CHAPTER XV

O Memory, ope thy mystic door!

O dream of youth, return!

And let the lights that gleamed of yore

Beside this altar burn!

--_Gray_

The subtle irony conveyed in the doctor's last words had not been lost

on their hearer.

"Aye! 'The Man with the Muckrake,'" he soliloquized. "That was just it.

Also, it was characteristic of Charley that he should have interpreted

the impression in such fashion, too."

It was Sunday, and the sound of the church bells tolling for evening

service, interspersed with the merry voices of children in their play,

fell unheeded on the ears of the man who, with mind sunk in far-away

thought, still remained in the same attitude, with his arms resting on

the window ledge, gazing out over the unbroken vista of rolling prairie.

That stern, bandaged face, framed in the open casement, its brooding

eyes fixed, seemingly, on the beyond, with the whole setting bathed in

the blood-red flame of the sunset's afterglow, might have impressed one

as vividly suggestive of that striking example of the late Sir John

Tenniel's art, in his depiction of that scene enacted in far-off

Khartoum twenty-three years before--of _one_--who, wounded and

desperate, gazed day by day from a window in the citadel out across the

sun-scorched desert towards Metemmah, his despairing eyes forever vainly

seeking that help which came not.

The evening shadows began to fall, but still Ellis remained in that deep

reverie while, as if in a dream, visions of his past life rose up in his

mind with strange reality.

As if it were only yesterday he recalled that last stormy scene which

clinched his determination to leave home. The scornful, accusing face of

his step-mother, and his father's angry, worried countenance, as he

(Ellis) gazed steadily and defiantly back at the woman whose continual

petty spite had contrived to make his life at home unbearable.

Both of them were still alive and well, old Major Carlton had mentioned

in his last letter. No--they never spoke of him. He was an outcast from

his family of his own accord. Yes, that might be, but never a prodigal,

or a remittance man, despite his birth and early breeding.

No, he could never be classed with such as they, thank God. Ever since

he had shaken the dust of England off his feet he had earned his living

honestly with the toil of his brain and body, as a man amongst men. He

had done nothing to shame his manhood, and his life was his own to live

out as he saw fit; so, come what might, unless by their express behest,

his people should never behold his face again, whether in life or death.

Then, tripping fast over one another, came flashes of the wild, free

life on the range that had followed his emigration. That evening he

arrived at the Circle H--only a boy in his teens, hungry, foot-sore, and

moneyless, after tramping all the way from Billings. The rough, morose

face of "Big Jim Parsons," as he sneeringly asked him his nationality,

and finally flung him a job, as a bone to a dog. That worthy's kindness

to him afterwards, in recognition of his proven courage and

adaptability, and the unspeakable language the foreman was wont to use

in his clumsy attempts to gloss over any generous deed. Poor old Jim.

_His_ had been the kind of friendship that counts. Too bad that horse

had killed him like it did, after all his years of riding. The fun they

had when they blew into town after the round-ups. The trivial arguments

that so often ended in death, and the blind, unquestioning sincerity

with which they espoused their bosses' and friends' feuds over the

sheep-grazing infringements and other grievances of cattle men. The

smell of scorched hide and the bawling of cattle in the corrals on

branding days. The riding and steer roping at Cheyenne and Red Butte on

gala occasions. Aye, that was the life. Why hadn't he stuck to it

instead of becoming by turns, prize-fighter, soldier and, finally,

Mounted Policeman? getting, in the latter vocation, as he had previously

remarked, a taste of everybody else's worries in addition to his own.

Then followed brief memories of his pugilistic career. That scrap on the

open street in Butte that night, which had been the thin edge of the

wedge of his subsequent entry into professional fighting, when he put

away "Bull Blatzsky" for chasing that girl. The piteous appeal in her

frightened, pretty face as she sought his protection, and the

contemptuous sarcasm of the formidable prize-fighter, telling him to

"beat it back to th' farm." The tingling in his veins, and the

exultation that he had felt surging through him as he beheld his

opponent weakening, and the yelling plaudits of the crowd as he fought

himself out of that last clinch and landed the final punch that ended

matters. He had knocked out men enough since then, Lord knows, at one

time and another, and perhaps might do the same for many more, but that

hot, proud flush he would never feel again. That fight in which he had

defeated Gus Ahrens at Madison Square Gardens in New York, and received

a thousand dollars as his long end of the purse. The terrible month's

spree that followed. And then--the low-down, insidious propositions that

various promoters and managers kept putting up to him from time to time

which, finally, decided him to forsake the ring. Yes, begad! the average

standard of prize-fighting morality was rotten to the core. He could

vouch for it from personal experience. It was a good job he'd quit it in

time before the crooks got him; but, at any rate, he could always look

back to those days with the clear conscience of one who had never "put

anything over" on the public. Fought on the square at all times, and

given the best that was in him for the spectators and those that had

backed him. Whatever they might have said or thought, it surely was not

flagging endurance or courage that caused his departure for South

Africa.

And, with that reflection, the memory of his first glimpse of that later

unquiet land came back to him, and again he seemed to see the huge,

black, up-flung wall of Table Mountain clean-cut against the blue-black,

star-studded sky, and the twinkling lights of Capetown beneath its

shadow, with the great, yellow African moon above all, as he beheld it

from the deck of the _Braemar Castle_ the night she made Table Bay.

What a curious old and new-world town Capetown was, with its civilized

and uncivilized mixture of races, creeds, and dress that you could stand

and watch jostling each other in front of the windows of those splendid

up-to-date stores in Plein Street. English, Dutch, Portuguese,

Hottentot, Malay, Zulu, Kaffir, Hindoo, and Chinese, with the ubiquitous

Jew bidding fair to outnumber them all. What a pleasant, lazy time he

had had, wandering around there before he went up-country. Out

Greenpoint way to the sea's edge, where one could look clear across past

the lighthouse to Simon's-Town, and Lion's Head Mountain. And those

occasional trips to the outlying suburbs, Wynberg, Paarl, Woodstock,

where all the magnates' luxurious bungalows were, lying half-hidden

amidst huge, clustering masses of magnificent tropical foliage; and

Rondebosch, where "Groot Schuurr," the palatial home of Cecil Rhodes,

the great Dictator of Cape Colony and Rhodesia, was situated.

He was dead now--that strong, skilful protagonist to whom Africa owed so

much, and buried in accordance with his last wish--in a tomb cut out of

the solid rock on the summit of the highest peak in the Matoppos,

appropriately termed "The View of the World."

It is his will that he look forth

Across the world he won--

The granite of the ancient North--

Great spaces washed with sun.

Aye--Kipling's immortal lines were a fitting requiem to the memory of

the great dead. Cecil Rhodes was gone, but--

Living he was the land, and dead,

His soul shall be her soul!

How well he recalled that memorable pilgrimage thither, as if to a

shrine, that he and Musgrave had made together after the war.

Then those two years spent in the Chartered Company's service, before

the war came, and the godforsaken places he was stationed in previous to

his transfer to Johannesburg--Umtali, Nhaukoe, Mumbatua Falls, and

Inyongo, up in the Mungamba Mountains, with mostly only natives for

company. The bright, cool days, and the long, sweet, silent nights

afterwards, up in the Magaliesberg Range, where it was so still that it

seemed uncanny. The glorious sunrises--the air heavy with the scent of

wattle bloom and mimosa flower, as you came out from your tent in the

morning, feeling full of the joy of life, healthy and strong, unrecking

of the morrow, and amused yourself throwing stones at the baboons that

barked "Boom ba! boom ba!" at you from their perches away up on the

ledges in the _krantzes_.

And then--"Jo'burg," with its conglomeration of cosmopolitan

adventurers. Hard-drinking, busy, grasping men, all struggling gamely in

the same great vortex of speculation in the gold and diamond mines of

the Rand, and all breathing the same hatred towards the South African

Republic, and the tyranny and injustice of "Oom Paul Kruger" and his

ministers, whose grasping avarice and total disregard of even the common

rights of citizenship were gradually making the _Uitlander's_ lot

unbearable.

Yes, but old Oom got _his_ afterwards, when the war he had provoked

finally overwhelmed him and forced him and Steyn to flee from the

country and people that they had ruined. A faint, reflective smile

relaxed his somber face as he absently hummed a few lines of a doggerel

ditty that had been sung around every camp fire from Pretoria to

Capetown in the later stages of the war:

"Oom Paul Kruger" seems every one's pal

In this wide world, wide world.

For he is such a cleanly, sweet-smelling old chap;

Handkerchiefs, he disdains--gives his fingers a snap;

Oh! ain't it a shame that he's wiped off the map

Of this awfully wide, wide world?

Aye, that war.... He'd sure done some hard slugging there, one way and

another. That two months on the Karroo Desert ... whew! rotten

water--what little there was of it--and fellows going under every day

with "enteric." Those cursed night marches, after a long day's _trek_,

where your horse kept coming down with you amongst the _meerkat_ holes

in the dark. Lord! but they were hard, bitter men in that Irregular

Horse--had had enough to make 'em--mostly refugees from the Rand. They

sure could fight, and were up to all the Boer's tricks, too. That was

some scrap at Wepener, under that burning sun all day. What a smack that

bullet gave him. Slap through his body. Felt just like being hit with a

hammer. They'd got him at last, but at a price--for had he not

deliberately picked off six "_Doppers_" before it came, as he lay cached

behind that broken-down Cape cart?... Flopped 'em out, one after the

other ... and lots more before that, too, at Elandslaagte, Waggon Hill,

and in various small skirmishes.

That chase after De Wet and Kritzinger, long afterwards, during the

guerilla warfare that followed, when they and Honeycroft's column

converged on Pampoon Poort and nearly nailed the whole bunch. He'd

killed five horses in that two weeks' drive. Those Argentines hadn't got

much bottom in them, though. Basuto ponies were the stuff--if you were

lucky enough to get hold of one--for they mostly got snapped up by the

officers. Tough!... the cayuses in this country were pretty hard--some

of 'em--but they weren't a patch on those little Basutos.

Ah, well, it was all over now; but what misery and fun they had had,

mixed. Either a feast or a famine. Starving one day, gorged the next.

Things had got pretty slim, though, towards the end, with all the

countless columns ravaging the country. Couldn't even get a bit of

firewood to boil your coffee, let alone a pig or a chicken. Nothing left

except a few thin sheep, and those stringy, pink-eyed Angora

goats--worse provender than "bully" or "Macconnochie Ration." The night

he, Barney Ebbsworth, and Billy Gardiner "feloniously, and with intent,"

stole that keg of rum at Norval's Pont, and the glorious drunk that they

and the guardians of the neighboring blockhouse had on it.

Yes, they were pretty tough specimens, all right, in that regiment, for

the surroundings and conditions they lived under in those haphazard days

were not particularly conducive to much close observance of the higher

ethics of refinement or morality. "Sufficient unto the day thereof" had

been the only maxim that went there, for the span of life was of too

doubtful duration, between sun-up and sun-down, to speculate overmuch on

what the morrow might bring forth.

He'd done _his_ bit, anyway, and had come out of it safely, with three

medals and completely restored health. Luckier than lots of the poor

devils in his regiment, so many of whom were lying in their lonely

graves back there, on which the _aasvogel_ perched by day and the hyena

prowled around by night--or those that were living, crippled up for

life, perhaps, scores of them. No! South Africa was all right in some

ways, but he wouldn't care to live there again, for many things. The

American continent was a better country for a poor man, after all, and

he hadn't done so badly. He'd not saved a fortune, it was true; he'd

given more away to others than he'd ever spent on himself, for he was

always an easy mark for any poor devil with a hard-luck story. But he'd

generally kept a moderate stake in the bank for a rainy day, so there

was no particular cause for him to take such pessimistic views of life

as he was prone to do at times. He'd much to be thankful for. His police

record was good, and he had risen very quickly during his five odd

years' service. For, without being exactly over-zealous, his list of

convictions--long-term ones at that--was probably higher than any other

man's in the Division, and some of them had caused him to be the

recipient of favorable recognition from the Commissioner on more than

one occasion.

Yes, without being unduly "stuck on himself," he _did_ possess a good

many of the natural qualifications requisite for police duty. For stock

cases, anyway, and the position he occupied in the province as a

Sergeant in the R.N.W.M.P., undoubtedly gave him a certain standing in

any community. Grouse and worry as he might, there _was_ a good deal of

fascination about the life, which was exemplified by the unconsciously

keen interest that, entirely apart from the fact of mere duty, he felt

in the various crooked problems that he was called upon from time to

time to solve.

If only it wasn't such a cursed _lonely_ life. Lonely, in the sense of

his self-imposed isolation that he felt was incumbent on him, more or

less, in the interests of duty. That's what gave _him_ the pip, and

caused those rotten fits of depression that came over him at times. Yes,

there was no doubt about it--he was getting crankier and crankier every

year. He was conscious of it. What was coming over him? He didn't use to

be like that. Fellows were starting to call him "Old" Ben, too, already.

He didn't deserve _that_, surely--even if his hair _was_ turning

slightly gray. He could still show some of those young men, ten years

his junior, a thing or two yet, in any test of physical endurance or

skill.

Yes, it was lonely, all right. But, then, it didn't do for a man

situated in a crooked district like he was to get going around with the

glad hand, either. That was apt to make a policeman's duty highly

disagreeable on occasion, as he knew from past experience. No, the only

way was to keep aloof from people as much as possible in a place like

this; then they had nothing on you, obligation or anything else, and you

could soak it to 'em without compunction whenever occasion arose. They

weren't all like Barney Gallagher or Lake. Thank goodness, he could

always trust _them_, and could talk freely in their company without

having to be continually on his guard.

Thus he continued to muse, his mind reverting in turns to many curious

problems, till suddenly rousing himself with a start, he drew back from

the window and, stretching and yawning, looked at his watch.

"Lord, what a time I've been dreaming there!" he muttered. "It's too

late for grub at the hotel. I guess I'll have to go on down to the

Chink's an' get something there."

He lit the lamp and, after hunting around for some cleaning kit, began

mechanically to clean his dusty riding boots, preparatory to going out.

Whilst thus engaged, the door opened, admitting Sergeant Churchill.

"Hello, Ben," greeted that individual, with an assumption of geniality.

"You still here?"

Ellis turned and, straightening himself up, regarded the other with

languid interest.

"Hello," he returned. "Train in? Was beginning to think you'd deserted."

Churchill did not answer immediately but, divesting himself of his

side-arms and serge, sat down and proceeded to smoke.

"Had a trip up to the 'Pen' with a bunch o' prisoners," he volunteered

presently. "Yours amongst 'em. That Fisk started in to give us a lot o'

trouble on th' way, but we put th' kibosh on _him_ properly, before we

got there."

"M'm, m'm," said Benton absently. "He's a bad actor, 'Big George.' How

d'you make out with that perjury case of yours?"

"Nine months," answered Churchill laconically.

A long silence ensued, during which Ellis continued his polishing,

Churchill eyeing him furtively meanwhile.

"Must have got a bad smash?" he ventured, indicating the other's

bandaged head. "Heard all about it at th' Post."

"Oh," replied Ellis indifferently, "did you?"

His tone was anything but encouraging. Churchill licked his lips and

essayed another attempt.

"What verdicts did the coroner's jury bring in on those cases?" he

inquired, with a forced carelessness in his tone that did not deceive

Benton in the least. "I haven't seen th' paper."

Ellis, with his foot on a chair, paused and turned, brush in hand.

"Eh?" he returned irritably.

Churchill, avoiding the other's eyes and fumbling with his pipe,

repeated the question.

Benton reached for a memorandum form that lay on the desk, and tossed it

over unceremoniously.

"There's a copy of the wording of the findings," he said shortly.

"Condensed, it practically amounts to 'death, caused by an act of

justifiable homicide,' in the one case, 'manslaughter,' in the

other...."

He finished his cleaning operations and proceeded to pull on his serge.

Churchill fidgeted uneasily.

"Was there--what kind of evidence was adduced?" he began. "Did--?"

"Here!" interrupted Ellis harshly. "What the devil are _you_ beating

'round the bush for? Why don't you come across with it plain? What d'you

want to know?"

The local Sergeant flushed angrily, stung to the quick by the rough

incivility of his companion's speech and the cold, contemptuous stare

that accompanied it, but sheer bodily fear of the ex-pugilist silenced

the retort that sprang to his lips, and he sank back in the chair from

which he had half arisen.

"Oh--nothing," he mumbled thickly. "I thought p'r'aps--"

"Yes," broke in Benton savagely. "I know what you _thought_, and I'll

tell you this much, Mr. 'B----' Churchill.... If I hadn't given my

evidence mighty darned careful, _you'd_ have been on the flypaper,

properly, both feet. _Your_ name cropped up during the inquests--one of

the jury-men gently inquiring 'why _you_ weren't present, as p'r'aps

_you_ might have been able to throw some light on one or two obscure

points in the inquiry.' But, luckily for you, none of the others took

his suggestion up." He paused and, emitting a short, ugly laugh,

continued: "I'm under 'open' arrest, an' I've got to go back with

Inspector Purvis an' face a formal charge of manslaughter--same as in

that Cashell business. We should worry, anyway. What gets _my_ goat is

you thinkin' you were smart enough to cover up your trail in a little,

one-horse '_dorp_' like this. D'you figure you could pull off anything

like that, with all these old geezers of women around? What? I don't

think. It's a good job for you none o' _them_ happened to be called as

witnesses. All those who gave evidence were men, an' most of 'em friends

o' yours, at that. See here; look! I couldn't exactly say how much you

_did_ know, but I can make a pretty good guess. There was a lot you

couldn't _help_ but tumble to, which puts this case entirely outside the

ordinary. Anyway, it doesn't look as if you'd had much regard for your

own nest."

He remained silent for a space then, his voice shaking ever so little:

"I've got no use for you, Churchill. I'm not stuck on you one little bit

... an' I guess that feeling is reciprocated, for I can see the mark of

my fist on your blooming dial right to this very minute. Mind you,

though, I'm not blaming you in any way for _all_ that's happened. That's

out of the question--an' it wouldn't be logical, or fair. I'm not

moralizing, either, for I reckon there's too many 'glass-with-care'

labels on both of us to start slingin' rocks at each other--but all the

same ... there's _something_ about this business I can't forget ... an'

you know d--n well what that _something_ is!"

And, opening the door, he strode out heavily, and banged it behind him.

Ellis, duly tried on the formal charge that had been laid against him,

was honorably acquitted of all blame, and returned to duty. Later

receiving the grant for his well-earned reward--half of which he, with

the utmost difficulty, prevailed upon Musgrave to accept--he obtained

ten days' leave and, dragging the latter from his all-absorbing practise

for that period, the two departed away up to the Kananaskis Falls on a

fishing trip. The doctor insisted on paying all expenses in connection

with this outing, and presented his companion with a magnificent English

green-heart fly rod, which Ellis had often eyed longingly.

Both men, possessing in a great degree the same morose, taciturn

characteristics, they derived a certain grim pleasure in each other's

company and, loving and understanding the sport as only good fishermen

can, it is needless to say that they had extraordinarily heavy catches

and, in their silent, undemonstrative way, enjoyed themselves hugely.

Their time seemed all too short, however, and it was with a feeling of

real regret that they finally struck camp and returned once more to the

routine of their respective duties, vowing fervently to come again the

following season. The Indian summer--that most beautiful and reliable

period of the year in the Canadian West--gradually passed. November saw

the first fall of snow, and from then onward the weather grew steadily

colder as the icy grasp of winter began to grip the West.

Gradually the stock depredations in the Sergeant's district grew more

and more infrequent, until they practically ceased altogether for, by

this time, men who had hitherto been inclined to step aside from the

straight trail grew afraid of him. Afraid of that sneering, merciless

tongue that stung them to the quick with its bitter venom--of the heavy

hand that struck by night as well as day--and, of that scheming, cunning

brain which, outclassing theirs in its superior knowledge of ways that

are dark on the range, seemed to anticipate and forestall every crooked

move that they made.

But, what dumbfounded them more than anything else, was the strange

apparition of a great, brutal _heart_ at the bottom of it all. There was

Mrs. Laycock, they reflected, who had been burnt out in that last bad

prairie fire, and whose husband he had been the means of sending to the

penitentiary a short time before as an incorrigible horse thief. Had not

Benton gone into her stable and, single-handed, taken out and hitched up

that maddened team to the democrat, getting badly kicked in doing so?

And, after driving the woman and her family safely out of the fire zone,

returned and routed out every able-bodied man within its radius? and

then, not sparing himself, worked them like galley slaves, trailing wet

hides and flogging with gunny-sacks until they had got it under?

True, he had come around later with a subscription list in her aid, and

a look on his face that seemed to work wonders with those parsimoniously

inclined. But did not his own contribution on that occasion exceed by

fourfold any one of _theirs_? even if the Government did not pay

inordinately high salaries to members of the Force.

And Jim McCloud, too. Had not the Sergeant, at the imminent risk of his

own life, pulled Jim out of that muskeg at Willow Mere one night? Jim

was "full," without a doubt; otherwise an old hand like him would never

have got himself into such a jack-pot; but, all the same, he well-nigh

followed his horse. Had not the Sergeant packed him across his saddle to

the nearest ranch--worked over him until he came around and was all

right--and then afterwards, cut short Jim's surly thanks with the remark

that "he had only saved him that he might have the satisfaction later of

getting him where he wanted him"?

_Jim McCloud_, of all men. Jim, who had been ahead of them all in his

bitter vilification of the new policeman and, avowedly, the latter's

worst enemy on the range. Only the _two_ of them there at the muskeg ...

evening, at that ... not another soul within sight or hearing. All the

Sergeant needed to have done--if he had liked--was to sit in his saddle

and just--_watch_.

Of what earthly use were all the many opportunities to rustle that

showed up so invitingly at times while such a ruthlessly clever anomaly

as he was stationed in the district? A man who seemed to possess endless

disguises and hiding places and never to sleep; whose disquieting

presence, supremely indifferent to weather conditions or darkness, was

apt to upset all their calculations as to his whereabouts in a most

sudden and undesirable fashion?

No--so long as _he_ was around, it was not worth the while risking "a

stretch in the 'Pen,'" even if owners _were_ a little lethargic and

careless, at times, about getting their colts and calves branded. There

must be "snitches" in their midst, "double-crossing" them, they argued

darkly. _Must_ be--otherwise whence had he obtained the knowledge that

had led to the undoing of so many? And, as this disturbing possibility

continued to gain credence, the seeds of mutual distrust and

apprehension were sown broadcast amongst them which, needless to say,

was greatly beneficial to the rest of the law-abiding community.

If this altered state of affairs was highly satisfactory to Benton's

commanding officer it was even more so to the Stock Association, and the

Sergeant was the recipient of many tributes of esteem and gratitude from

that sterling body for the good work that he had done.

PART II

CHAPTER XVI

"I was a stranger, and ye took me in:"

--_St. Matt_. XXV, 35

The long, bright May day had drawn to a close, and darkness was setting

in, through which a few faint stars had begun to twinkle. Ah, here was a

light at last; and a welcome sight it was to the tired girl, leading an

equally tired, fat, old gray horse as, topping a rise in the trail, she

beheld the visible signs of a habitation gleaming in the distance.

"Come on, Sam," she coaxed cheerily, with a slightly impatient tug at

the reins and quickening her pace. "We'll soon be there, now, old boy,

and you'll get a good long drink and a feed!"

Plodding wearily on, they stumbled over the ruts of a well-worn trail

diverging at right angles from the one they were traversing, and which

the girl instinctively took, guessing that it led to the dwelling whose

beacon shone brighter and brighter with every nearing step.

Suddenly she pulled up short for, through a lull in the brisk night

breeze--like an AEolian harp--there came to her astonished ears the

unmistakable sounds of a piano. A fresh gust of wind carried it away

next minute, though, and she moved forward again. Soon the shadowy

outlines of a building became visible amid the surrounding gloom, and

the music became distinct and real. Dropping the horse's reins, the girl

stepped slowly and carefully towards the light, thrusting out her hands

with experienced caution as she did so, fearful of encountering the

customary strands of a barbed-wire fence. Meeting with no such obstacle,

she drew nearer to the open window, absently humming a bar of "The

Bridal Chorus" from "Lohengrin," which air the invisible pianist had,

with masterly improvisations, just drawn to a close.

Then she halted, paralyzed for the moment with astonishment--all her own

musical instincts fully aroused--as a man's deep, rich baritone voice

floated forth on the night air, singing a well-remembered song, but as

_she_ had never heard it sung before. And, though not of a particularly

sentimental temperament, she found it impossible to listen to the

beautiful words on this occasion unmoved:

If I were hanged on the highest hill,

Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

I know whose love would follow me still,

Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

Entranced, she stood motionless. Whoever could this unknown vocalist

with the magnificent voice be, singing "Mother o' mine, O mother o'

mine" in the wilderness? The slow, deep, ineffable pathos of its last

verse thrilled and touched her strangely:

If I were damned of body and soul,

I know whose prayers would make me whole,

Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

As the song ended, she roused herself out of the dreamy reverie into

which she had fallen and, moving forward again, peered through the

window. But the light was between her and the singer and she could not

see plainly. Retracing her steps, she approached the front entrance and

knocked gently on the door. There came a crash of chords, a moment's

silence, then a firm, decided step sounded inside and the door was

opened. She caught only the vague impression of a man's form in the

gloom, for the light was hidden from view in the back room; then a

pleasant--unmistakably, a gentleman's voice--with a slightly imperious

ring in it said:

"Good night, madam. Is anything the matter? Did you wish to see me?"

"I'm--I'm afraid I've lost my way," she answered. "I'm trying to get

back to Mr. Trainor's ranch. I've not been in this district very long

and I'm--I suppose I'm what you call 'a bit green' as yet at finding my

way about on the prairie," she added merrily.

He laughed at her last words. "So," he said. "Seems a bit like it. Dave

Trainor's lies about seven miles nor'east of here. You're riding, of

course?"

"Oh, yes," she said plaintively. "But all the _decent_ horses are away

on the spring round-up, and the only one I could get was old Sam, and

he's _so_ fat and lazy and slow. It's too much like 'working your

passage' with him. That's the principal reason I'm out so late. I'd been

to see Mrs. Goddard, at the Bow View ranch, and her husband told me of a

trail which he said would be shorter than the one I came by. He wanted

to ride back with me, but I was full of self-confidence and thought I

could make it alone all right. Consequence is--here I am, 'lost on the

bald-headed,' as they say. Poor old Sam's pretty nearly played out for a

drink and a feed--an'--an' so am I," she continued frankly. "I've walked

an awful long way to ease him, for I'm not exactly what you'd call a

feather-weight."

Her humor was irresistible and infectious. "All right," he said gaily.

"You'll find this a pretty rough roadhouse, I'm afraid, though. It's the

Mounted Police detachment, and I'm the Sergeant in charge. But--we'll do

what we can. You go on in, please, and make yourself at home. I'll fix

up your horse now, and get you some supper afterwards."

Ten minutes or so later, he returned from the stable to find his guest

sitting on the music stool in the inner room awaiting him. Exclamations

of surprised mutual recognition escaped them as they saw each other for

the first time in the light.

He beheld the same winsome face and the tall, athletic, majestically

proportioned figure of the girl who had spoken to him and admired

Johnny, his horse, one day the previous summer, as he was waiting

outside Sabbano station while she, for her part, saw the stern, bronzed,

scarred face and uniformed figure of the rider with whom she had

conversed, and for which lapse she had, incidentally, been so severely

censured by her aunt.

Now that he was at leisure to observe her closely he remarked her small,

superbly carried head, surmounted with its thick masses of silky,

shining, naturally curly, almost blue-black hair, and her face--which,

though pleasing, healthy, and happy--could scarcely be called beautiful

at first sight, since the cleft chin was too determined, and the mouth,

with its humorous upward curl at the corners of the lips, too large and

strong. Her brow was broad, low, and white, with thick, level eyebrows

that matched the color of her hair. But it was her speaking, eloquent

eyes which attracted him the most. They were of the very darkest hazel;

one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, the next sparkling

and snapping like the sunlight on a rippling stream as they reflected

the constant lively and changeful play of their owner's irrepressible

emotions. A short Grecian nose, perfect teeth, and a pink-brown

complexion that bespoke a love of a fresh air life completed the

altogether charming personality of this interesting brunette.

She was attired in a well-worn khaki divided riding-skirt and a plain,

white linen blouse, with a red silk scarf loosely knotted around her

splendid columnar throat. Her feet--absurdly small for a woman of her

generous build--were encased in high-heeled, spurred riding-boots; and

as she sat there with an easy, self-possessed grace, a cow-girl's

Stetson hat tilted rakishly on her raven-hued, glossy hair, nonchalantly

swinging a quirt in one of her fringed gauntlets, she presented a very

alluring and delightful picture indeed. Plain, and almost coarse though

her dress was, its simplicity only served to enhance the rounded

outlines of her abnormally tall, classical, magnificent figure.

"Well, well," said the Sergeant. "This sure is a pleasure. Why, I might

have known you again if only from your voice."

She laughed with a deep, musical, mischievous chuckle, like a boy whose

voice is breaking.

"Same here," she said, with emphasis. "Though I've never had the

pleasure of hearing yours in song before. Why, you must be the Mounted

Policeman I often hear Mr. Trainer speaking of? I never thought to

connect you with the same man on the black horse that time last year."

"Sure," he answered, grinning. "Only I hope Dave doesn't libel me as

badly as some of 'em do, for I'm very sensitive. My name's

Benton--Sergeant Benton."

Her dark eyes flashed roguishly and, drawing off a gauntlet, she held

out her hand with a frank, impulsive camaraderie and grasped his with a

warm, strong clasp.

"My Good Samaritan," she said simply. "I'm very glad to know you and,

since introductions are going, suffice it to say _my_ name's

O'Malley--Mary O'Malley--and I originally hail from New York. At present

I'm companion to Mrs. Trainer, governess to her children--what you

will."

He nodded. "Well," he said, "since you've been kind enough to confer the

title of 'Good Samaritan' on me, I must make good on the best this poor

house can offer you."

And he bustled through into the kitchen. "No, no," he protested

laughingly, as she arose with an offer of help and made as if to follow

him. "You be good, now, and stay right where you are. You may run things

at Dave Trainer's, but I won't have you butting around _my_ kitchen. Oh,

I'm quite a competent cook, I can assure you."

She gave a little comical grimace of despair. "Oh, very well, then," she

said. "I'll just stay here and sulk instead."

And she began to wander around the room, examining all his military

accouterments, pictures, and curios, with a lively, almost childlike,

interest, calling out from time to time "What this was for?" and "What

that was?" etc. Then, suddenly seating herself at the piano, she lifted

up a great, rollicking voice and, in an amusing, exaggerated Hibernian

brogue, commenced to sing "Th' Waking of Pat Malone":

Thin--Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead--

He raised his head and shouldthers from th' bed;

Which ditty tickled her host beyond measure as he continued his cooking

operations.

Presently, tiring of the piano, she got up and, leaning in the doorway,

regarded him with serious, appraising eyes.

"Man," she said solemnly, "'tis th' grand voice that ye have--singin'

away all on your lonesome."

And, dropping the brogue, she quoted, to his intense amusement and

surprise, a well-worn verse from "Omar Khayyam."

"So," said Ellis, with a delighted chuckle, as the daring and utter

absurdity of the quotation, under the circumstances, struck him, "it's

kind of you to suggest it. All the ingredients are at hand, too, except

the 'Flask of Wine,' 'Wilderness enow,' particularly.... Sorry about the

Wine, though, after that compliment. Unfortunately, we're strictly 'on

the tack,' as we call it, just now. Oh, 'Barkis is willin',' all right."

He cleared the books and papers off the table in the living-room and,

spreading out the simple repast that he had prepared for her, drew up a

chair.

"Grub pi-i-ile!" she shrilled, in droll imitation of a camp cookee; and,

seating herself, she attacked the frugal meal with a healthy appetite

that fully demonstrated her previous admission that she was hungry.

"Sorry I forgot to ask whether you'd have tea or coffee," he said

apologetically. "I've made you coffee."

"Oh, that's all right," she said carelessly. "I much prefer coffee.

Thanks. My! but I'm hungry!"

He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite and, leaning his head

back against the leopard skin, watched her with a lively and

all-absorbing interest. Her complete self-possession and confidence, and

the unconventional manner in which she proceeded to make herself

entirely at home in the detachment, amused and astounded him. He

remembered the impulsive, winning way that she had come over and spoken

to him on the occasion of their first meeting. She was a new type to him

and he realized that she was quite out of the ordinary.

She was not "mannish," but there seemed to be a good deal of the

irresponsible boy, as it were, left in her. She couldn't be a strolling

ex-actress, he reflected. The utter absence of coquetry, the fresh,

healthy, open-air look of her, and the mention that she had made of the

position she occupied at the Trainors' immediately dispelled that idea.

And besides, Dave Trainor's wife was a lady-like, nice woman

and--particular. He was a frequent and welcome caller at their

ranch--knew them intimately.

No, she was all right. Just a big, simple, jolly girl, well bred and

educated; brought up, perhaps, amongst a host of brothers and their

friends so, therefore, accustomed to masculine society, and most likely

preferring it to her own sex. Mixing with them in their out-door

sports--clean minded, healthy specimens like herself--daring, high

spirited and impulsive, without being brazen and bold--funny, without

being vulgar. Her manner, and clear, frank, honest eyes showed him that.

Used to being teased and welcomed everywhere--clever, mirth loving,

independent, self-reliant, kind and brave.

It was thus that he mentally diagnosed the character of his fair guest.

He was no vain, smirking Lothario, but he instinctively guessed how that

strong mouth of hers could set, and those hazel eyes blaze and

scintillate with dangerous anger at times; and that the man who was

ill-advised and--ignorant enough--to ever make the foolish break of

misconstruing her careless geniality for anything else _but_ that, was

only inviting disaster of the most ignominious and humiliating kind.

Her gaze flitted around the room continually as she appeased her

appetite, and he was subjected to an exacting and minute inquisition

anent the duties and life of a Mounted Policeman.

"And do they supply your detachments with pianos, too?" she inquired

ingenuously. "Now, you needn't laugh. I believe you've only been telling

me a lot of nonsense. 'I was a stranger, so you took me in.' It's too

bad of you."

"Honor bright, I haven't," he protested, with a grin. "I've told you the

truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Pianos! Oh, my

long-suffering Force. No, we get a pretty good outfit, but the

Government don't extend their generosity quite _that_ far. This musical

box belongs to the Honorable Percy Lake. He's a rich Englishman who

plays at 'rawnching' here--a 'jolly boy,' as we call 'em. His place is

about five miles due west from here; it's fitted up like a Fifth Avenue

mansion. Oh, he's no end of a swell. But it's caddish of me to make fun

of him, for he's an awfully decent chap at heart, in spite of his lazy,

fastidious ways, and a man--every bit of him. He's away in California

just now. He and his wife always flit South with the geese before the

winter sets in, but they should be back any old time now. He was scared

the punchers would ruin this piano if it was left to their tender

mercies. It's a pretty good one, I believe--a Broadwood. Had it shipped

out from the Old Country and, as he knows I'm fond of music, he insisted

on carting it over here. Kind enough, but whatever I'd do with it if I

was transferred suddenly anywhere else, I don't know. It'll be a relief,

in a way, when he redeems it."

He got up and poured her some more coffee, remarking a little anxiously:

"I suppose the Trainors will be having a search party out for you,

thinking something's happened. Shouldn't wonder but what Dave's on his

way down here right now to notify me."

"Oh, no; don't you worry," she said reassuringly. "I told them I _might_

stay at the Goddard's place for the night. I would have done so, only I

found little Willy Goddard was sickening for measles and I didn't want

to take chances in my capacity of governess of probably passing it on to

the Trainors' children--Bert and Gwyn. Not that I'm scared for

myself--I've had it, years and years ago. Oh, the Trainors know I'm

jolly well able to take care of my little self," she added, with a

slight suggestion of defiant challenge in her tones and look which

stirred the fiery Benton blood in his veins strangely.

"Yes, you just bet you are!" he ejaculated admiringly, as he appraised

her strong, splendid figure. "You're away taller than I am, and I

shouldn't wonder if you don't _weigh_ heavier, too. Riding keeps my

weight down, though. I don't suppose I go more'n a hundred and

seventy-five; but that's plenty heavy enough for a horse."

She nodded carelessly. "Went one hundred and seventy-eight last week

when I weighed myself on the grain scales--and I'm five feet ten and a

half. Oh, Finnegan, that's me!

"I had quite an adventure coming along," she continued, with reflective

gravity. "After I'd left the Goddards' I came through a place away back

on the trail there--I think it's called 'Fish Creek.' I was passing by a

bit of an old homestead--you couldn't dignify it with the title of

'ranch.' There was a tumble-down old shack there, anyway, and as I came

round the front of it--the trail bends there--I saw a funny little old

man standing, or rather, leaning, in the doorway. He'd got a bottle in

his hand and, oh! he _was_ so tipsy--singing away like anything.

"Well, as soon as he caught sight of me, he raised his bottle and

shouted ''_Urroo!_' I didn't know what he was rejoicing about, but of

course I shouted 'Urroo! back. And then I suppose he intended to come

over and speak to me, but the steps of his shack were broken and, oh,

dear! he came such an awful tumble off his perch and smashed the bottle

all to pieces."

Ellis gave a shout of laughter. "Why, that must be old Bob Tucker," he

said. "He's always getting 'lit up.' Did he scare you?"

The great, smiling girl arose and, dusting some crumbs off her lap, drew

herself up to her full regal height and looked down upon him with

pitying toleration.

"Huh!" she ejaculated. But words cannot express the world of scornful

amusement, derision, and incredulity that she put into the exclamation.

"Scare nothing! the poor little, dirty old tipsy thing. I got off Sam

and picked him up, and then I saw he'd cut one of his hands on the

broken bottle. It was bleeding ever so badly, and a piece of the glass

was still sticking in the cut. When he saw he'd lost all his whiskey he

started to swear something awful--leastways I _think_ it was

swearing.... It sounded like it, but it was in a funny language I

couldn't understand. And then he began to cry. Oh, I _was_ so sorry for

him. I helped him up the steps into the shack, and got some water and

washed his cut hand--then I tied it up with my handkerchief. All the

time he kept whimpering: 'Oh, gorblimey, it 'urts! it 'urts!' And he

kept calling me '_intombi_.' What's that mean?"

"It's Zulu," said Ellis. "It means 'young woman.' I guess he was

swearing in Kaffir or the _Taal_. He's an old Cockney, but he's lived

the best part of his life in South Africa."

"Well," she continued, "after I'd fixed up his hand he stopped crying

and commenced to shout: ''Urroo! 'Urroo!' again. And then he pulled a

dirty old letter out of his pocket and began to tell me it was from

'Jack 'Arper,' who, he explained, was a friend of his son's, somewhere

down in Eastern Ontario. ''E tells me my b'y 'Arry's _vrouw's

doed_!--gorn to 'eving!' he says, in a screech you could pretty nearly

hear to Sabbano. And it was awful the way he chuckled and grinned over

it. Just as if it was some great joke. 'An' Jack, 'e says as 'ow 'Arry's

bin _dronk_ ever since, but wevver it's becos 'e's sorry, or becos 'e's

glad, w'y 'e don't know.... An' 'e says as 'ow 'Arry wants me to come

back Heast an' live wiv 'im on th' farm. An' I'm a-goin', too!' he says.

'I've sold aht this old plice--an' me stock--to Walter 'Umphries, an'

I'm a-goin' to _trek_ next week. 'Urroo! 'Urroo! 'ere goes nuthin'!'"

Ellis, at this point, was convulsed with mirth; for her exact mimicry of

old Tucker's Cockney speech was startlingly natural and funny in the

extreme.

The girl laughed with him, continuing: "He was stumbling about and

waving his arms all the while he was telling me this joyful news, and he

wanted to get me some supper but, ugh!... I simply couldn't. The place

and everything was so dirty--like a pigstye. I was glad to get away, and

I left him standing on the broken steps waving his bandaged hand to me.

The poor old thing! does he live there all alone?"

Ellis nodded. "Yes," he said. "I've been trying to get him to sell out

and go and live with his son down East for a long time now. I'm glad to

hear he's going at last. He's too old to live alone like that. His

daughter-in-law was the obstacle. The reason I asked you if you were

scared was because he's got a playful way of flourishing a loaded rifle

around sometimes when he gets on these toots. He put the fear into me

properly one time, I remember."

A photograph, slightly yellow with age, in a splendid silver frame on

the piano attracted her attention and, with an "Excuse me," she crossed

over and scrutinized it long and earnestly. It was the sweet, proud,

regally beautiful face of a woman attired in an evening dress of the

style worn in the early 'seventies. Ah! no need to tell her who _that_

was! For, in spite of his mutilated ear and scarred, bronzed face, she

recognized in the portrait the same regular, clean-cut features and

steady eyes of the man who sat there silently watching her, with his

head thrown out into strong relief against the leopard-skin kaross.

She glanced at him in mute inquiry, and back to the photograph again,

instinctively guessing _now_ whence the inspiration of that moving song

had come which had been the means of arousing in her a greater interest

in her host than she would perhaps have cared to admit.

"It's my mother," he said simply, interpreting her look. "She died when

I was just a kid at school. A little over a year before I came out to

the States."

There was silence for awhile and presently he sprang up briskly.

"Well, now, I don't want to hurry you, Miss O'Malley," he said, "but

we've got seven miles to go and it's a quarter to eleven now. They'll

all have gone to roost at the Trainors' long ago, I expect. I'm going to

give you a _good_ horse to ride ... the black fellow you liked so much."

(She gave a little exclamation of delight.) "The work began to pile

up--there's some awful long patrols to do here. It was too much for one

horse, so I kicked for another and got it. I ride 'em turn about.

There's a good pasture at the back, with water, so when I go away for a

few days I can always turn the spare one out. I'll shove your saddle

onto Johnny--he's quiet--and I'll ride Billy and trail old Sam

alongside."

She thanked him prettily and gratefully for the hospitable entertainment

accorded her and his kind offer of guidance.

"Oh, not at all; not at all," he replied cheerily. "It's the other way

about, I'm thinking. You've quite livened things up around here. I'm a

kind of a lonely beggar. You can't think how I've enjoyed your company.

Well, I'll go and get those horses and we'll hit the trail."

To the lonely man that night ride to the Trainors' ranch with such an

interesting companion seemed all too short, and but for the late hour

and the fact of her being by now very tired, he could have wished the

distance longer.

Everything was dark and still as they neared the ranch, until two huge

coyote hounds hearing their approach ran out barking, and overwhelmed

them with a boisterous welcome when they dismounted. Hitching the horses

to the fence, Ellis swung open the hanging gate of the square, railed-in

enclosure within which the ranch dwelling stood, and they walked slowly

up the path. Aroused by the dogs, Trainor himself came out to meet them

with a lighted lantern in his hand.

"Hello, people!" was his hearty greeting. "What's abroad? That you,

Mary? Why, Sergeant, it's you, eh? What's this young lady been up to

now? Is she under arrest?"

"Sure thing," said Ellis, laughing. "I'm thinking of charging her with

'vagrancy'--found her wandering around the prairie 'riding the grub

line.'"

Explanations followed, and Trainor led the way into the house. It was a

comfortable, home-like, roomy dwelling, simply, but well and

substantially furnished, with many splendid bear, deer, and other skins

scattered around the painted hardwood floor in lieu of carpets, for

Trainor had traveled considerably, and been a mighty hunter in former

years. The well-stocked book shelves, the piano, and a few, but good,

oil paintings and engravings that adorned the walls, seemed to imply

that the owners were people of substance and refinement. Trainor was a

tall, strongly-built man of fifty or thereabouts, with a heavy, fair

mustache and a humorous, weather-beaten face. His speech, although

slightly nasal, was that of an educated American, and his genial,

kind-hearted personality created an instinctive liking with all who met

him.

He was roughly dressed in a waistcoat, gray-flannel shirt, with blue

overalls tucked into high riding-boots; for, apart from the fact that he

was well-to-do, and one of the largest stock owners in the district, he

was a worker himself, and liked to superintend the running of his ranch

personally.

"The wife's gone to bed long ago," he said. "I was sitting up, reading,

when I heard the dogs start in to yap. Why, Mary, my girl! I thought you

said you were going to stay the night at the Goddards'? They've got the

measles there, eh? Well, all's well that ends well, thanks to Sergeant

Benton, here. Trust you not to get left, anyway. You look pretty well

played out, though. You'd better go to roost or you'll be losing your

good looks. Won't she?"

"Impossible!" exclaimed the sergeant, with such fervent emphasis that a

faint blush arose on the girl's rather tired face, as she thanked him

again and bid him "Good-night."

He chatted awhile with Trainor, who had hospitably produced a bottle of

whiskey, and presently got up and prepared to depart, refusing the

latter's invitation for him to stay the night.

"Can't chance it tonight, Dave," he said. "I'm anticipating the arrival

of one of our officers--Inspector Purvis. He's about due here, visiting

detachments, and I don't want to be away when he comes. Thanks, all the

same! No, you needn't come out. I'll off-saddle and fix up old Sam. So

long."

CHAPTER XVII

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more,

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;

From the minister down

To the clerk of the Crown,

All were courting the Widow Malone,

Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

--_Charles Lever_

In spite of his morose and surely somewhat fantastic constancy, which

obsession, be it remarked, he was rather prone to exaggerate than

minimize, and the bitter, hopeless philosophy with which he had come to

regard his single and seemingly inevitable lot, it must be admitted that

Ellis found his mind subconsciously reverting on many occasions during

the next few weeks to the girl who had so unconventionally invaded his

bachelor quarters.

"Yes, begad! there _was_ a strong fascination about her," he

soliloquized. She was so totally different to any other woman who had

come into his lonely life. Several times, too, he found this same

compelling influence answerable for his change of direction as he found

himself absently swinging off the main trail north into the one that

diverged east and led to the Trainors' ranch where, by now, he had come

to be regarded as a regular and welcome visitor.

The girl, on her part naturally enough, was by no means oblivious to the

reason of his frequent calls, though she always greeted him with her

customary careless, wide-eyed geniality, their acquaintance by now

having ripened into the intimacy of teasing, playful badinage, at which

pastime, needless to say, both of them excelled.

With an innate delicacy that was only natural and instinctive in one

come of his gentle birth and early breeding, he had forborne from ever

asking her the reason that she was occupying the comparatively humble

position of governess, lady companion, or--as she herself had put

it--"what you will," on a ranch. It puzzled him. When he had first met

her the year previous she was then apparently traveling in state,

plainly, although richly, dressed, with an elderly aunt, who--her

disagreeable and snobbish manner notwithstanding--distinctly radiated

every indication of imposing worldly affluence.

Anyway, those were the impressions that he had formed in the brief

glimpse afforded him of the two ladies on that occasion. On this head he

one day casually sounded Dave Trainor, as the two of them lounged in the

stable talking cattle and horse, preparatory to the Chinese cook's

shrill summons of "Glub pl-i-i-ile!" heralded with the customary knuckle

tattoo on an inverted dishpan. Trainor, with a slight touch of

reminiscent garrulity--a mannerism of his--and with his usual preface:

"Now, see here; look! I'll tell you how that is, Sergeant," proceeded to

enlighten him. "I've known that girl," he began, "and all her family for

many years back--ever since she was a little slip of a kid, in fact. I

started out in life as a mining engineer. That's my real profession,

though I've been in the ranching business now for twenty years or more.

It must have been in 'seventy-four, or thereabouts, when I first met her

father--Terence O'Malley--in New York. He was a mining stockbroker then,

and being more or less mixed up in the same class of business, we

drifted together and became pretty chummy. He was a typical harum-scarum

Irishman out of Ireland. One of those lovable, brilliant kind of

ducks--the life and soul of whatever company he was in. A regular

'Mickey Free.' Of good birth and education, clever and shrewd in his

business, but a proper gambler at heart, and impulsive and changeable as

the wind. She's very like him in many ways--got all his impulsiveness,

witty humor and brogue, but without his selfishness and improvidence.

Oh, he was sure some high flier, O'Malley. Made fortunes in one

day--lost 'em the next. You know the way they run amuck on the Stock

Exchange? He married a New York girl--think her name was Egan. Anyway,

_she_ was of Irish extraction, too. This girl--Mary--is the eldest of

the family. She's got four brothers, but they all came some years

later--there's quite a space in between her and them. Somehow another

they were all brought up and received pretty fair educations. The boys

have got decent enough positions in various parts of the States--able to

keep themselves now, at all events. They're good kids enough, but

inclined to be a bit wild--possess a lot of the characteristics of their

old man. He died about three years ago--of disappointment and shock,

when the final crash came in his fortunes. I guess his heart was weak.

"It was a queer household, theirs, as you can imagine, with the

fluctuating nature of the father's income--and he was one of those who

never dreamt of laying by for a rainy day. Yes, _sir_! I tell you there

were hard struggles at times in that family. One week--on 'Easy Street.'

The next--'broke to the wide'--unable to pay the rent. O'Malley's wife

had died in giving birth to the last boy and afterwards, all through

their ups and downs, that girl kept things as straight as she could. She

was a regular mother to the boys in those days--has been all along.

They'd have all gone to the devil long enough ago if it hadn't been for

her. She's twenty-eight now, though she don't look it. After her father

died, she went to live with an aunt of hers--a Mrs. Gorman, of

Philadelphia. She's sure got the 'rocks,' all right, but I guess she's

about as disagreeable an old party as you could find. You've seen her,

you say?" (Ellis nodded grimly.) "Well, her acquaintance doesn't belie

her face. I don't know how on earth Mary stuck to her for so long. It

was a case of 'nowhere else to go,' I guess, poor girl, and she's very

patient. Must have had a hard time of it, from what little she's told

us. She isn't the bewailing sort that cry their troubles abroad to all

and sundry they meet, but I suppose it got too thick for even her to

stand any longer, so she decided to cut loose from 'Aunty.' She wrote to

the wife, asking her if she knew of any position that she could earn her

own living at over on this side. So that's how it is she's here, looking

after Bert and Gwyn. Those kids just worship her. Seems she prefers this

fresh air life to an office job. You might know that, anyway, by the

look of her. I tell you, I respect and admire that girl, Benton. Hello!

was that 'Grub pile!' just went? Come on in, or we'll be getting a

scolding for being late."

Slowly but, nevertheless surely, as the weeks, and gradually months,

went by, and their intimacy increased, the inevitable happened to Ellis

and Mary; for mere platonic friendship between two individuals of their

warm-blooded natures was impossible amidst such surroundings, and by

imperceptible degrees their mutual interest and liking for each other

had developed into a stronger feeling.

But still Ellis wavered. For the pessimistic ideas that he held

regarding a Mounted Policeman's general life, insufficient pay, and

hazardous occupation--in the non-commissioned ranks, anyway--rendering

him unfit for marriage ties, continued to obsess him and slightly warp

his ordinarily generous, impulsive nature. The habits of years are not

easily broken, and long companionship with Musgrave had not tended to

mitigate his views. Since the death of his first love he had, in a great

degree, held aloof from women's society, keeping a tight curb on himself

and rigidly repressing all his emotions. In whatever few convictions he

possessed regarding the grand passion he was an idealist, and wedded

bliss in the form of the average smug, thrifty marriage of

convenience--contracted usually by the man of meager or moderate

means--did not appeal to him at all.

Whether or not the girl reciprocated his affection a characteristic lack

of vanity precluded his knowing, for as yet there had been no love

passages between them to warrant his believing so. He thought she liked,

and was not altogether indifferent to him, and that was all.

It is not to be supposed that he was entirely alone in his attentions to

that debonair young woman. Her sex were not over numerous in the

neighborhood, and she was therefore distinctly attractive to the various

bachelors--young, middle-aged, and old--who resided within a twenty-mile

radius of the Trainors' establishment. Thus it may be inferred that she

did not lack suitors, many of them admittedly eligible as regards their

possession of worldly goods--a fact which Ellis forcibly realized at

times, when the bitter consciousness of his own limited means and

prospects would come home to him with cruel intensity.

But the strong, sane, logical mind of the man predominated, and he kept

himself well in hand. They had the prior right, he argued; for, plain

and homely though most of them might be, they didn't hang fire like him,

anyway. They were in the position to give the girl a better home than he

could ever hope to offer her. He would therefore be no

"dog-in-the-manger" to stand in their way, he decided. So, whenever he

chanced to find one of these would-be suitors ahead of him in the field,

he always promptly excused himself and withdrew; which policy of

self-effacement, be it remarked, piqued poor Mary not a little.

He was not exactly made of the stuff that calculating, luke-warm,

cautious lovers are prone to be composed of, but the fires of jealousy

had once scorched him pretty severely and the memory of the lively

torment that he had endured in those miserable days was still too vivid

in his recollection to risk a possible repetition of that dread disease.

He need have had no fear. One and all--irrespective of age, wealth, or

appearance, she treated them with the same laughing impartiality,

rendering to each the same answer. In kindly fashion at that, too, for

she realized only as a dowerless spinster can, that the well-meaning,

earnest love of an honest man is not a thing to be contemptuously cast

aside or scoffed at. As often as not Ellis, nearing the Trainors' ranch,

with the intention of paying a visit, would chance to observe one of

these rejected, love-lorn swains galloping or driving away in eccentric

haste; and, hopelessly in love though he himself was, that fact did not,

however, totally eclipse his sense of humor.

He was only human, and the sight of a discomfitted rival beating an

ignominious retreat--or as he (Ellis) put it--"chasing himself over the

bald-headed," was too irresistibly funny a spectacle to prevent a surly

chuckle escaping him. And, postponing his intended visit just then, from

motives of delicacy, he would ride on his way, in all probability,

rejoicing.

CHAPTER XVIII

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear

Devour up my discourse:

--_Othello: Act_ I, _Sc_. 3

One glorious September afternoon, appreciating the girl's fondness for

riding Johnny, Ellis rode over to the Trainors', leading his favorite

mount. Entering the house, he received the usual kindly welcome from the

rancher and his wife; the latter a stoutish, jolly-looking woman with a

great mass of fair, fluffy hair--some years her husband's junior.

"Well, well," she said, looking up at him with playful amusement. "And

where, _sir_, have _you_ been hiding yourself lately? We'd begun to

think you must have fallen down a gopher hole or something."

He walked through into the kitchen and drank a dipperful of water

thirstily, before he answered. Returning, he grinned significantly at

his hostess.

"All right, let it go at that, Mrs. Trainor," he replied. "Here, Gwyn!"

he continued, slewing around and catching hold of that little blonde

seven-year-old fairy, "where's Miss O'Malley?"

"Shan't tell you!" came the mutinous giggle.

"Oh, yes, you will," he said, tickling her. "Come on, now; you tell, or

I'll--I'll take you out and put you right on top of the barn for that

big sparrow-hawk to come and get! He likes little girls like you. One!

Two!--are you going to tell me--?"

"Yes, yes!" came the smothered squawk. "Pu-put me down, though.

She--she's drying her hair in the sun back of the house," she whispered

gravely.

"Is she? Well, you go and tell her I want her," he whispered back. "Run

like anything."

"Oh, she'll come quick enough when she knows you've got Johnny for her

to ride," remarked Trainor, smiling. "She won't look at that Pedro horse

of mine so long as _he's_ around. Say!" he broke off. "Bert's sure

getting to be some marksman, ain't he? He'll be running you pretty close

when he gets older, Sergeant. Look at that, now!"

These remarks were occasioned by the entrance of a sturdy youngster of

nine, who was proudly dangling the carcasses of half a dozen fat

gophers.

"No, no, Bert! You mustn't bring them in here!" cried his mother

sharply. "Take them outside and give them to Tom and Jerry!"

Hugging a small "twenty-two" rifle and his dead gophers, the boy gave a

roguish grin at Ellis and departed, followed by two huge mewing tomcats.

"Little brutes were just ruining the garden," said Trainor, "so I put

Bert onto them. He's just having the time of his life with that new gun

I bought him."

Ellis, seating himself at the piano with an assurance that bespoke long

familiarity in that kindly, homelike household, began to idly strum.

"Come, Lasses and Lads," with a whistling accompaniment. Suddenly a

shadow darkened the open door, and a mischievous voice greeted him with:

"Hello, 'Mancatcher'! What brings you here this late along? We'd begun

to think something had happened to you."

With her great, shimmering, glorious mass of glossy black hair rippling

and tumbling about her teasing, slightly sunburnt face, Mary looked like

a girl of eighteen. And as she stood there, with her superb figure drawn

up to its full height, she made a picture that aroused the Sergeant's

slumbering passion anew with increased fervor.

But his well-trained visage and voice evinced nothing of his feelings as

he returned her pleasantry with, an answering careless:

"Why, hello, 'Mousetrap'! Comin' for a ride?"

Mrs. Trainor exploded with bubbling mirth.

"Why, why! whatever new nicknames are these? You two'll be forgetting

what your real names are altogether soon. I never heard such nonsense."

"It isn't, Mrs. Trainor," said Ellis aggrievedly. "It's just

_that_--mice! I found her busy catching 'em in one of the oat bins in

the stable the other day. She just catches and plays with 'em--lets 'em

run, then grabs 'em again."

"Huh!" said the girl contemptuously. "That's nothing! I'm not afraid of

mice. Poor little things. Besides, I had gauntlets on."

"No," said Ellis slowly, with a mocking chuckle, "it'd take more than a

mouse to scare _you_--we know that! Come! I'll trade you aliases. _I_

haven't caught a man for over two months now."

His mischievous meaning was only too obvious, and the girl colored to

her laughing eyes, grabbing, next instant, a ball of wool from Mrs.

Trainor's lap, which she shied at him.

Benton, dodging this missile, gazed piercingly at her for several

seconds without moving a muscle of his face; then, suddenly swinging

around on the music-stool, he brought down his hands with a crash of

chords and, in a great rollicking voice and a broad Somersetshire

dialect, commenced to sing a bucolic love ditty. Something that went:

"Vor if yeou conzents vor tu marry I now,

Whoy--Vather 'e'll gie uns 'is old vat zow!

With a rum dum--dum dum--dubble dum day!"

"Boo-o-oo! La, la, la!" shrilled poor Mary, covering her ears. "Oh,

_please_, Mrs. Trainor, _do_ make him stop!"

"What's the use, my dear?" cried that merry dame, in great amusement.

"He wouldn't listen to me. He's too impudent for anything."

While Trainor slapped his thigh and guffawed uproariously.

"Oh, oh!" screamed the girl, stamping and pirouetting about the room,

"he's starting _another_ verse! Oh, quit, quit, quit! or _I'll_ start in

opposition! I'll make such a noise they won't be able to hear you!"

And at the top of her voice she started to declaim lustily:

"Arrah, go on! You're only tazin!

Arrah, go on! You're somethin' awful!

Arrah, go on! You're mighty plazin!

Oh, arrah go way! go wid yer! go way! go on!"

"That settles it," shouted Ellis, jumping up. "I'll sure give in to

_that_. Peccavi! I'll chuck up the sponge. But you be good after this

now, or I'll sing you some _more_ 'Zummerzet.' Don't bother about

getting your hair done up again, Miss O'Malley. It looks 'Jake' like

that. Just tie a bit of red ribbon round. Come on; go and get your

riding things on. Johnny's feeling pretty good--hasn't been out for

three days now."

"Oh, my, but that's great!" gasped Mary ecstatically, half an hour

later, as they pulled their excited, eager horses up to a walk, after a

perilous neck-and-neck gallop, supremely careless of whatever

badger-holes lay in their course on the long, flat stretch. "Aha,

Johnny, old boy! you sure do like to be let out for a run, don't you?"

she continued caressingly, as she patted the arched, swelling neck of

the great springy beast under her who, with a network of quivering,

hard, grain-fed muscles rippling beneath his smooth, black-satiny coat,

sidled and paced with daintily uplifted forefeet. The powerful animal

carried his substantially-built rider as if she were only a child,

flattening his ears and biting with equine playfulness meanwhile at

Billy, the big, upstanding, well-coupled-up bay that Ellis was riding.

"Well, whither away?" he inquired. "Where shall we go? Gosh, but it's

hot!"

"Let's go up on the top of that big hill over to the west there--where

that flat stone is," she said, indicating a high, conical hill,

something like a South African _kopje_ that loomed up in the distance.

"I always call it 'Lone Butte' because it's all by itself. It's cooler

up there, and we can lazy around and look at the mountains."

Half an hour's ride over steadily rising ground brought them to their

destination and, arriving at the foot of the aforesaid butte, they

dismounted and, leaving their horses to graze, with dropped lines,

slowly made the ascent. There, on the extreme top, a relic of some vast

upheaval in the past, was a huge, long, low-lying flat stone, upon which

Mary seated herself and, removing her Stetson hat, let the cool breeze

play on her forehead and blow the shining tendrils of hair about her

face. Ellis flung himself out at full length on the short turf at her

feet and together they silently gazed in huge contentment at the

panorama that lay unfolded before them.

Below, looking east, shimmering with the little heat waves, the long

rolling vistas of greenish-brown prairie lay stretched out to the

horizon, through which, like a gleaming silver thread, wound the Bow

River; while to the west, above the pine-dotted foothills of a great

Indian Reserve, rose the upflung, snow-capped violet peaks of the mighty

"Rockies," the hot afternoon's sun enveloping all in its sleepy golden

haze.

The Sergeant, with his chin resting in his hands, looked long and

lovingly at the peaceful beauty of the scene.

"Begad, just look at _that_ now!" he murmured. "No wonder a fellow loves

an open-air life in the West ... there's a picture for some poor beggar

that's p'r'aps cooped up in an office all day, what? ... just the kind

of background Charley Russell always manages to get into his pictures,

isn't it? To my mind he and Remington are the only artists who can

depict the prairie and its life properly--_they_ don't slur over detail

like some of 'em. No matter whether it's landscape, Indians,

cow-punchers, horses, cattle, hunting scenes, gun-scraps, or what not,

they give you the real thing--correct in every item. _That's_ what hits

us who live _in_ such backgrounds. They not only make you _see_ it on,

canvas, they positively make you _feel_ it.... Well, Charley Russell

ought to know, if any man!... he punched cattle and wrangled horses for

a living--long before he ever thought of painting!"

A gopher popped up its head out of a hole a few feet away from Benton

and, after blinking inquisitively awhile with its beady brown eyes at

the two human beings who remained so still, it apparently decided that

there was nothing to fear from them and emerged fully from its retreat.

With tucked-in paws, it sat bolt upright and regarded them with grave

interest.

Ellis eyed the rodent indolently for a space; then, reaching cautiously

to his hip, he half drew a deadly-looking "Luger" pistol from its

holster--to which previously mentioned confiscated weapon sinister

memories were attached. The girl saw his movement and involuntarily

thrust out a protesting hand.

"No, no!" she said, in a loud eager whisper. "Don't shoot the poor

little chap--it isn't as if he was in the garden. 'Live, and let live,'

you know. Oh, you _nasty_ thing!"

As the Sergeant, laughing quietly, in lazy acquiescence, jerked his gun

home again and, instead, spat with unerring aim on the gopher's fat

back, which insult caused it to dive instantly into its hole again. For

a long time they remained silent, drinking in the fresh air; then the

girl who, with elbows-in-lap, was leaning forward absently swinging her

quirt, flicked her abstracted companion playfully.

"Come! don't go to sleep," she said. "A dime for your thoughts, O man of

many moods! You look like Hamlet watching the play--lying gazing away

there.... Wake up and talk to me, sir!"

Ellis, who lay stretched out with his back, turned to her, rolled over

and looked up into the long-lashed, half mocking, half serious hazel

eyes.

"'Hamlet'!" he echoed, with an amused chuckle. "And pray what have _I_

done to deserve the honor of being likened unto 'the melancholy Dane,'

kind lady? 'Wot shall I tork abaht?' as old Bob Tucker would say. 'Bid

me discourse--I will enchant thine ear!'--a la 'Baron Munchausen.'"

"No, don't be foolish," she said beseechingly. "Can't you be serious for

once in a while, please? I don't feel in the mood for any 'Munchausen'

nonsense _just_ now. Confine yourself strictly to the truth on this

occasion. Just tell me _who_ you are--where you came from--and what

you've done for your living ever since you can remember! There, now,

you've got your orders in full ... fire away!"

Ellis gave a dismal whistle. "Pretty big order on short notice," he

said. "If you expect me to fill all that, extempore, I'll have to limit

it to a synopsis."

There was, undoubtedly, a strong fascination about Benton, and few there

were of either sex who came into contact with him that did not fall

under the spell of his personal magnetism. The dry humor he emitted at

times, and the utter absence of self-consciousness or vanity in his

quiet, forceful personality, may have accounted for this in a great

measure. Also, in a simple, direct fashion, he could "talk well"; and

when he chose to exert himself, or was in the mood, could be a most

interesting companion as a raconteur, drawing upon a vast reserve of

experiences accumulated during his stirring, eventful, wandering life.

The quiet peace of his surroundings were conducive to such a mood just

now and, as the girl adroitly drew him on, he responded, and talked of

his past life as perhaps he had never done to man or woman before. Those

who love make good listeners and, as Mary, sitting there, heard with an

all-absorbing interest of his strange ups and downs, trials, hopes, and

adventures, she gained a vivid and lasting impression of the career of a

strong man who, early in life, had cut himself adrift from kith and kin;

glimpsing something of the real, deep, complex nature of this careless

soldier of fortune who, all unconsciously, had won her heart long ago.

His story began with his early schoolboy recollections. The unhappy

period following his mother's death, and his final emigration to the

United States; then passed on, fantastically, through innumerable chops

and changes of life. It told of a wild, haphazard existence in camps,

and on the range in Montana and Wyoming, the lure of the gaming table,

and the companionship with men of nearly every nationality under the

sun. Desperate ventures in bubble speculations that either broke or made

the investors, of chances missed by the merest margin of time and

travel. It touched on all the phases of his pugilistic career, his later

adventures on the South African veldt and memories of the great war. He

described his return from that unquiet land, how he had eventually

joined the Mounted Police, the years that had followed in that Force,

and some of the various cases that had brought him his third stripe.

Sometimes on foot, more often on horseback, now fairly prosperous, now

poor, in and out, back and forth, chore boy, cookee, bronco-buster,

pugilist, Chartered Company's servant, Irregular soldier, and finally

Mounted Policeman, moved Ellis Benton, taking his chance honestly and

bravely in the great game of Life.

All this he related without bravado, deprecating false modesty or

extravagant gesture, and the simple, earnest manner in which he told his

life's story caused the great, generous heart of the listening girl to

go out to him in a wave of love and sympathy--the outward expression of

which she had difficulty in controlling.

Gradually, however, his mood changed, and the trend of his experiences

veering from the hard-bitten facts of ordinary police duty to the more

humorous occurrences that from time to time vary its red-tape-bound

monotony, he recounted several laughable episodes in which he had been

involved at different periods. The relation of these tickled the girl's

imagination greatly.

"Yes," he said musingly. "We do get up against some funny propositions

at times, that any one who's blessed in the least degree with the saving

sense of humor can't help but appreciate. If it wasn't for these

occasional little happenings our life would be pretty dull. I remember

one time"--he checked himself, with a laugh. "Bah! I'm yarning away like

an old washerwoman full of gin and trouble."

"Will you go on?" Mary said, leaning towards him with dancing eyes.

The thrill in her voice--strangely contagious it was--told how much she

was interested. It was not to be wondered at. There was only one man on

earth for whom she really cared--he lay stretched before her then, and

probably what attracted her most in him was his manly simplicity and the

sincerity of his tones and expression which, somehow, always had the

knack of carrying absolute conviction with them in the narration of even

the most trivial story.

"Well," Ellis went on, "I was on Number Thirteen--south-bound--one day,

about eighteen months back, I guess, returning to my line detachment at

Elbow Vale. As we pulled away from Little Bend--the first stop--the Con'

came into the car I was in with a wire in his hand. 'Benton,' he said.

'Anybody here by that name?' I was in mufti--had been on a plain-clothes

job. 'Right here!' I said, and opened it up. It was from the O.C., and

as far as I can remember, ran something like this: 'Definite information

just to hand. Arthur Forbes escaped Badminton Penitentiary; is on No.

13; forty-five; weight, one hundred and ninety; five feet ten; thick

black eyebrows; hook nose; triangular scar top bald head; dress unknown;

search train thoroughly; arrest without fail, signed R. B. Bargrave.'

"It wasn't much of a description to work on, but I realized it was a

hurry call and was very likely all the O.C. had been able to get. It was

up to me to make good somehow. So I started in to investigate that train

with a fine-tooth comb, and I put the Con' wise, too. It's only a short

train--the Southbound--and I thought I'd have an easy job locating my

man if he was on it. I sauntered casually through, from end to end, and

sized all the passengers up. There was only one who came anything near

the description I'd had given me. Beggar was a parson at that, too. I

passed him up for the time being, and when we stopped at Frampton, I and

the Con' made a pretty thorough search of the tender, baggage, and mail

coaches--also the rods underneath the whole length of the train. Nothing

doing, though, so we got aboard again. Then we ransacked every cubby

hole we could think of. Nothing doing again there, either. I began to

figure I was up against a hard proposition, or that p'r'aps he wasn't

_on_ the train at all. But the wire read so positive, and our O.C. isn't

the man to send you on a wild goose chase. Besides, I hated to think

this gink might slip it over on me after all, and make his get-away.

"Consequence was--I only had this parson to fall back on. I was only two

seats back from him, so I could watch him good. He was a big, stout,

broad-shouldered chap about the height and weight of the description,

all right; clean-shaved and very pale, with a hook nose and thick black

eyebrows, too. Didn't fancy, somehow, that his expression and the cut of

his jaw was exactly in keeping with his clerical dress--and his

hair--what little I could see of it under his shovel hat--was pretty

short. But there! you can't always judge a man by his personal

appearance. It isn't wise or fair. Though honestly--I tell you, Miss

O'Malley, I _have_ seen parsons before now with faces tough enough to

get them six months--without the option of a fine--just on sight. I

casually moved up to the seat alongside his, on the other side of the

aisle, where I could keep good tab on him. He'd got some magazines and

two or three clerical papers--_The Pulpit_, _The Clerical Review_, etc.,

that he seemed very interested in, and I began to think what ridiculous

nonsense it was for me ever for an instant to associate _him_ in my mind

with an escaped convict on the mere coincidence of his answering a vague

description. While all this was running in my head something happened

which caused me to change my mind a bit and feel kind of uneasy and

suspicious of my Reverend 'Nibs.'

"All the way from Frampton, the whole bunch of us in the car--with the

exception, of course, of the divine--had been in turn amused and annoyed

at the antics of a bleary-eyed-looking bohunk who'd come aboard there

with a bottle of 'Seagram's' rye sticking out of his pocket. He'd got a

proper singin' jag on, and every now and again he'd pull out his bottle

and whet his whistle. Might have been anything from a camp cookee to a

section hand out on a 'toot.' _I_ don't know what the beggar was.

Anyhow, getting tired of sitting still and singing on his lonesome, he

comes zig-zagging up the aisle, pitching cheerfully into some one's lap

at every lurch of the train. The last lap he hit happened to be this

parson's, who shoved him off disgustedly, and drew in the hem of his

garments, so to speak, all same Pharisee and Publican. The way he did it

got that drunk goin' properly--made him pretty nasty. So he gets back at

the parson by pulling out his bottle and offering him a drink right then

and there. Of course that fetched a great big ignorant laugh out of the

whole lot of us, watching this Punch and Judy show. Parson never let on,

though--kept his face on one side, staring out of the window. Well, the

drunk, seeing his offer of a nip was turned down, takes one himself and,

swaying all over the place, puts his hand on the parson's knee and looks

up into his face.

"'Sh-shay, Mister!' he says, as solemn as an owl. '_I_ don't believe in

Heaven!'

"Of course we all started in to grin again, and the parson looked like a

proper goat. But still he took no notice--kept as mum as you please,

though; I guess if it'd been _me_, that drunk'd have got a back hander

across the mouth and kicked off the train by the Con' at the next

station.