_Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And--"This to me!" he said,--_
MARMION
Early on the morrow it came to pass that Sergeant Slavin, cooking
breakfast for all hands, heard Yorke's voice uplifted in song, as that
worthy made his leisurely toilet. He shot a slightly bilious glance at
Redmond, who, "Morning Stables" finished, lounged nearby.
"Hear um?" he snorted enviously. "Singin'! singin'!--forever
singin'!--eyah! sich nonsince, tu."
But, to George, who possessed a musical ear, the ringing tenor sounded
rather airily and sweetly--
"_Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven's Gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs--_"
"Fwhat yez know 'bout that?" Slavin forked viciously at the bacon he was
frying. "Blarney my sowl! an' him not up for 'Shtables' at all! . . ."
"_With ev'rything that pretty is:--
My lady sweet, arise! arise!
My lady sweet, arise!_"
"My lady shweet!"--Slavin snorted unutterable things.
Yawning, the object of his remarks sauntered into the kitchen just then,
and, deeming the occasion now to be a fitting one, the sergeant
introduced his two subordinates to each other.
Yorke, with a bleak nod and handshake, swept the junior constable with a
swiftly appraising glance. As frigidly was his salutation returned.
Redmond remarked the regular features, suggestive rather of the ancient
Norman type, the thin, curved, defiant nostrils and dark, arching
eyebrows. The face, with its indefinable stamp of birth and breeding was
handsome enough in its patrician mould, but marred somewhat by the lines
of cynicism, or dissipation, round the sombre, reckless eyes and
intolerant mouth. He had a cool, clear voice and a whimsical,
devil-may-care sort of manner that was apparently natural to him, as was
also a certain languid grace of movement. He possessed an irritating
mannerism of continually elevating his chin and dilating his curved
nostrils disdainfully in a sort of soundless sniff. Beyond a slight
flush he showed little trace of his previous night's dissipation.
"Where do you hail from?" he enquired of George with casual interest over
the mess-table later.
"Ontario," replied George laconically, "my people are farmers down there."
For a moment Yorke's arched brows lifted in puzzled surprise--came a
repetition of his offensive sniffing mannerism; and he stared pointedly
away again. It was difficult to be more insulting in dumb show.
George, mindful of his promise to Slavin, groaned inwardly. "I am going
to hate this fellow" he thought.
The sergeant, from the head of the table, kept a keen watch upon the pair.
"An' fwhat?" came his soft brogue, by way of diversion, "an' fwhat made
yu' take on th' Force?"
"Oh, I don't know!" Wearily, George shoved his hands deep into his
pockets and leant back in his chair. "Old man's pretty well fixed--now.
He's a member of the legislature for ---- County. I was at McGill for
some terms--medicine." A hopeless note crept into his tones. "I fell
down on my exams . . . ran amuck with the wrong bunch an' all
that--an'--an' . . . kind of made a mess of things I guess. . . . Went
broke--came West. . . . That's why. . . ."
With a forlorn sort of forced grin he gazed back at his interlocutor.
Yorke, unheeding the conversation, continued his breakfast as if he were
alone.
"H-mm!" grunted Slavin, summing up the situation with native simplicity,
"That's ut, eh?--but, for all ye have th' spache an' manners av a
ginthleman--ranker somehow--somehow I misdoubt ye're a way-back waster
like Misther Yorkey here!"
That hardened "ginthleman," absently sipping his coffee, flung a
faintly-derisive, patient smile at his accuser. A perfect understanding
seemed to exist between the two men. Redmond, musing upon the
pathetically-sordid drama he had witnessed not so many hours since,
relapsed into a reverie of speculation.
The silence was suddenly broken by the sharp trill of the telephone.
Slavin arose lethargically from the mess-table and answered it.
"Hullo! yis! Slavin shpeakin'! Fwat?--all right Nick! I'll sind a man
shortly an' vag um! So long! Oh, hold on, Nick! . . . May th' divil
niver know ye're dead till ye're tu hours in Hivin! Fwhat?--Oh, thank
yez! Same tu yez! Well! . . . so long!"
"Hobo worryin' Nick Lee at Cow Run. Scared av fire in th'
livery-shtable. Go yu', Yorkey!" He eyed George a moment in curious
speculation. "Yu' had betther go along tu, Ridmond! Exercise yez harse
an'"--he lit his pipe noisily--"learn th' lay av th' thrails." He turned
to the senior constable. "If ye can lay hould av th' J.P. there, get
this shtiff committed an' let Ridmond take thrain wid um tu th' Post.
Yu' return wid th' harses!"
"Why can't Redmond nip down there on a way-freight and do the whole
thing?" said Yorke, a trifle sulkily. "It seems rot sending two men
mounted for one blooming hobo."
"Eyah!" murmured Slavin with suspicious mildness, "'tis th' long toime
since I have used me shtripes tu give men undher me wan ordher twice."
Yorke flashed a slightly apprehensive glance at his superior's face.
Then, without another word, he reached for his side-arms, bridle, and
fur-coat. He knew his man.
Redmond followed suit and they adjourned to the stable.
"I saw that beggar yesterday--on my way up," remarked George,
ill-advisedly.
Yorke stared. "The hell you did! . . . why didn't you vag him then?" he
retorted irritably.
Bursting with silent wrath at the "choke-off," with difficulty Redmond
held his peace. In silence they saddled up and leading the horses out
prepared to mount. Yorke swung up on the splendid, mettled
black--"Parson." He had an ideal cavalry seat, and as with an easy grace
he gently controlled his impatient horse, with an inscrutable, mask-like
countenance he watched Redmond and the sorrel "Fox."
With toe in the leather-covered stirrup the latter reached for the
saddle-horn. Poor George! fuming inwardly over one humiliation caused
him shortly to be the recipient of another. Too late to his preoccupied
mind came Slavin's warning of the day before.
Like a flash the sorrel whirled to the "off-side" and Redmond, swung off
his balance, revolved into space and was pitched on his hands and knees
in the snow. Fortunately his foot had slipped clear of the stirrup. In
this somewhat ignominious position dizzily he heard Yorke's mocking tones:
"What are the odds on Fox, bookie? . . . I'd like a few of those dollars
when you've quite finished picking them all up."
With an almost superhuman effort the young fellow controlled himself once
more as he arose. Not lightly had he given a promise. Silently he
dusted the snow from his uniform and strode over to where the sorrel
awaited him. The horse had made no attempt to run away; apparently being
an old hand at the game. It now stood eying its dupe, with Lord knows
what mirth tickling its equine brain.
Slipping the "nigh" rein through the saddle-fork, then back to the
cheek-strap again, George snubbed Fox's head towards him, making it
impossible for the horse to whirl to the "off" as before. Warily and
quietly he then swung into the saddle and the two men set off.
A few yards from the front of the detachment Yorke suddenly pulled up
and, dismounting, felt around in the snow at the base of a
well-remembered telephone-pole. It was Redmond's hour to jeer now, if he
had been mindful to do so. But another usurped that privilege.
A queer choking sound made them both turn round. Slavin, his grim face
registering unholy mirth, lounged in the doorway.
"Fwhat ye lukkin for, Yorkey?"
"Oh, nothing!" came that gentleman's answer.
"Ye'll find ut in th' bottle thin."
Insult was added to injury by the sergeant casually plucking that article
from it's "rist" and chucking it over.
Yorke's face was a study. "Oh!" cried he dismally, "what wit! . . . give
three rousing cheers!" . . . He mounted once more. "Well! there's no
denying you are one hell of a sergeant!"
That worthy one grinned at him tolerantly. "Get yez gone!" he spat back,
"an' du not linger tu play craps on th' thrail either--th' tu av yez!"
Long and grimly, with his bald head sunk between his huge shoulders, he
gazed after the departing riders. "Eyah! 'tis best so!" he murmured
softly, "a showdown--wid no ould shtiff av a non-com like meself tu butt
in. . . . An', onless I am mistuk that same will come this very morn,
from th' luks av things. . . . Sind th' young wan is as handy wid his
dhooks as Brankley sez he is! . . . Thin--an' on'y thin will there be
peace in th' fam'ly."
He re-lit his pipe and, shading his eyes from the snow-glare focussed
them on two rapidly vanishing black specks. "I wud that I cud see ut!"
he sighed, plaintively, "I wud that I cud see ut!"
It was a glorious day, sunny and clear, with the temperature sufficiently
low to prevent the hard-packed snow from balling up the horses' feet.
The trail ran fairly level along a lower shelf of the timber-lined
foothills, which on their right hand sloped gradually to the banks of the
Bow River in a series of rolling "downs." Sharply outlined against the
blue ether the Sou' Western chain of the mighty "Rockies" reared their
rosily-white peaks in all their morning glory--silent guardians of the
winter landscape.
Deep down in his soul young Redmond harboured a silent, dreamy adoration
for the beauty of such scenes as this. Under different conditions he
would have enjoyed this ride immensely. But now--with his mind a
seething bitter chaos consequent upon his companion's incomprehensible
behavior towards him, he rode in a sort of brooding reverie. Yorke was
equally morose. Not a word had fallen from their lips since they left
the detachment.
Right under the horses' noses a big white jack-rabbit suddenly darted
across the snow-banked ruts of the well-worn trail, pursuing its leaping
erratic course towards a patch of brush on the river side.
Simultaneously the animals shied, with an inward trend, cannoning their
respective riders together. Yorke reined away sharply and glared.
"Get over'" he said curtly, "don't crowd me!"
He spoke as a Cossack hetman might to his sotnia, and, at his tone and
attitude, something snapped within Redmond. To his already overflowing
cup of resentment it was the last straw. His promise to Slavin he flung
to the winds, and it was replaced with vindictive but cool purpose.
"Showdown!" he muttered under his breath, "I knew it had to come!" He
was conscious of a feeling of vast relief. Aloud he responded, blithely
and rudely, "Oh! to hell with _you_!"
Yorke checked his horse with a suddenness that brought the animal back
onto its haunches. Sitting square and motionless in the saddle for a
moment he stared at George with an expression almost of shocked
amazement; then his face became convulsed with ruthless passion.
The junior constable had pulled up also, and now wheeling "half-left" and
lolling lazily in his saddle with shortened leg stared back at his enemy
with an expression there was no mistaking. His debonair young face had
altered in an incredible fashion. Although his lips were pursed up with
their whistling nonchalance his eyes had contracted beneath scowling
brows into mere pin-points of steel and ice. He looked about as docile
as a young lobo wolf--cornered.
"Ah!" murmured Yorke, noting the transformation; and he seemed to
consider. He had seen that look on men's faces before. Insensibly,
passion had vanished from his face; the bully had disappeared; and in his
place there sat in saddle a cool, contemptuous gentleman.
"Are you talking back to me?" he said. He did not look astounded
now--seemed rather to assume it.
Redmond's scowling brows lifted a fraction. "Talking back?" he echoed,
"sure! Who the devil do you think you're trying to come 'the Tin Man'
over?"
Reluctantly Yorke discounted his first impressions. Here was no
self-conscious bravado. Warily he surveyed George for a moment--the cool
appraising glance of the ring champion in his corner scanning his
challenger--then, swinging out of the saddle, he dropped his lines and
began to unbuckle his spurs.
There was no mistaking his actions. Redmond followed suit. A few
seconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.
"Oh, you needn't be scared of Fox beating it," remarked that gentleman a
trifle wearily, "he'll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his lines
down."
Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of their
surroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more or
less bare of snow. Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flung
off caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets. Yorke, a graceful,
compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponent
with an approving eye.
"You strip good" he said carelessly. "Well! what's it to be? . . .
'muck' or 'muffin'?"
"'Muffin' of course!" snapped Redmond angrily, "what d'ye take me for?--a
'rough-house meal ticket'?"
"All right!" said Yorke soothingly, "don't lose your temper!"
It may have been a shrewdly-calculated attempt to attain that end; and
yet again it may have been only sheer mechanical habit that prompted him
to stretch forth his hands in the customary salute of the ring.
With an inarticulate exclamation of rage the younger man struck the
proffered hands aside and led with a straight left for the other's head.
Yorke blocked it cleverly and fell into a clinch.
"Ah!" murmured Yorke in his antagonist's ear with a sinister smile,
"rotten manners! for just that, my buck, I'll make you scoff 'muffin'
'till you're quite poorly!"
Working his arms cautiously, he sprang clear of the clinch, then, rushing
his man and feinting for the ribs, he rocked Redmond's head back with two
terrific left and right hooks to the jaw.
The jarring sting of the punches, although dazing him slightly, brought
Redmond to his senses, as he realized how vulnerable his momentary loss
of temper had rendered him. He now braced himself with dogged
determination and, covering up warily, circled his adversary with clever
foot-work. Yorke, tearing in again was met with one of the crudest jabs
he had ever known--flush in the mouth. Gamely he retaliated with a
stinging uppercut and a right swing which, coming home on Redmond's
cheek-bone, whirled him off his balance and sent him sprawling.
Dazed, but not daunted, he scrambled to his feet. Yorke, blowing upon
his knuckles with all the air of an old-time "Regency blood," waited with
heaving chest and scornful, narrowed eyes.
"Want to elevate the sponge?" he queried sneeringly.
"No!" panted George grimly, "it was you started the whole rotten dirty
business, and, by gum! I'll finish it!"
Dancing in and out he drew an ineffective left from his opponent and
countered with a pile-driving right to the heart. Yorke gave vent to a
groaning exclamation and turned pale. He spat gaspingly out of his
mashed lips and propped Redmond off awhile; then, suddenly springing in
again he attempted to mix it. George was nothing loath, and the two men,
standing toe-to-toe, slugged each other with a perfect whirlwind of
damaging punches to face and body.
Even in the giddy whirl of combat, in either man's heart now was a wonder
almost akin to respect for each other's ring knowledge and gameness. It
was not George's first bout by many, but the physical endurance of this
hard, clean-hitting Corinthian of a man was an astounding revelation to
him; the science of the graceful, narrow-waisted figure was still as
quick and as punishing as a steel trap.
Yorke, for his part, reflected with bitter irony how utterly erroneous
had been his primary calculations--how Nemesis was hard upon his heels at
last in the guise of this relentless youngster, who fought like a
college-bred "Charley Mitchell."
Ding! dong!--hook, jab, uppercut, block, and swing; in and out, back and
forth, side-stepping and head-work--one long exhausting round. Flesh and
blood could not stand the pace--though it was Redmond now who forced it.
Neither of the men was in training and the long strain began to tell upon
them both cruelly--especially upon the veteran Yorke. Still, with
frosted hair and streaming faces, the sweat-soaked, bruised and bleeding
combatants staggered against each other and strove to make play with
their weary arms, until utter exhaustion rang the time gong.
Gasping and swaying to and fro, his puffed lips wreathed into a ghastly
semblance of his old scornful smile, Yorke dropped his guard and stuck
out his chin. He mouthed and pointed to it tauntingly. In spite of
himself, a sorry grin flickered over George's battered, weary young face.
He mouthed back--speech was beyond either; sagging at the knees he reeled
forward and his right arm went poking out in a wobbling, uncertain punch.
It glanced harmlessly over Yorke's shoulder, but the violent impact of
his body sent the other heavily to the ground. An ineffectual struggle
to maintain his equilibrium and he, too, fell--face downwards, with his
head pillowed on Yorke's heaving chest.