He was a dirty, aged man, who to his bottle clung,
And ever and anon did curie in some queer foreign tongue,
The tale he told was passing strange, yet pitiful, withal--
Of the lonely, care-fraught, troublous life
He lived from Fall to Fall.
--_The Old Nester_
An uneventful hour and a half's ride next morning brought Benton within
sight of Tucker's homestead at Fish Creek. Leaving the main trail, he
struck into an old cow-track, which short cut wound its way through the
thick brush on the west side of the latter's pasture, emerging from
which, into a clear open space, he found the gate that he sought.
What little feed there had been inside the few fenced-in acres was
cropped as close as if sheep had been herded there, and a bunch of
horses and a few gaunt cows wandered disconsolately hither and thither,
roaming the fence round and groping through the wire strands at the
nourishment that lay just beyond their reach. It was a pitiful sight and
Ellis, with his love for animals, felt a spasm of anger pass through him
as he noticed bad festering barbed-wire scratches on more than one of
the poor hungry brutes.
"Th' cursed, scared old fool," he muttered savagely. "I reckon he's got
reason to be, though, if that whisper o' Shorty's is straight goods."
He rode slowly across the parched, dusty ground and, fording the creek,
passed through the gate at the opposite end. Circling around the stables
and corrals, he dismounted outside the weather-beaten shack in which the
old man passed his lonely life. Dropping the buckskin's lines, the
Sergeant climbed up the broken steps and shoved his way in through the
half-opened door.
With an oath he reeled back and his hand streaked like lightning to his
hip. For a second or two he remained perfectly motionless then, a grim
smile slowly relaxing his features, he dropped his hand and gazed
silently at the strange scene that met his eyes.
He beheld an under-sized, grizzled-bearded old man about sixty who, with
the vacuous smile of the partially intoxicated, was leveling a rifle at
him with shaking hands. He was seated in an arm-chair, at a rough table,
that was littered with dirty crockery and cooking utensils. An empty
glass was in front of him.
"_Saku bona, N'kos_," greeted Ellis mockingly.
"_Saku bona, Umlungu,_" came the guttural response, while the wavering
rifle barrel slowly descended and the shriveled, stringy old throat
worked convulsively. "_Allemachtig_--but I thort you wos that _verdomde
schelm_--Short an' Dirty--come a-nosin' arahnd agin."
Born and bred in the East End of London, thirty years on the South
African veldt and ten in Canada, had not depreciated Tucker's accent
much, and his speech was a curious jargon of Afrikander, Cockney, and
Western vernacular.
"H--l!" said the policeman irritably. "Is this th' way yu' greet yore
friends these days? Been gettin' yore Dutch up, eh?--an' early, at that.
What's th' matter with Shorty? _He's_ all right! Wen wos 'e arahnd?"
"Yestiddy mornin'," piped Tucker. "I tell yer I cawn't abide that
feller. I dahn't like th' looks of 'im an' I ain't a-goin' to 'ave 'im
come a-messin' abaht 'ere ... 'e ain't up ter no good. _Whau!_--I'll
_skiet die verdomde schepsel_," he finished with a screech, and raising
the rifle again.
"Here! Yu' come across with that gun!" snapped the Sergeant. "Yu' make
me nervous. Come on now, Bob--let's have it. D'yu' hear?"
Alternately threatening and cajoling, he at length obtained the weapon
and, jerking open the lever, pumped the magazine empty of shells. These
he gathered up and put in his pocket.
"Got any more?" he inquired, ledging the rifle on some pegs.
The old man glowered at him silently, and pointed with a shaking finger
to a cupboard, where a minute search produced two more packets of
cartridges, which speedily joined the others.
"A man that's _dronk_ ain't got no business monkey'n' around with a
gun," remarked the policeman judicially.
"You're a _leugenaar_" hiccuped Tucker indignantly. "I ain't _dronk_."
"No--yu' ain't," retorted the Sergeant ironically. "Yu've got th'
makin's of a first-class jag, though. Th' smell of yore breath's mighty
refreshin'. Yu' wanta do what's right when a man wearin' th' King's
uniform comes arahnd yore _laager_."
The implied appeal to his hospitality was not lost upon the other who,
arising with difficulty, walked unsteadily over to a dirty sofa and,
groping underneath, dragged forth a half-full Imperial quart bottle of
"Burke's Irish."
"_Whau!_ Got it cached, eh? I _korner_," chuckled Ellis, reaching for a
glass and pouring himself out a generous libation. "_Allemachtig_, but
I'm dry this mornin'. Wish this was good, cold tickey beer instead o'
whiskey. _N'dipe manzi?_"
His elderly host, relaxing back into his arm-chair again, indicated a
bucket and dipper. Benton mixed his drink and raised his glass.
"_Salue_," he muttered, and drank.
"_Drink hael_," the other responded gruffly.
Putting down his empty glass, the Sergeant seated himself and proceeded
to roll a cigarette.
"See here; look," he began, licking the paper across. "Yu'll be gettin'
_dronk_ an' doin' some poor sucker a mischief with that gun if yu' ain't
careful; an' then yu'll most likely land in _die tronk_ on a murder
charge, _Myjnheer_ Bob Tucker.
"Say," he continued suspiciously, as a sudden thought struck him. "Yu'
was over to th' detachment to see me th' day before yesterday, wasn't
yu'?"
"_Ja_," answered the old man sulkily. "An' yer ain't never abaht w'en a
feller wants yer."
Ignoring the testy reply, the policeman resumed: "When yu' left Barney
Gallagher's which trail d'yu' come home by?--th' long 'un, or th' short
'un through my pasture?"
"Th' short 'un," said Tucker wonderingly. "W'y?"
"Anythin' happen to yu' on th' trail?" inquired his interlocutor.
The old man hesitated a moment. "_Ja!_ Did 'ave a bit of a shindig," he
admitted shamefacedly.
"_Ja_," said the Sergeant. "I thought so; an' now I'll tell yu' what
happened. Yu' was _dronk_ an' let yore lines catch under th' end o' th'
_disselboom_, an' yore team up an' run away on yu'. Managed to pull 'em
up, somehow, I suppose. Providence always seems to hand out a special
dispensation to fellers that's full, else more'n likely it's th'
hospital _yu'd_ be in instead o' that chair."
"Well, I pulled _die schelms_, anyway," said the other. "An' I 'ad to go
back abaht 'arf a mile fer a bag o' chicken feed as fell aht."
"_Ja!_ ... an' a bag o' blasted nails yu' had aboard fell aht wiv' it,"
mimicked Ellis, irritably. "An' my hawss picked one of 'em up in his
nigh-fore an' he's been out o' business ever since."
The old man, fumbling with trembling fingers about his waistcoat,
produced a short day pipe and, filling it, proceeded to smoke.
"If yu' don't let up on th' _dop_ for a space," resumed the policeman
severely, "yu'll be havin' fancies again--bad 'uns, too."
The abandoned Tucker cocked a boiled eye at his would-be mentor.
"Tchkk!" he clucked testily. "Rats ... an' sech like. I've 'ad 'em....
Yer cawn't skeer me wiv yer _fancies_," he shrilled suddenly, with
senile defiance. "'Ow abaht _you_? 'Tis an Aberdeen man's 'Say w'en!'
yer poured aht fer yourself, I noticed--an' then yer turns rahnd an'
torks ter me like a bloomin' _unfundusi_. _Whau!_ I _korner fancies_!"
he wound up bitterly.
The Sergeant swallowed the home-thrust with a tolerant grin.
"Ain't figurin' on practisin' what I preach just yet," he rejoined.
"I'm a pore old feller," whimpered Tucker, dropping his pipe and
beginning to weep with maudlin self-pity. "Yer all tries to 'come it'
over me."
The gray beard jerked up and down convulsively with his sobs.
"Aw, h--l! come, now," said Benton, not unkindly. "Yu' bring a lot o'
yore troubles on yoreself. Why, don't yu' sell out here, Dad, an' go
back East to yore son there, where yu'd be looked after properly? Yu're
too old to be livin' here on yore lonesome like this."
The old man gazed drearily through the open door.
"I _wuz_ dahn theer two years agone," he said huskily, and with a
querulous, childish simplicity that moved his hearer more than that
individual cared to show. "My 'Arry's a good lad, but that theer _vrouw_
o' 'is kills my pig properly. Nah!--there ain't no peace theer. An' th'
_kinders_ cries, an' w'enever 'e tries ter stan' hup fer hisself she
hups an' knocks 'im off th' perch reg'lar. She started on me, too," he
went on, spitting vindictively. "But I pulled aht of it an' come back
'ere. I 'member one night I went 'ome wiv a bottle ter 'ave a smile wiv
me b'y. Th' kitchen door were shut, an' I c'ud 'ear 'em a-goin' to it
fer fair. All of a sudden there come such a smack, that I guess she were
a-tryin' ter prove whether 'is block or 'er mop-stick were th' 'ardest.
I weren't a-goin' buttin' in where dry pokes an' 'ard words wuz a-goin',
so I _trekked_ ant of it quick--dahn ter th' pub on th' corner o'
Iroquois Street, an' got _dronk_ peaceful on me own. Nah," he concluded,
spitting again contemptuously, "folks is best single."
The Sergeant looked hard at the careworn, dissipated old face,
doubting--and not for the first time, either--whether, under that simple
exterior, there lay not a better philosophy than he himself could boast
of.
"Aye," he agreed slowly. "Like as not yu're right, Dad--like as not.
Now, what was it yu' come to see me about?"
The old man fidgeted in his chair uneasily.
"You mind me a-tellin' yer once abaht that theer old nitchie
'Roll-in-th'-Mud,' as I fahnd larst year in th' bush, wiv 'is leg broke,
an' took back ter th' Agency ag'in?"
The policeman nodded. He had heard the oft-repeated tale more times than
he could remember.
"Well," continued his host. "Th' old feller comes arahnd ter see me now
an' ag'in--just ter say 'Howdy' an' cadge a bit o' baccer. Well, th'
mornin' I come over ter see you I wuz ahtside th' stable _inspannin'_ me
team, meanin' fer ter _trek_ over ter Barney Gallagher's fer some
chicken feed an' stuff, w'en 'e comes a-jiggin' by, a-_sjambokin'_ 'is
old cayuse like them nitchies ullus does. 'E pulls hup w'en 'e sees me,
an' grins. 'Howdy,' says I. 'Howdy,' says 'e. I dahn't savvy 'is
_indaba_, so we ullus mykes sign tork. 'E seemed kind o' excited like
an' 'e catches me by th' coat an' leads me rahnd th' back o' th' stable,
where we cud see th' 'orses in th' field. 'E starts in ter wive 'is arms
like as if 'e wuz a-tryin' ter imityte a bloke a-drivin' 'em aw'y to'rds
th' West, then 'e touches 'is chest an' grunts '_Naymoyer, naymoyer_,'
two or three times, an' shykes 'is 'ead. I catches on ter wot 'e meant,
quick ... cudn't 'elp it. 'E wuz a-meanin' that some bloke wuz a-goin'
ter try an' run 'em off from me, an' wanted 'im ter 'elp 'im an' 'e
wudn't. That's wot 'e meant," wound up Tucker breathlessly, turning an
imploring, frightened face to the Sergeant. "An' I figger that theer
bloke wuz that same _schelm_, Short an' Dirty."
For reasons of his own, the policeman tried to allay the old man's
shrewd suspicions.
"Now, don't yu' go for to get a-blamin' poor Shorty for everythin'. He
ain't figurin' to do yu' no harm. P'r'aps th' nitchie was only meanin'
yore stock wanted turnin' out of that god-forsaken pasture o' yores,
onto th' range again, where they can rustle a bite. It's a blasted
shame, yore coopin' 'em up like that. That's what old 'Roll-in-th'-Mud'
meant."
Thus he chided, but Tucker only shook his gray head obstinately, and
clung firmly to his pet conviction.
"Had any more visitors th' last two or three days besides Shorty?"
queried Benton.
The old man struggled with his liquor-fumed wits awhile, torturing his
memory.
"Let's see," he said slowly. "W'y, yes!... That theer young
feller--Scotty Robbins, I think's 'is nyme--wot works fer th' Wharnock
outfit ... 'e come arahnd abaht fower d'ys ago. 'E's come 'ere ter see
me lots o' times. 'E said once as 'ow 'e wished 'e 'ad th' money ter buy
me plice. 'E seems a nice, kind-'earted young feller--that. Sometimes 'e
brings another feller wot works wiv 'im along too. 'E's a big chap--'is
nyme's Fisk."
"Yes," said Ellis meditatively. "I know 'em. They're both nice,
kind-'earted fellers, as yu' say."
He looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. "Well, I reckon I'll be
pullin' back," he said. "I'll go on over to th' Reserve sometime soon,
and see old Roll-in-th'-Mud, an' have a palaver with him through an
interpreter."
The old man arose shakily and, with a string of Dutch and Zulu
maledictions on his supposed enemies, put a trembling, withered hand on
the policeman's sleeve.
"Yer won't let any o' th' _schelms_ put anyfink over on me, will yer,
son?" he said wistfully.
Benton turned and looked at him kindly, and a wave of compassionate pity
for the helpless old reprobate who besought his protection, not unmixed
with anger at the men who aimed to despoil him, stirred his deep,
sympathetic nature strangely.
"Now, don't yu' worrit none. I'll look after yu', Dad," he said gently.
"Only yu' wanta take a tumble an' turn that stock o' yores out tomorrow
... they're starvin'. An' don't yu' go a-gettin' full an' monkey'n'
around with that gun no more, else I won't," he added warningly. "I'm
a-goin' to keep them shells for a time, to insure yore good behavior."
Tucker, overwhelming him with abject promises of immediate and lasting
reform, tottered out into the open after him.
"W'en I see that theer buckskin 'orse o' Barney Gallagher's thru' th'
winder, I made shore as it wuz Short an' Dirty comin' arahnd ag'in," he
piped. "W'y, _'e_ used ter ride 'im."
"_Ja_," answered Ellis enigmatically, as he swung into the saddle.
"_Used._ Well, so long, Dad. Mind what I told yu', now. I'll be around
to see yu' again soon."