"MALBROUCK S'EN VA-T-EN GUERRE"
Inspector MacLean was present in person when the two man-hunters of
the North-West Mounted returned to Faraway. Their reception was in the
nature of a pageant. Gayly dressed voyageurs and trappers, singing
old river songs that had been handed down to them from their fathers,
unharnessed the dogs and dragged the cariole into town. In it sat
Beresford, still unfit for long and heavy mushing. Beside it slouched
West, head down, hands tied behind his back, the eyes from the matted
face sending sidling messages of hate at the capering crowd. At his
heels moved Morse, grim and tireless, an unromantic figure of dominant
efficiency.
Long before the worn travelers and their escort reached the village,
Jessie could hear the gay lilt of the chantey that heralded their
coming:
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
The girl hummed it herself, heart athrob with excitement. She found
herself joining in the cheer of welcome that rose joyously when the
cavalcade drew into sight. In her cheeks fluttered eager flags of
greeting. Tears brimmed the soft eyes, so that she could hardly
distinguish Tom Morse and Win Beresford, the one lean and gaunt and
grim, the other pale and hollow-eyed from illness, but scattering
smiles of largesse. For her heart was crying, in a paraphrase of the
great parable, "He was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is
found."
Beresford caught sight of the Inspector's face and chuckled like
a schoolboy caught in mischief. This gay procession, with its
half-breeds in tri-colored woolen coats, its gay-plumed voyageurs
suggesting gallant troubadours of old in slashed belts and tassels,
was not quite the sort of return to set Inspector MacLean cheering.
Externally, at least, he was a piece of military machinery. A trooper
did his work, and that ended it. In the North-West Mounted it was not
necessary to make a gala day of it because a constable brought in his
man. If he didn't bring him in--well, that would be another and a
sadder story for the officer who fell down on the assignment.
As soon as Beresford and Morse had disposed of their prisoner and
shaken off their exuberant friends, they reported to the Inspector.
He sat at a desk and listened dryly to their story. Not till they had
finished did he make any comment.
"You'll have a week's furlough to recuperate, Constable Beresford.
After that report to the Writing-on-Stone detachment for orders.
Here's a voucher for your pay, Special Constable Morse. I'll say
to you both that it was a difficult job well done." He hesitated a
moment, then proceeded to free his mind. "As for this Roman triumph
business--victory procession with prisoners chained to your chariot
wheels--quite unnecessary, I call it."
Beresford explained, smilingly. "We really couldn't help it, sir. They
were bound to make a Roman holiday out of us whether we wanted to or
not. You know how excitable the French are. Had to have their little
frolic out of it."
"Not the way the Mounted does business. You know that, Beresford.
We don't want any fuss and feathers--any fol-de-rol--this
mironton-ton-ton stuff. Damn it, sir, you liked it. I could see you
eat it up. D'you s'pose I haven't eyes in my head?"
The veneer of sobriety Beresford imposed on his countenance refused to
stay put.
MacLean fumed on. "Hmp! Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, eh? Very
pretty. Very romantic, no doubt. But damned sentimental tommyrot, just
the same."
"Yes, sir," agreed the constable, barking into a cough just in time to
cut off a laugh.
"Get out!" ordered the Inspector, and there was the glimmer of a
friendly smile in his own eyes. "And I'll expect you both to dine with
me to-night. Six o'clock sharp. I'll hear that wonderful story in more
detail. And take care of yourself, Beresford. You don't look strong
yet. I'll make that week two or three if necessary."
"Thank you, sir."
"Hmp! Don't thank me. Earned it, didn't you? What are you hanging
around for? Get out!"
Constable Beresford had his revenge. As he passed the window,
Inspector MacLean heard him singing. The words that drifted to the
commissioned office! were familiar.
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
MacLean smiled at the irrepressible youngster. Like most people, he
responded to the charm of Winthrop Beresford. He could forgive him a
touch of debonair impudence if necessary.
It happened that his heart was just now very warm toward both these
young fellows. They had come through hell and had upheld the best
traditions of the Force. Between the lines of the story they had told
he gathered that they had shaved the edge of disaster a dozen times.
But they had stuck to their guns like soldiers. They had fought it out
week after week, hanging to their man with bulldog pluck. And when at
last they were found almost starving in camp, they were dividing their
last rabbit with the fellow they were bringing out to be hanged.
The Inspector walked to the window and looked down the street after
them. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. The rhythmic motion
of them might have suggested, if there had been anybody present to
observe, that his mind was running on the old river song.
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."