_A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it._
SHAKESPEARE.
Number Six, from the East, drew up at the small platform of Davidsburg
and presently steamed slowly on its way westward, minus three passengers.
"Well, bhoys," said Sergeant Slavin to his henchmen, "here we are---back
tu th' land av our dhreams wanst more. Glory be! But I'm glad tu be
quit av that warrm, shtinkin' courthroom. Denis Ryan--th' ould rapparee,
he wint afther us harrd--in that last case. Eyah! But I thrimmed um in
th' finals. Wan Oirishman cannot put ut over another wan."
He softly rubbed his huge hands together. "Five years! That'll tache
Mishter Joe Lawrence tu go shtickin' his brand on other people's cattle!
But--blarney me sowl! Ryan sure is a bad man tu run up agin when he's
actin' for th' defence."
The trio had just returned from a Supreme Court sitting where they had
been handling their various cases. It was a gloriously sunny day in
June. A wet spring, succeeded by a spell of hot weather, had transformed
the range into a rolling expanse of green, over which meandered bunches
of horses and cattle, their sleek hides and well-rounded bodies
proclaiming abundant assimilation of nourishing pasture.
To men who for the past week had of necessity been confined within the
stifling atmosphere of a crowded court-room, their present surroundings
appealed as especially restful and exhilarating. During their absence
their horses had been enjoying the luxury of a turn-out in the fenced
pasture at the rear of the detachment, where there was good feed and a
spring.
The murder of Larry Blake the previous winter still remained a baffling
mystery. Locally it had proved, as such occurrences usually do, merely a
proverbial nine days wonder. Long since, in the stress and interest of
current events, it had faded more or less from the minds of all men,
excepting the Mounted Police, who, though saying little concerning it,
still kept keenly on the alert for any possible clue. Equally mystifying
was the uncanny disappearance of the hobo--Drinkwater. So far that
individual had succeeded in eluding apprehension, although minute
descriptions of him had been circulated broadcast to police agencies
throughout Canada and the United States.
"Eyah!" Sergeant Slavin was wont to remark sagely: "'Tis an ould saying
bhoys--'Murdher will out'--we'll sure dhrop onto it sooner or lather, an'
thin belike we'll get th' surprise av our lives--for I firmly believe, as
Kilbride said--'t'will prove tu be some lokil man who had a grudge agin'
pore Larry for somethin' or another. So--just kape on quietly
watchin'--an' listh'nin, an' we'll nail that fella yet."
Just now that worthy was surveying his subordinates with a care-free
smile of bonhomie. "Guess we'll dhrop inta th' shtore on our way up"
suggested he, "see'f there's any mail, an' have a yarn wid ould MacDavid."
Half way up the long, winding, graded trail that led to the detachment,
the trio turned into another trail which traversed it at this point.
Following this for some few hundred yards westward they reached the
substantial abode of Morley MacDavid, who was, as his name suggested, the
hamlet's oldest settler and its original founder.
His habitation--combining store, post-office, and ranch-house--was a
commodious frame dwelling, unpretentious in appearance but not wanting in
evidences of prosperity. Its rear presented the usual aspect of a ranch,
with huge, well-built barns and corrals. Although it was summer, many
wide stacks of hay and green oats, apparently left over from the previous
season, suggested that he was a cautious man with an eye to stock-feeding
during the winter months. To neglect of the precaution of putting up
sufficient feed to tide over the severe weather might be attributed most
of the annual ranching failures in the West. The MacDavid establishment
bore a well-ordered aspect, unlike many of the unthrifty, ramshackle
ranches, of his neighbours. The fencing was of the best, and there were
no signs of decay or dilapidation in any of the buildings. Dwarf pines
were planted about and a Morning Glory vine over-ran the house, giving
the place an air of restful domesticity. As they entered the store the
trio noticed a saddle-horse tied to the hitching-rail outside.
They were greeted jovially by MacDavid himself. Lounging behind his
store-counter, with his back up against a slung pack of coyote skins, he
was listening in somewhat bored fashion to a talkative individual
opposite. He evidently hailed their arrival as a welcome diversion. In
personality, Morley MacDavid was an admirable type of the western
pioneer. A tall, slimly-built, but wiry, active man of fifty, or
thereabouts, with grizzled hair and moustache. Burnt out and totally
ruined three successive times in the past by the depredations of
marauding Indians, the fierce, indomitable energy of the broken man had
asserted itself and enabled him finally to triumph over all his
mischances. Aided in the struggle by his devoted wife, who throughout
the years had bravely faced all dangers and hardships with him, he had
eventually accumulated a hard-won fortune. In addition to the patronage
that he received from the local ranches, he conducted an extensive
business trading with the Indians from the big Reserve in the vicinity.
A man of essentially simple habits, through sentiment or ingrained
thriftiness, he disdained to abandon the routine and the scenes of his
former active life, although his bank-balance and his holdings in land
and stock probably exceeded that of many a more imposing city magnate.
The newcomers, disposing themselves comfortably upon various sacked
commodities, proceeded to smoke and casually inspect the voluble
stranger. He was a tallish, well-built man nearing middle-age, with a
gray moustache, a thin beak of a nose, and a bleached-blue eyes. He was
dressed in an old tweed suit, obviously of English cut, a pair of
high-heeled, spurred riding-boots and a cowboy hat. Vouchsafing a brief
nod to the visitors he continued his conversation with MacDavid.
"Ya-as," he was drawling, "one of the most extraordinary shots you ever
heard of, Morley! I was between the devil and the deep sea--properly.
There was the bear--rushing me at the double and there was the cougar
perched growling up on the rock behind me. I made one jump sideways and
let the bear have it--slap through the brain, and . . . that same shot,
sir, ricocheted up the face of the rock and killed the cougar--just as he
was in the act of springing! By George, y'know, it was one of the
swiftest things that ever happened!"
A tense silence succeeded the conclusion of this thrilling narrative.
MacDavid re-lit his pipe and puffed thoughtfully awhile. "Eyah," he
remarked reminiscently, "feller does run up against some swift
propositions now an' again. I mind one time I was headin' home from
Kananaskis, an' a bear jumped me from behind a fallen log. The lever of
me rifle jammed so, all I could do was to beat it--in a hurry--an' I sure
did hit th' high spots, you bet! It was in th' early spring an' th' snow
still lay pretty deep, but--I'd got a twenty yards start of that bear,
an' I finally beat him to it an' made my get-away."
The stranger whistled incredulously. "Wha-a-tt!" he almost shouted,
"D'ye mean to tell me that bear got within twenty yards of you and
couldn't catch you? Why, man! It's incredible!"
"Fact," replied MacDavid calmly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "It
was this way: It was near th' edge of th' bush where th' bear first
jumped me, an'--just as we hit th' open ground--one o' them warm Chinook
winds sprung up behind us, travellin' east. . . .
"Man!" He paused impressively. "The way that wind started in to melt th'
snow was a corker--just like lard in a fryin'-pan. But--I just managed
to keep ahead of it an' while I had a good, hard surface of snow to run
on, the bear--why he was sloppin around in th' slush in my wake--couldn't
get a firm foothold, I guess. . . ."
His keen blue orbs stared full into the bleached ones of his vis-à-vis.
"I figure that there Chinook an' me an' th' bear must have been all
travellin' 'bout th' same line of speed--kind of swift. After a mile or
two of it, th' bear--he got fed up an' quit cold," he ended gravely.
"Why--what's your hurry, Fred?"
But that individual, feebly raising both arms with a sort of hopeless
gesture, suddenly grabbed up his mail and beat a hasty retreat to his
horse.
The hoof-beats died away and MacDavid turned to the grinning policemen.
"Fred Storey," he said, in answer to their looks of silent enquiry.
"Runs th' R.U. Ranch, out south here. Not a bad head, but"--he sighed
deeply--"he's such an ungodly liar. I can't resist gettin' back at him
now an' again--just for luck. He's up here on a visit--stayin' with th'
Sawyers."
"H-mm!" ejaculated Yorke, "seems to me I've got a hazy recollection of
meeting up with that fellow before--somewhere. In a hotel in High River,
I think it was. Beggar was yarning about Cuba, I remember."
"Bet it was hazy all right," was Redmond's sarcastic rejoiner, "like most
of your bar-room recollections, Yorkey." He gave vent to a snorting
chuckle. "That 'D'you know? Ya! ya!' accent of his reminds me of that
curate in 'The Private Secretary.' I saw it played to Toronto, once."
At this juncture the door opened, and a trio of Indians padded softly
into the store with gaily-beaded, moccasined feet. Two elderly bucks and
a young squaw. The latter flashed a shy, roguish grin at the white men,
and then with the customary effacement of Indian women withdrew to the
rear of the store. Squatting down, all huddled-up in her blanket, she
peered at them with the incurious, but all-seeing stare of her tribe.
George got an impression of beady black eyes and a brown, rounded,
child-like face framed in a dazzling yellow kerchief.
The two bucks, with a momentary gleam of welcome wrinkling their
ruthless, impassive features, exchanged a salutation with MacDavid in
guttural Cree, which language the latter spoke fluently. They were
clothed in the customary fashion of their tribe--with a sort of
blanket-capote garment reaching below the knee, their lower limbs swathed
in strips of blanket, wound puttee-wise. Battered old felt hats
comprised their head-gear, below which escaped two plaited pig-tails of
coarse, mane-like, black hair, the latter parted at the nape of the neck
and dangling forward down their broad chests.
Slavin and Yorke hailed them familiarly. The elder buck rejoiced in the
sonorous title of "Minne-tronk-ske-wan," but divers convictions for
insobriety under the Indian Liquor Act, and the facetious tongue of
Yorke, had contorted this into the somewhat opprobrious nickname of "Many
Drunks." His companion was known as "Sun Dog."
They now proceeded to shake hands all around. "How! Many Drunks!"
shouted Yorke. Pointing to Redmond, he added "oweski skemoganish" (new
policeman). With a ferocious grin, intended for an ingratiating smile of
welcome, Many Drunks advanced upon George, with outstretched hand. In a
rapid aside Yorke said: "Listen, Reddy, to what he says, he only knows
six or seven words of English, but he's as proud as Punch of 'em--always
likes to get 'em off on a stranger. Don't laugh!"
Within a pace of Redmond that gentleman halted. "How!" he grunted, and,
pausing impressively drew himself up and tapped his inflated chest,
"Minne-tronk-ske-wan! . . . great man!--me--"
And then Redmond nearly choked, as Many Drunks, with intense gravity,
proudly conferred upon himself the most objectionable title that exists
in four words of the English language--rounding that same off with a
majestic "Wah! wah!"
Turning, George beheld himself the target of covert grins from the
others, who evidently were familiar with Many Drunks' linguistic
attainments. Sun Dog merely uttered "How! Shemoganish." He did not
profess ability to rise to the occasion like his companion.
Yorke, who was evidently in one of his reckless, rollicking moods,
proceeded to make certain teasing overtures to Many Drunks. His
knowledge of Cree being nearly as limited as that worthy's knowledge of
English, he enlisted the aid of MacDavid as interpreter. The dialogue
that ensued was something as follows:
"Tell him I'm fed up with the Force and am thinking seriously of going to
live on the reserve--_monial nayanok-a-weget_--turn 'squaw-man'--'take
the blanket.'"
MacDavid translated swiftly, received the answer, and turned to Yorke.
"He says '_Aie-ha_! (yes) You make good squaw-man.'"
"Ask him--if I do--if he'll _muskkatonamwat_ (trade) me the young lady
over in the corner there, for two bottles of _skutiawpwè_ (whiskey)."
"He says '_Nemoyah_!' (no)--if he does that, you'll turn around and
_kojipyhôk_ (arrest) him for having liquor in his possession."
"Tell him--_Nemoyah_! I won't."
"He says _Aie-hat ekwecè_! (Yes, all right) you can have her. Says
she's his brother's wife's niece. But he says you must give him the two
bottles of _skutiawpwè_ first, though."
The object of these frivolous negotiations had meanwhile covered her head
with the blanket, from the folds of which issued shrill giggles. Sun
Dog, who had been listening intently with hand scooped to ear (he was
somewhat deaf), now precipitated himself into the discussion. Violently
thrusting his elder companion aside he commenced to harangue MacDavid in
an excited voice and with vehement gestures of disapprobation of the
whole proceedings. The trader translated swiftly:
"He says _Nemoyah_!--not to give the bottles to Many Drunks, as when he
gets full of _skutiawpwè_ he raises hell on th' reserve, an' there's no
livin' with him. Says he beats up his squaw an' starts in to scalp th'
dogs an' chickens."
"Shtop ut!" bawled Slavin, "d'ju hear, Yorkey? . . . shtoolin' th'
nitchie on tu commit a felony an' th' like, thataways!" He sniffed
disgustedly. "_Skutiawpwè_ an' squaws! . . . blarney me sowl! but ye've a
quare idea av a josh. 'Tis a credit y'are tu th' Ould Counthry, an' no
error. I do not wondher ye left ut."
"Sh-sh!" said that gentleman soothingly, "coarsely put, Burke! coarsely
put! . . . Say Wine and Women, guv'nor! Wine and Women! If you were in
India, Burke, they'd make you Bazaar-Sergeant--put you in charge of the
morals of the regiment. Both items are all right--always providing you
don't get a lady like Misthress Lee for a chaser. How'd you like to be
in Nick's shoes? What 'shteps' would you take?"
Slavin stared at his tormentor, blankly, a moment. "Shteps?" he
ejaculated sharply, "fwhat shteps?" . . . He leant back with a fervent
sigh and softly rubbed his huge hands together. "Long wans, avick! . . .
eyah, d----d long wans, begorrah!"
Many Drunks now realizing that he was merely the victim of a joke,
scowled in turn upon Yorke. Muttering something to MacDavid he backed up
against the wall and, squatting down, proceeded philosophically to fill
his pipe.
"What's that he said?" queried Yorke of the interpreter, "I couldn't
catch it."
The latter grinned. "He says--of all the white men he's ever met in his
time, Stamixotokon[1] and my self are the only ones he's ever known to
tell th' truth."
"It's my belief the beggar'd flirt with Mrs. Lee, himself, if he only got
the chance" said Redmond laconically, "d'you recollect that day he picked
her parcel up for her--how nice she was to him?"
"Eyah," said Slavin darkly, "I remimber ut! That man"--he darted an
accusing finger at Yorke--"wud thry tu come th' Don Jewan wid anything
wid a shkirrt on--from coast to coast. _Flirrt_? Yeh're tellin' th'
trute, bhoy, yeh're tellin' th' trute! He'd a-made a good undhershtudy
for ould Nobby Guy, down Regina."
He settled himself comfortably and lit his pipe. "Eyah, th' good ould
days, th' good ould days!" he resumed reminiscently, between puffs, "Hark
now till I tell ye th' tale av ould Nobby!"
"Is that the man they used to Josh about, down Regina?" enquired Redmond.
"Used to say 'I'm a man of few words'?"
Slavin nodded affirmatively. "That's him, Sarjint in charrge av th' town
station he was--years back. This is--whin I was Corp'ril at
headquarthers. A foine big roosther av a man was Nobby, wid a mighty
pleasant way wid um--'specially wid th' ladies. Wan night--blarney me
sowl! Will I iver forghet ut? Nobby 'phones up th' Gyard-room
reporthin' th' Iroquois Hotel on fire, an' requestin' th' O.C. for a
shquad av men tu help fight ut, an' kape th' crowd back. So down we
wint, a bunch av us. It sure was a bad fire all right. No lives was
lost, but th' whole shebang was burnt tu th' ground. Kapin' th' crowd
back was our hardest job. Du fwhat we cud, we cud not make some av th'
silly fules kape back clear av th' danger-zone--wimmin an' all, bedad!
"By and by, a section av the wall tumbles an' quite a bunch av people got
badly hurt--Nobby amongst thim. We dhragged thim out as quick as we cud
an' laid them forninst th' wall av a buildin' near-by--awaithin' some
stretcher-bearers. Nobby'd got his leg bruk, but he seemed chipper
enough an' chewed th' rag wid us awhile. Next tu him was a
wumman--cryin' something pitiful--she'd got her leg bruk, tu. Nobby
rised him up on his elbow an' lukked at her.
"Now, 'tis powerful dhry wurrk, bhoys, fightin' fire, an' may be
Nobby--well, I cannot account for ut otherwise--him havin' th' nerve' tu
du' fwhat he did--onless p'raps 't'was just th' natch'ril
tindher-hearthedness av th' man--thryin' for tu comfort her. Afther that
wan luk tho', Nobby he 'comes tu th' halt,' so tu shpake, an' 'marks
time' awhile considherin'--for becod, she was a harrd-lukkin ould
case--long beyant mark av mouth.
"Presintly, sez he: 'I'm a man av few wurrds!--'tis of then I have kissed
a _young_ wumman!'--an' he thwirls th' big buck moustache av um very
slow--'fwhy shud I not kiss an ould wan? . . .'--_an' he did_. . . .
"That's how th' man's throuble shtarted. Brought ut all on umsilf.
Course at th' toime, fwhy! she slapped th' face av um an' called um all
manner av harrd names--but, all th' same! she must have liked ut, for
while they was convalescin' she was everlashtingly sendhin Nobby notes
an' flowers an' such like. But for all that Nobby wud have no thruck wid
her, for all she was a widder, well fixed--wid a house av her own an'
lashuns av money. Whin they was both out av hospital she was afther urn
again, an' du fwhat he cud he cud not shake that wumman.
"Th' ind av ut was, Nobby reports sick, an' th' reg'minthal docthor, ould
'Knockemorf' Probyn, gives um th' wance over. He luks over some papers
an' sez he: 'A change an' a rist is fwhat yu' need, Sarjint Guy. There's
a dhraft leavin' next week for Herschell Island[2]--I think I will mark
yu up fur ut.'
"'_Herschell Island_?' sez pore Nobby, an' wid that he let's out a howl.
"'Tut, tut!' sez ould Knockemorf, who was wise tu th' man's throuble.
'Tis safer off there'll yu'll be, man, than here, I'm thinkin'.'
"He was shtandin' by th' Gyard-room gate that day-week whin th' dhraft
marched out on their way tu enthrain--Nobby amongst thim. 'Good-bye,
Docthor!' he calls out, tears in th' eyes av um, ''Tis sendhin me tu me
grave y'are, God forgive yez!'
"'Nonsince!' shouts Knockemorf. 'Say yeh prayers an' kape yeh bowils
opin, me man, an' ye will take no harrm!'
"Some sind-off! well!--time wint on, an' wan day I gets a letther from me
ould friend, Ginger Johnson, who was stationed there tu, tellin' me all
th' news. Nobby, sez he, was doin' fine, fat as a hog, an' happy as a
coon in a melun patch. Wan day, sez he, a buck av th' name av Wampy
Jones comes a runnin' inta th' Post, wid th' face av a ghost an' th' hair
av um shtickin shtraight up. Said a Polar bear'd popped out forninst a
hummock an' chased um--like tu th' tale av Morley, here. Nobby, sez
Johnson, on'y grins at th' man, an' sez he: 'That's nothin'!' An' thin
he shtarts in tellin' thim all 'bout this widder at Regina."
[1] Note by Author--The late Colonel Macleod, who for many years was
Commissioner of the R.N.W.M. Police. He was greatly respected and
trusted by all the Indian tribes.
[2] Note by Author--This island is in the Arctic Circle. The most
northerly post of the R.N.W.M. Police.