

go. Why should I go--at all?"

She stood up languidly. From his lounging attitude, he straightened

himself, too, and faced her, very stern, both hands at his side and

clenched a little.

The situation--of which she had dreamed and which she had schemed

for--had arrived. She felt that she had him fast--the great man

whose life was Duty--had melted the heart of ice, hitherto

invulnerable. Her vanity was on the point of being satisfied. She

moved to satisfy it.

"Hector--" she whispered, "I'll--stay as--long as you like!"

And, both hands upon his shoulders, she tilted up her face and, very

close, looked into his.

They stood there motionless, in a silence like death.

The strong face did not alter its expression. If any struggle was

going on behind it, no sign of it was visible.

Yet her soul was naked before him.

The truth was that he had read her purpose almost from the start.

For a short time, she had deceived him, when she entered his room.

But one glance at her face, one touch of her hands, had instantly

told him that she was neither cold nor exhausted. The snow on her

coat had not been blown upon it by the wind. He suspected that she

had rolled on the ground before knocking at his door.

The discovery had shaken him a little. Plunged always in his work,

and with the natural modesty that was his strongest characteristic,

he had never regarded her as more than a harmless flirt or possessed

of any real feeling for him other than sincere friendliness. She had

been an amusing little doll, though capable, now and then, of

touching something in him which stirred him uneasily. He fully

understood how great an influence she might have on other men; but

the idea of anything bordering on an intrigue between them had never

entered his head.

Then--suddenly--he found her in his room--the room she rightly

described as bare, cold, priestly. She had talked to him intimately,

of things he had kept locked away for twelve long, dreary years,

lighting up the whole place with her dainty beauty, goading his

starved, strictly disciplined soul into thoughts that had lain

dormant for what seemed ages, feeding fires that he wanted to keep

low, offering him all that Life might have given him, but had not

given him, all that might have been and was not. For the past

half-hour, there had been hot flames in his blood, fierce throbbings

in his brain. She had undoubtedly melted the icicle as no woman had

ever done since long, long ago.

She had hammered incessantly at his heart. But--this would have

astonished her and crushed her had she only known it--the refrain

which her hammering had brought into his head was, not her name, but

this one, endlessly repeated:

"Frances! Frances! Frances!"

Always, over and over again, maddeningly:

"Frances!"

The sweet purity that he had lost was tearing at him----

Not the evil clinging to him now.

To him this woman's naked soul was what it was--contemptible, dirty,

miserably small and mean, without strength, governed only by two

things: vanity and passion.

Yet she had stirred him more than she could possibly guess.

Her eyes were beautiful--like Frances' eyes; she was graceful and

pretty--like Frances--with a mouth that invited desperately----

Both lived years while she rested her hands on his shoulders and

gazed upwards and he stood there, utterly impassive.

Then he placed his hands on hers, gently put them down----

She laughed, thinking this his last struggle.

"The temptation of St. Adair!" she said slowly. "Take me."

He held her hands in a grasp that gave her agony.

"You forget," he said, very quietly and distinctly, "that MacFarlane

is my friend--and a brother officer."

This was defeat. For the first time she, too, saw him for what he

was--'Spirit-of-Iron.'

Before she quite realized what he was doing, he pushed her gently

into the big chair and called:

"Blythe!"

Suppressing a yawn, bringing back the sound, easy atmosphere of

everyday life to the room, Blythe appeared.

"Yessir?"

"Mrs. MacFarlane missed her way in the blizzard. I want you to

escort her home. Then you can go."

She allowed him to put on her wraps. She was still dazed.

"Good-night," he said pleasantly, extending his hand, "Pleased to

have been of service."

His manner gave Blythe no inkling of what had happened.

"Good-night," she murmured, mechanically giving him her hand.

She knew herself, now, just as well as he did. He had shown her

plainly enough, yet in the gentlest manner.

A moment later he was alone--agonisingly alone.

IV

Mrs. MacFarlane's white hands had set an avalanche going.

None had been more affected by Mr. Molyneux's propaganda than Mrs.

MacFarlane's cook. Molyneux had laid the death of the Marquis at

Hector's door. Alice loved the Marquis. She relied implicitly on

everything she saw in print. The _Prophet_ blamed Hector;

accordingly, she hated him.

On the night when Mrs. MacFarlane visited Hector's quarters, the cook

saw her go in and come out. Alice knew that her mistress was at

least 'taken' with the Superintendent. She put two and two together

and found her chance to hurt her enemy--as she regarded him.

When MacFarlane returned, Alice told him of what she had seen.

The avalanche started.

MacFarlane, desperately jealous, desperately in love, found excuses

for his wife, none for Hector. In spite of all the evidence of his

senses, he decided that Hector was to blame.

To trust his old comrade, who had never failed him yet--to put his

suspicions before him, man to man, and abide by the result: this, the

happiest solution, strangely, never occurred to him.

Besides, he wanted to finish him!

But how? Openly? Impossible! Then, secretly--under cover. He must

find some means of disgracing Hector, some subtle way of hurting him

which would be worse than death.

Hector, while MacFarlane was scheming, had no idea of impending

treachery. MacFarlane hid his resentment well. Hector thought he

knew nothing.

Then, one day, came enlightenment, through a paragraph published by

his old enemy, the _Prophet_:

'An interesting story anent a prominent gentleman frequently dealt

with in these columns has just reached us through an unimpeachable

medium. It will come as no surprise to many of our readers, but will

enlighten others who do not know the real character of the individual

placed in a high position of authority in this district by an

unmerciful Providence and an inefficient Department. This individual

poses as one whose feet have always walked in the straight way. It

appears that the pose is far from genuine. The plain truth is that

when he first came to the country, in the early days, he carried on a

liaison with a pretty little squaw, the daughter of a chief. This

understanding (we use the mildest word) continued for several years

until the gentleman--his status entitles him to be thus spoken

of--apparently tired of it and dropped the matter. But Nemesis

arose. During the suppression of certain disturbances of a decade

ago, in which he played a leading part, the lady reappeared, only to

die in his arms. One story states that, fearing embarrassment, he

shot her himself; another, that he owes his success in the operations

to the information she gave him. Be that as it may, the romance

(again we omit an uglier word) ended there. So runs the tale--which

we know to be true. A man of this type, who looks no higher than an

Indian girl and carries on an intrigue of this character, is not fit

to hold the position he does. His chief has long protected him; but

we look to his colleagues to insist that one who so blots the fair

name of their organization is sent to the obscurity whence he came.'

Hector at once saw that this outburst referred to himself. The woman

in the case was, of course, Moon. Someone had told Welland, lately

back from the East, of her infatuation and death. Welland had

recognized the opportunity of wounding him with the most deadly

weapon he could employ, putting the worst construction on the story,

and giving just enough information to enable the curious to identify

the villain of the piece if they took the trouble.

The refined ingenuity of the assault was extraordinary. Hector could

not silence the story, because that would be an admission of his

concern in it. He could not deny it for the same reason. All he

could do was to suffer in silence, while it went the round and his

name was connected with it and he was made the victim of every

slander men could lay tongue to. That was the terrible part. He

could have faced anything physical, something he could fight, without

a qualm.

And then would come Moon's degradation. For Moon, though she was

'only an Indian,' he would have battled against any odds, because she

had served and loved him. To save her from intolerable libel he

would have given his life. He could do nothing.

He wondered if his intimacy with Moon had been preordained so that,

in time, it might be in the instrument to strike him down. It seemed

so, for Welland could have found no more effective weapon.

One hope remained. The story might not gain ground. If it gained

ground, he would be forced to resign.

He searched for the traitor in his mind and suddenly recognized

him--MacFarlane. The traitor was his friend--his friend--whose

honour he had protected under a temptation which might well have been

irresistible.

MacFarlane was the only man who knew of his first relations with

Moon; from the men who had witnessed her death, he had learned the

rest. MacFarlane had twisted facts into a hideous, lying brand and

placed that brand in the hands of his worst enemy.

Hector did not have far to seek for his motive.

The treachery of a trusted friend is the bitterest treachery any man

can face.

Hector had to face it.

And he could not even clear himself in his friend's eyes, for that

would show up Mrs. MacFarlane in her true colours and break

MacFarlane's heart.

He felt himself suddenly deserted, standing up alone under a rain of

blows, blows from behind as well as from in front--blows from

behind--crushing----

And set his teeth to endure.

V

"Mac," said Hector, "come over to my quarters and smoke a pipe. I

want a word with you."

MacFarlane could not well refuse. He followed his chief through the

snow.

"Now, Mac"--when they were comfortably seated--"we'll talk a certain

matter over, man to man."

MacFarlane, under heavy, frowning brows, searched his face. Hector

was pale, with shadows under his eyes, as if he had not slept well

for several nights. MacFarlane sensed vaguely the gist of what his

chief was going to say.

"All right, Hec'," he said, striving to be thoroughly at home. "What

is it?"

"You've seen this?"

Hector pushed over a folded newspaper--the _Prophet_, containing the

story of Moon.

Despite himself, MacFarlane could not quite conceal his uneasiness.

After a moment he pushed the paper back.

"Well?" he challenged.

"Do you know to whom that paragraph refers? No? It refers to me.

The girl is Moon-on-the-Water, daughter of Sleeping Thunder, of the

Assiniboines. You remember her, of course?"

"Perfectly."

"The story in outline is true. The details are false. There never

was anything between that woman and me. She was accidentally shot by

my trumpeter in the uprising. She told me the way the rebels had

taken, and died--I suppose, in my arms. I did owe a great deal to

her, because of that information. I never pretended that I did not.

You know that, Mac."

MacFarlane stared fiercely at the floor.

"Mac, the Indians, at least of those days, had fine principles.

Among other things, they believed in purity--their women took an oath

of purity and the penalties for those who broke it were very heavy.

Our superior white people have nothing like that oath or law. They

don't take a public vow of that kind; they don't suffer as the Indian

woman suffered when she overstepped the law. That poor Indian girl,

who knew nothing of the refinements of civilization, so called, was

as good as gold--far better than many white women."

MacFarlane clenched his fists restlessly. Every word drove into him

like a driven nail.

"Mac, that story's a lie!" Hector's hand crashed suddenly to the

table. "Never, never, never was there anything between that girl and

me. I know I can't prove it. I know that twenty papers have taken

up the yarn and if the man who printed it had his way it would be all

over Canada, with the names filled in--the gossips have coupled us

with it now, as it is. That's the hell of it--I can't fight

it--can't prove what I say or speak a word in defence of either of

us. But it's a lie! Now, listen, Mac. The only man who knew of my

earlier relations with Moon sits in this room at this moment. _You_

gave that story to Molyneux--my worst enemy--and I thought you were a

friend of mine."

MacFarlane had never suspected that Hector would guess. But now,

when cornered, he made no attempt to deny the charge--though it

marked him as a traitor.

"Mac--why did you do it?"

Hector's voice came quietly to him. Then the thought of his fancied

wrongs flamed into his brain.

"You know why I did it, damn you--you know! How in God's name can

you sit there and ask me 'Why'?"

He pounded the chair with his fists.

"Yes, I _do_ ask you 'Why.' Mac, this thing has tortured me for many

nights now. I suspected you and I can't rest till you tell me the

truth. And you don't leave this room till you do."

MacFarlane uttered a tremendous growl, rose heavily and stamped

furiously 'round the room.

"_Christ!_" he almost shrieked, wheeling suddenly to glare at Hector,

chest heaving, face aflame. "Do I _need_ to tell you? My soul,

you've got gall! What happened in this room while I was away?"

It was out now!

He expected to see his companion flinch; but, except for the

slightest tightening of the jaw, Hector's face gave no sign.

Instead, he rose slowly and walked over until he was face to face

with MacFarlane, looking down on him.

"You ask, 'What happened?' I'll tell you. Your wife lost her way

returning from the Quadrille Club. Wandered 'round until exhausted.

Finally stumbled on my quarters, the only place showing a light. She

was nearly frozen. I gave her brandy and warmed her up. Then my

servant, Blythe, took her home. If you wish to descend to such

evidence"--this was a two-edged shaft, though Hector did not know it,

and it seared MacFarlane's soul--"you can ask him if this isn't so.

Or ask your wife."

MacFarlane seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

"Surely, Mac, you can trust me. You've known me twenty years and

never have you had cause----"

"No, I don't trust you! I can't trust you! Haven't I eyes, ears,

senses? I don't believe you! I know what passed in this room. Your

excuse is a lie--do you hear?--a lie!"

"Mac, you call me treacherous--in effect, you do--a false friend--the

lowest animal on earth. And yet you've no proof. On the other hand,

you admit treachery to me. How can you reconcile the two?"

"How can I? Because you've given me cause for treachery, as you call

it, by your own treachery. An eye for an eye, my lad! I told

Molyneux that story and I think I'd good reason for it. And if it

breaks you, well and good. You and your virtuous In'juns! Pah!

Moon-on-the-Water better than many white women----"

"Be careful, Mac; be careful!"

Hector's face was paler now than ever, and at mention of Moon's name

he seized MacFarlane by the shoulders in an iron grip.

But MacFarlane wrenched himself away and raved on.

"Hell! You're no saint! You're just a man, like the rest of us!

The story's true! _You_ can have a taste of what _I've_ put up with,

now! And you can do what you please."

"Mac, is that your last word?"

"You're damn right it is!"

"Very well. If this thing finishes me, I shall have the satisfaction

of knowing that I'm not the first man who's had a friend named Judas.

Some day, Mac, you'll realize the truth. And then I hope you'll have

regret for what you've done and said. Please close the door as you

go out."

Two days later MacFarlane and Mrs. MacFarlane were suddenly

transferred to Edmonton.

VI

Hector was surprised to receive this letter from MacFarlane:

'MY DEAR ADAIR:

'This is going to be the hardest thing I ever wrote. Two months ago,

you remember, you told me some day I'd realize the truth. The day

has come. The Commissioner put me right. When he was up here last

week, I went to him like a skunk to try and help the _Prophet_ story

along; but it didn't work. The Commissioner's too strong a man and

too good a friend of yours to listen to gossip. Then he told me that

you'd arranged my transfer here and indicated that he had guessed

why. You had told him nothing of what had passed between us, he

said. He also pointed out to me just how you would have acted had

you been the hound I said you were--sending me away on duty and that

kind of thing, as is sometimes done in the Services. Take this from

me, Hector, I know where I am now and what I've been--a blind fool

and a swine. God knows if I can ever save you from the consequences

of what I did; but I'm going to do my best. The Commissioner thinks

the story will die a natural death. I hope so, if I can't kill it

myself. I can't ask your pardon--I don't deserve it. But love is

blind--and sometimes crazy. I know I was. Keep a good heart,

Hector. You're too good a man to be downed by a story of that kind

anyway.

'Yours, Mac.'

So MacFarlane had come to earth at last!

Chapter IV

I

In the early springtime, over a year after Hector's receipt of

MacFarlane's bitter apology, a notorious half-breed horse-thief and

cattle-rustler named Whitewash Bill was being conveyed, under escort,

to the cells at Broncho. A favourable opportunity presenting itself,

the said Whitewash Bill succeeded in making his escape. Hector

turned out scouts and patrols, which traced the wanted man to the

nearest Indian reserve. At the reserve they ascertained that he had

secured food and horses and had again taken flight. All detachments

were warned and the entire machinery of the Broncho district was set

going with the object of landing Whitewash Bill.

Thus began one of the most famous Western Canadian man-hunts; on one

side the Mounted Police, parties of special constables recruited from

the settlers and cowboys, Indian scouts and trackers, all directed

and controlled by the sleepless brain and strong hand of the great

'Spirit-of-Iron'; on the other one lone desperado of tremendous

endurance and fanatical courage, secretly aided by his own kinsmen

and by others whose sympathy was with the criminal class.

Money was also on the side of the law--and money talks very freely.

The big ranchers, who had suffered much at the hands of Whitewash

Bill, put up a reward of several thousand dollars for the capture of

the quarry, dead or alive.

The hunt ranged from the foothills to the heart of the great plains,

over the 27,000 square miles of the Broncho district. The days

became weeks, the weeks months; the horse-thief rode and starved

himself to the point of exhaustion; the Mounted Police searched and

prodded, cast and recast their net, watched, tracked, questioned--and

Whitewash Bill remained untaken. The district fretted, nerves on

edge, the whole country ready to see a Whitewash Bill in every

swaying tree or under any shadowed boulder. The real Whitewash Bill

danced to and fro through the fog of uncertainty like a

will-o'-the-wisp. He stole the horses of a civilian posse from the

stable while it sought a much-needed meal in a settler's kitchen.

Constable Jinks, making bread on detachment, heard a noise behind him

and saw Whitewash Bill in the act of riding off with a bag of oats

from the store-house in rear. Jumping out, the policeman fired a

shot, but his hands were thick with dough and he missed. Cornered in

a tent by a party under Lone-Elk-Facing-the-Wind, the criminal cut

his way out through the back and shot off the scout's hat as he sped

away. Trapped in a barn wherein he sought temporary refuge and a

sleep, he was smoked out but managed somehow to give his enemies the

slip under cover of the flames from the barn, which he set on fire.

In the course of his meanderings, he killed a settler who refused to

help him and shot down a buck policeman, who was now in hospital on

the verge of dying. After that, Broncho district lay in bed and

trembled, not daring to move, while Whitewash Bill rummaged like a

great rat in the larder and galloped off into the night as soon as

satisfied.

When the chase had lasted long enough to cause anxiety and give the

critics of the Police a chance, the worst happened.

Mr. Steven Molyneux saw the glorious opportunity and opened fire with

all his broadsides on the director of the hunt, 'Spirit-of-Iron.'

II

Mr. Molyneux's energies had not been fully turned against Hector for

over a year--not, in fact, since his attempt to discredit his

opponent through the story told him by MacFarlane had failed. In

relying on that story, the politician had not taken into account the

lapse of time. Most people had forgotten the minor events which

preceded the coming of the railway, and even the romantic tale of the

Indian girl who died in the arms of a Mounted Police officer during

the revolt was remembered by few. He had also failed to account for

the feelings held by this handful for Adair--feelings which kept

their mouths close shut. Again, he had not calculated on the

sporting spirit which favours the weaker side. Finally, he had

overlooked the ignorance of Easterners on Western matters. The story

had lived a long time, but the principals had remained anonymous in

spite of the politician's broadest hints. So the dirty coup was by

this time in its grave.

Molyneux--formerly Joseph Welland--was much too clever to go on

fighting with a broken sword. He decided that the only way to kill

his man was by catching him in some glaring inefficiency. So he had

lain low, awaiting that inefficiency, which, he argued, must come

sooner or later.

In the meantime, he went on organising his political forces and

undermining Hector's position.

His power constantly increased. He was fast making money, in real

estate, railway stocks and cattle. In a few years he hoped to become

a director in one of the big lines. Sedulously serving their

interests, he had been rewarded by admission to their inner ring. He

had built up a small combine in cattle, which was soon to become a

large one, giving him a decisive voice in the market throughout the

Territories. And so with grain. Politically, he possessed much

strong support.

The skyrocket was climbing steadily towards its zenith.

On the face of it, the politician should have found it easy to crush

the policeman, for he enjoyed wide power.

That power was now let loose.