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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
{\noindent}
BENTON OF THE ROYAL MOUNTED}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

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{\noindent}
\noindent
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the \hyperlink{project-gutenberg-license}{Project Gutenberg License} included with
this ebook or online at {https://www.gutenberg.org/license}. If you
are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
\par

\noindent
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\begin{container}
\vs{2}
{\noindent}
\noindent
Title: Benton of the Royal Mounted
 \\

 \\
Author: Ralph S. Kendall
 \\

 \\
Release Date: January 20, 2013 {[}eBook \#41889{]}
 \\

 \\
Language: English
 \\

 \\
\par
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\noindent
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BENTON OF THE ROYAL MOUNTED ***
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
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\noindent
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\begin{container}
\begin{titlepage_env}
{\noindent}
{\centering
BENTON
 \\
OF THE
 \\
ROYAL MOUNTED
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
A TALE OF THE ROYAL
 \\
NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
BY
 \\
RALPH S. KENDALL
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}

{\centering
“Let us now praise famous men”—
\endgraf}
\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl 
{\centering
Men of little showing—
\endgraf}
\par}
}

{\vl 
{\centering
For their work continueth,
\endgraf}
\par}
{\vl 
{\centering
And their work continueth,
\endgraf}
\par}
{\vl 
{\centering
Broad and deep continueth,
\endgraf}
\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl 
{\centering
Greater than their knowing!
\endgraf}
\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
\endgraf}
}

{\vl 
{\centering
{\scshape{—Kipling}}
\endgraf}
\par}
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\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\centering
GROSSET \& DUNLAP
 \\
PUBLISHERS—NEW YORK
\endgraf}
\par
\end{titlepage_env}
\end{container}

\begin{container}
{\noindent}
{\centering
Copyright 1918 by John Lane Company
\endgraf}
\par
\end{container}

\clearpage


\begin{container}
{\noindent}
{\raggedright
{\addfontfeature{Scale=1.2}{FOREWORD}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\raggedright
The scenes of this story belong to bygone
days. As the passer-by views the ugly
half-constructed railway terminus which
now sprawls itself over the original site of that historic
group of Police buildings, known as the “Post,”
little does he appreciate the pangs of real regret
which stir the hearts of old members of the Force,
as they recall associations of earlier years.
\endgraf}
\par

{\raggedright
Scattered now beyond the writer’s ken are those
good fellows with whom he served in years gone by.
They were men of a type fast disappearing, with
whom any one would have been proud to associate
and call “comrades.” No longer do those once orderly
grounds resound with the clear notes of the
trumpet-call, the neighing of troop-horses, or the
harsh-barked word of command. Gone is the old
Guardroom at the gates of the main entrance. The
spot where the O.C.’s house lay half hidden amidst
its clustering shrubbery and trim, well-kept lawn and
kitchen garden, is now but a drab area of railway
tracks. Missing is the towering flag staff, from
whose top-gaff, visible for miles around, there flew
from “Reveille” to “Retreat” the brave emblem
of our Empire.
\endgraf}
\par

{\raggedright
But today, while these lines are being penned,
many members and ex-members of the old Force are
still sternly serving that flag; gaining well-deserved
military honors, shedding their blood, and laying
down their lives in the great and terrible struggle for
supremacy between Human Liberty, and Iron Oppression
that overshadows the world.
\endgraf}
\par

{\raggedright
Aye! ... small wonder that the sight of the old
spot awakens strange memories in those of us who
were stationed there in our youth. Members of a
force of comparatively small numbers, it is true, but
with a reputation for efficiency, discipline, and stern
adherence to duty which has rarely been equaled, and
is too widely known to need any further eulogy in
this story.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\raggedright
—R. S. K.
\endgraf}
\par
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\begin{container}
{\noindent}
{\centering
{\LARGE\strut{PART I}}
\endgraf}
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{\noindent}
CHAPTER I}

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{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“We’ve some of us prospered, and some of us failed.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl But we all of us heave a sigh\par}
}

{\vl When we think of the times that we used to have\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl In those happy days gone by.\par}
}

{\vl When we used to whistle, and work, and sing,\par}
{\vl Make love, drink, gamble, and have our fling;\par}
{\vl Caring little for what the morrow might bring—\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl In those good old days gone by.”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl —{\scshape{Memories}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
With the outlines of its shadowy white
walls and dark roof silhouetted in sharp
relief against a glorious full moon, the
big main building of the old Mounted Police Post of
L Division stood forth—like a lone monument to
the majesty of British Law. A turfed “square,”
framed within a border of whitewashed stones, lay
at its front like a black carpet. Clustered about the
central structure were the long, low-lying guardroom,
stables, quartermaster’s store, and several smaller
adjacent buildings comprising “the Barracks.”
Stray patches of silvery light illuminated the dark
recesses between them. It was a perfect night following
an unparalleled June day in sunny South Alberta.\par

The “Post,” with its shadowy outlines, presented
a striking contrast to its activity by day. In the daytime
gangs of prisoners in their checkered jail garb
were to be seen tramping sedately here and there, engaged
on various jobs about the carefully kept
grounds. An armed “escort” followed grimly behind
each gang. Police teams, hitched to buck-boards
and heavy, high-seated transport wagons,
arrived and departed with a clatter. Mounted men,
on big upstanding horses, came and went continually,
each rider intent upon his own particular mission.
At the guardroom, the quartermaster’s store,
and the orderly-room the same ordered action and
busy preoccupation were noticeable.\par

The only sounds that disturbed the peaceful serenity
of the moonlit scene proceeded from a lighted
open window in the center of the main building,
where the men’s quarters and the regimental canteen
were located. An uproarious hilarity resounded
through the stillness; the shrill yaps of a
pup and the tinkling of a piano rising above the
tumult of song and laughter.\par

These jovial evidences of good fellowship floated
across the square, not unwelcomely, to the ears of
a solitary rider, whose weary horse was bearing him
slowly along the hard graveled driveway which led
from the main gateway to the stables. Dismounting
somewhat stiffly, the man stood for a moment,
listening to the sounds of revelry. He gazed silently
toward the beacon of good cheer which seemed
to beckon him. Then suddenly turning on his heel,
he trudged wearily on to his destination, leading his
mount.\par

After spending half an hour or more in off-saddling,
rubbing down, and attending scrupulously, if
mechanically, to his animal’s wants, the horseman
emerged from the stable, locked the door, and
walked slowly across the square to the Canteen.\par

Duly arriving at his cheerful haven, the newcomer
opened the canteen door and for a moment
or two silently contemplated the all-familiar scene
of a large, well-lighted room with a bar at one end,
behind which, on rows of shelves, were stacked various
kinds of dry provisions, tobacco in all its forms,
and miscellaneous odds and ends of a mounted policeman’s
requirements supplementary to his regular
“kit.”\par

Seated around small tables, playing cards, or else
perched upon high stools against the bar, he beheld
a score or so of bronzed, soldierly-looking men of
all ages, ranging from twenty to forty. They were
dressed variously—some in the regulation uniform
of the Force—i.e., scarlet serge tunic, dark-blue
cord riding-breeches with the broad yellow stripe
down the side, and high brown “Strathcona” boots
with straight-shanked, “cavalry jack” spurs attached.
Some again—with an eye to comfort
alone—just in loose, easy, brown duck “fatigue
slacks.” Many of the older members might have
been remarked wearing the active-service ribbons of
former campaigns in which they had served.\par

Their day’s duty over, careless and jovial they sat,
amidst the tobacco-smoke-hazy atmosphere, smoking
and drinking their beer and exchanging good-natured
repartee which occasionally was of a nature
that has caused a certain great writer to affirm, with
well-grounded conviction, that “single men in barricks
don’t grow into plaster saints.” Poor enough
stuff it was for the most part, I fancy, but there! ...
we were easily satisfied—we were not inclined to
be over-fastidious in the Canteen, and anyhow ...
it passed the time away.\par

At the piano was an ex-Dublin Fusileer, with a
comical face and an accent suggestive of “Silver
Street,” who acted as general accompanyist. His
own vocal talent was being contributed just now, and
a chorus of shouts, banging of beer tankards and
stamping of feet greeted the final verse of his song,
the burden of which was—\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“An’ whin we gits to Donnybrook Fair, comes Thady, with his fiddle,\par}
{\vl An’ all th’ bhoys an’ colleens there a-dancin’ down th’ middle;\par}
{\vl Shpuds, shillaleghs, pigs an’ potheen—all as ye thrapsed along—\par}
{\vl Hurroo! for a chune on th’ nob av ’um who’d intherrrupt me song!”.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
A little fox terrier pup, clinging with ludicrous
gravity to a somewhat precarious position behind a
man who was perched all doubled up on one of the
high stools aforesaid, growled and snapped with
puppy viciousness at all teasing attempts to dislodge
him, adding to the general uproar. His master,
Constable Markham, who, from certain indisputably
“simian” peculiarities of feature and habits, was
not inaptly designated “the Monk,” had, as the result
of his frequent libations, succeeded in cultivating—what,
in canteen parlance was termed—“a
singing jag.” Now, elbows on bar, he began to
bellow out a lone doggerel ditty for his own exclusive
benefit. Something where each bucolic verse wound
up with—\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“O be I I, or bain’t I I—\par}
{\vl I tell ee I bain’t zuch a vule as I luke!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The Orderly-room Sergeant, Dudley, a tall, good-looking
fair man about thirty, who, leaning on the
bar alongside was endeavoring amidst the din to
carry on a conversation with a corporal named Harrison,
turned somewhat wearily to the maudlin vocalist.\par

“Oh, now, for the love of Mike! ... try an’ forget
it, Monk, do!” he drawled. “Charity begins
at home! ... as if there wasn’t {\itshape{enough}} racket in
here without you adding {\itshape{your}} little pipe! ... sitting
there all humped up an’ hawkin’ away like a—old
crow on his native muck-heap! ... Be I I, or
bain’t I I?” he exploded, with a snort of derision
at the other’s uncouth Somersetshire dialect, and
after a long pause: “By gum! there’s no mistake
about you ... you’re well named! You’d be quite
at home in the jungle!”\par

He faced round again to the grinning corporal.
“Say, Harrison,” he resumed, “don’t know if Benton’s
come in yet, do you?” He lowered his voice
confidentially. “‘Father’s’ called him in about
something and I want to see him directly he lands in—first
crack out of the box.”\par

His eyes, wandering vaguely over the noisy crowd
as he spoke, suddenly dilated with surprised recognition
as they lighted upon the newcomer, whose
unobtrusive entrance amidst the general revelry had
somehow escaped his notice.\par

“Talk of the devil!” he ejaculated with easy incivility;
“why here the —— is! Why, hello, Ben!
How’s things goin’ in Elbow Vale?”\par

The object of this familiarity, walking silently
forward to the bar with a whimsical smile on his
bronzed, dusty countenance, merely opened his mouth
to which he pointed in dumb show.\par

“Dear me!” remarked the Orderly-room Sergeant
sympathetically, “as bad as all that? Here,
Bob! set ’em up! ... give Sergeant Benton a
‘long ’un’!”\par

The “long ’un” tendered by the canteen orderly
arrived and disappeared, another following speedily
on top of it; their recipient then, his thirst temporarily
appeased, turned to the two non-coms.\par

There remains engraven indelibly upon the memory
of the writer, as he recalls the striking personal
appearance and quietly forceful character of Ellis
Benton, a slightly saturnine, {\itshape{still}} face, with high,
bold, regular features, suggestive rather of the ancient
Roman type; coldly handsome in its clean-cut
patrician mold but marred somewhat by a peculiar
thin old scar, like a whip-lash, which extended from
an angle of the grim-lipped yet tender mouth up to
the left cheek bone. This facial disfigurement contrived
to give him an expression of faint perpetual
cynicism, as it were, which was accentuated by a pair
of tired-looking pale gray eyes, deeply set under
thick, dark, level brows—eyes which seemed to glow
at times with a somber light like smoldering fire in
their depths—eyes that were vaguely disturbing,
bidding you beware of the man’s ruthless anger
when aroused.\par

Altogether it was a remarkable face with its indefinable
stamp of iron-willed, quietly reckless courage,
indicative of a strenuous past and open with
the possibilities for good or evil alike, as caprice
should happen to sway its possessor’s varying moods.\par

And yet, strange to say, in spite of his hard-bitten,
cynical exterior and characteristics that verged
sometimes on actual brutality, deep, deep down in
his complex soul Ellis Benton hid an almost womanish
tenderness, coupled with a sensitive artistic temperament
that few were aware of or would have
credited. In figure he was splendidly proportioned.
Not overly tall, but with the lean, wiry flanks, broad,
square shoulders, and slim waist of the trained athlete
that denoted great activity, and the possession
of immense concentrated strength whenever he chose
to use it. The “Stetson” hat, tipped back, exposed
slightly graying, closely cropped brown hair. But
the young-looking face dispelled at once the first
impression of age, for Ellis was only thirty-eight.\par

His well-fitting uniform, consisting of a “stable
jacket” of the regulation brown duck, on which were
noticeable the “Distinguished Conduct,” and the
“King’s” and “Queen’s” South African campaign
ribbons, riding-breeches, boots and spurs, was thickly
covered with dust, for he had ridden into the Post
from his detachment which lay many weary miles to
the south.\par

“Well,” he remarked to the Orderly-room Sergeant
and, with significant emphasis, “what’s doin’
now?”\par

For the most part he spoke lazily in the slipshod,
drawling vernacular acquired from long residence in
the West, though when occasion arose he could revert
naturally and easily to the educated speech of
his early upbringing.\par

Dudley did not reply at first but shot a warning,
almost imperceptible, sidelong glance towards the
crowd, enjoining silence. Obeying the other’s gesture,
the detachment sergeant held his peace awhile,
and presently the two men, moving away from the
bar, seated themselves at one of the small tables
and began to talk together earnestly in low tones.\par

The clamor around them increased. Out broke
the old barrack-room chorus “Johnny Green,” which,
to the tune of the “Sailor’s Hornpipe” goes, as all
Service men are aware:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Oh, say, Johnny Green! did you ever see the Queen?\par}
{\vl Did you ever catch a Blue-jacket lovin’ a Marine?\par}
{\vl May the Rock of Gibraltar take a runnin’ jump at Malta\par}
{\vl If I ever see a nigger with a white—rum-tum.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“So {\itshape{that}},” concluded the Orderly-room Sergeant,
“is what the old man’s got you in for. Did you
make a {\itshape{good}} job of it?”\par

Benton’s pale, deeply set eyes began to glow with
their peculiar baleful light.\par

“Did I?” he echoed mirthlessly. “Well, I
should smile!... An’ I’ll make a better one still
when I go back. I’ll bash that —— till he spits
blood!”\par

He uttered the threat in an even, passionless, unraised
voice, as if it were just the merest commonplace
remark. A canteen-chant held its own with
steady insistence:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Three—men—in-a-boat, inaboat,\par}
{\vl Three—men—all-very-dry,\par}
{\vl Three—men—ridin’-a-Nannygoat,\par}
{\vl Go it you—! you’ve only one eye.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Dudley summarized briefly, in a tense undertone,
the thing that Benton need not be, regarding him
closely meanwhile with slightly anxious eyes. The
bronzed, reckless face—naturally somber when in
repose—wore a terribly ruthless expression just
then.\par

“Oh, now, forget it, Ben,” was his half joking
admonition. “What the d—l’s the use of you runnin’
amuck again an’ makin’ bad worse?... That
won’t help matters one little bit ... an’ you know
it.”\par

Ever and anon—above the roar of the Canteen,
not unlike the booming note of a bittern amid the
croaking and chirping of all the other lesser denizens
of some swamp—would rise the mighty brogue
of the genial Constable O’Hara, in a general exhortation
to:\par

“Come on! Fwet yure whustles an’ sing-g, ye
scutts, with ‘gr-reat gusto.’ For ut was:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Down, down, in swate Counthy Down,\par}
{\vl An’ th’ pore ol’ night-watchman was jus’ passin’ roun;\par}
{\vl Puts his hand to his nob to feel where he was hit—\par}
{\vl Sez he “Holy Shmoke! but Oi’m—”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The stentorian voice broke off short as the vocalist
glanced suspiciously at the empty glass at his
elbow which a minute before had been full.\par

“Here,” quoth he with some heat; “who was ut
dhrunk my beer?... Was ut you, Tabuteau?...
Eyah, now! but thot’s a Galway man’s thrick ivry
toime!... Fill ut up agin, an’ kape ut filled contihnuous,
tu, ye Fenian rapparees, d’ye hear?...
else, begob! ye can get some other shtiff tu blow the
‘Pipes av Pan’ for ye!... Come on, now!...
fwet yure whustles an’ opin yure thraps an’ sing-g,
ye half-baked omadhauns! ... Now, thin! all together!
For ut was:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Not las’ night, but th’ night behfure,\par}
{\vl Tu tohm-cahts come a-knockin’ at th’ dhure”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Ellis remained very still for some time, staring
at his companion with an absent, brooding face.\par

“Just think what it’d mean,” pursued Dudley.
“As this matter stands just now you {\itshape{have}} got a reasonable
show of getting away with it; but, I tell you
flat, old man ... a {\itshape{second}} edition of it wouldn’t
go.... You know what ‘Father’s’ like in Orderly-room.
You never know which way he’s going to
jump.... You’d be ‘broke’ for a certainty, anyway....
I don’t want to see your name in ‘G.O.’s’
{\itshape{that}} way.... Come, now! will you be a wise guy
an’ listen to your Uncle Dud?”\par

Thus he pleaded with the man who was to him
a comrade and a sincere friend.\par

“Oh, well,” responded Benton at last, wearily,
with an oath. “I guess I’ll let up on that stiff this
time. I handed him enough to last for a bit, anyway,
so that’s some satisfaction.”\par

He bit off the end of a cigar which the other
handed to him, continuing: “Oh, I’ll get away
with it all hunkadory ... been up against it before ... lots
of times.... Guess I can make the
grade—that is, if ‘Father’ {\itshape{does}} come to Orderly-room
in anything like a good temper tomorrow.”\par

Dudley, his point gained, got up and fetched two
fresh tankards of beer.\par

“Were you ever at such a howling ‘gaff’ before
in all your life?” he remarked irritably. “I’ll bet
‘Father’ can hear ’em right across the square
there.” And, as a penetrating Cockney voice then
uplifted itself, “how’s that for ‘Whitechapel’? ... listen
to ‘Tork abaht Tompkins.’”\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Too ’ard! too ’ard! An’ th’ ol’ duck said,\par}
{\vl as she waddled dahn th’ yard\par}
{\vl “Oh, I can ’atch a turkey or ’atch a chick\par}
{\vl But I’m—if I can ’atch ’arf a brick!\par}
{\vl It’s a—bit bit,—bit, bit—bit bit too ’ard!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
His audience, tickled beyond measure at the inimitable
“coster” accent which, for many years has
been so famously exploited by Mr. Albert Chevalier,
egged this performer on to further efforts. Nothing
loath, he complied, and presently the Canteen was
shaking with:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Oh, nah I’m goin’ to be a reg’lar torff,\par}
{\vl A-drivin’ in me kerridge an’ me pair,\par}
{\vl Wiv a top-’at on me ’ead, an’ fevvers in me bed\par}
{\vl An’ call meself th’ “Dook of Barney-fair.”\par}
{\vl “As-stir-th’-can” rahnd th’ collar o’ me coat,\par}
{\vl An’ a “Piccadilly winder” in me eye;\par}
{\vl Goblimey! ’ear th’ costers a-shoutin’ in yer lug:\par}
{\vl “Oh! leave us in yer will afore yer die!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
On went the singing, shouting pandemonium.
Benton’s face began to clear a little. He had not
been in the Post for a long time and the homely
racket and the beer combined, gradually had the effect
of making him forget his troubles for the time
being.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
An—d ... the elephant walked round,\par}
{\vl And the band began to play,\par}
{\vl So all you beggars that cannot sing!\par}
{\vl You’d better get out of the way!\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
A dozen or so of unprintable “limericks” followed
this announcement, contributed in rotation by
various members of the community, the “elephant”
chorus “walking around” solemnly at the conclusion
of each one. A particularly ingenious composition
just then drew a perfect storm of laughter from the
genial crowd, Ellis (sad to relate) guffawing loudly
with the rest.\par

“Sacred Billy!” he ejaculated, grinning at Dudley,
“but you’re sure a tough bunch in this old Post....
Did you hear that one?... Well!... this
is no place for a parson’s son!”\par

The Orderly-room Sergeant did not answer for a
moment, then an expression, which was a mixture
of amusement and disgust, slowly overspread his
rather refined face, and a snorting, reluctant chuckle
escaped him.\par

“Is that so?... ‘Many’s the true word spoken
in jest’!” he retorted. “Porteous—the young
devil who came across with {\itshape{that}} one, {\itshape{is}} a ‘parson’s
son,’ as it happens, my boy.... His old man’s the
Dean of some fat living or another in the South of
England.... By George, though!... I’m getting
just about fed up with that stuff, night after
night.... Tip us a stave, Ben!... start in now
and sing us something decent for a change.”\par

He got up suddenly from the table and, lifting his
tankard high as if for a toast, bawled “Order!”
A slight lull followed, taking advantage of which, he
called out:\par

“Say, you fellows!... I propose we call on
Sergeant Benton, here, for a song!”\par

A vociferous assent greeted his suggestion
immediately, and all eyes were turned on Ellis, with encouraging
shouts of: “You bet!... That’s the
talk! Come, on, Sergeant! please!... Order,
there!... Shut your traps for a bit!” For, they
all knew that when in the mood he {\itshape{could}} sing.\par

Benton did not move for a minute, then: “Doggone
you!” he remarked, with a resigned sigh to
Dudley, “{\itshape{you’ve}} let me in for this!... An’ I just
wanted to sit here quiet!”\par

He quaffed a long draught of beer and got up
though presently and, sauntering over to the piano
which O’Hara promptly vacated for him, seated
himself. A comparative quiet ensued. Even “the
Monk’s” maudlin ribaldry ceased, and that worthy
becoming interested, he slewed around on his perch
so as to hear the better, unceremoniously shoving off
his faithful pup—“Kid”—in the movement, which
sent that canine with a hasty “flop” to the floor.\par

With the hard lines of his face momentarily softened
with an expression of genial bonhomie, the
Sergeant toyed absently with the keys for a space,
thinking of something appropriate for that hilarious
company; then suddenly, a clear baritone voice of
remarkable depth and richness, rang out in the old
familiar song of “Mandalay”:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Come you back to Mandalay,\par}
{\vl Where the old Flotilla lay:\par}
{\vl Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Rangoon to Mandalay?\par}
}

{\vl On the road to Mandalay,\par}
{\vl Where the flyin’-fishes play,\par}
{\vl An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl China ’crost the Bay!”\par}
}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The last verse but one begins, as you know, with
the sort of irritable abandon typical of a soldier’s
“grouse”:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,\par}
{\vl Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;\par}
{\vl For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be—\par}
{\vl By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea;”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
He finished the rollicking old ballad amid thundering
applause and loud shouts of “’Core!
’Core!” “Give us ‘In Cellar Cool’!” “Give us
‘Father O’Flynn’!” etc. But just then the clear,
long-drawn-out, sweet notes of a trumpet-call sounded
outside on the square. The Orderly-room Sergeant
looked at his watch.\par

“Hello!... Didn’t know it was so late!” he
ejaculated. “Come on, there! Turn out!...
‘First Post’s’ just gone!”\par

And the Canteen gradually emptied as the men departed
noisily to their respective barrack-rooms.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-ii}%
\hypertarget{chapter-ii}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER II}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
A man severe he was, and stern to view;\par}
{\vl I knew him well, and every truant knew:\par}
{\vl Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace\par}
{\vl The day’s disasters in his morning face;\par}
{\vl Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,\par}
{\vl At all his jokes, and many a joke had he;\par}
{\vl Full well the busy whisper circling round,\par}
{\vl Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Goldsmith}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Captain Richard Bargrave, Superintendent
of L Division—better known by
the fond appellation of “Father”—sauntered
slowly along the narrow sidewalk leading from
his quarters to the orderly-room; the aged black-and-white
setter “Bob,” his constant companion, keeping
step behind.\par

How well many of us can recall that tall, spare,
soldierly figure, and the walk with its faint suggestion
of old-fashioned cavalry swagger, while the
whispers of “Look out! here’s Father coming now!”
sent us all scuttling about our duties. How we used
to fume and curse (behind his back) at his numerous
erratic bursts of temper and little eccentricities.
How his polished sarcasm and fluent adjectives used
to curl us up and, incidentally—excite our envy.
And yet—how we learned to trust and respect that
irascible but kindly old aristocratic face, with its
sweeping fair mustache. Aye!—\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
He passed as a Man in our critical eyes,\par}
{\vl Stern, yet kindly—simple, yet wise.\par}
{\vl Who’d upheld his rank since his service began\par}
{\vl As “An Officer, and ... a Gentleman.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Father’s a rum old beggar but, begad, he’s a
gentleman and always gives you a square deal,” was
our invariable retort to divers disparaging criticisms
from members of other divisions, less fortunate, perhaps,
in the stamp of their own particular “Officer
Commanding.”\par

Benton, who, attired in a red serge tunic—borrowed
from Dudley for the occasion—was looking
through the billiard-room window, watched his approach
with interest. When nearing the orderly-room
the old dog, seeing “the Monk’s” pup in supreme
possession of the step, jumped forward with a
threatening growl to eject the usurper of his own
customary lounge. In the scuffle that ensued they
got between “Father’s” legs and nearly upset him.\par

“Damn the dogs! Damn the dogs!” he chuckled
softly.\par

And, stepping over them carefully, with a fond,
benevolent smile, he passed on through the open
door, half humming, half whistling a hymn tune,
which was not, however, prompted by especial piety.
It was a habit of his. But to the observant sergeant
it was an omen.\par

“He {\itshape{is}} in a good temper,” he muttered with relief,
and quietly he awaited the summons that he
knew must come.\par

It came presently. “Sergeant Major!... Oh,
Sergeant Major!” came the thin, high, cultured
voice. “Has Sergeant Benton reported in yet from
Elbow Vale?”\par

The gruff official holding that rank and who was
familiar to most members of the Division as
“Mickey,” saluted and replied in the affirmative.\par

“Send him in!” came the order, and shortly Ellis
found himself standing at “attention,” facing his
seated superior.\par

“That will do, Sergeant Major!... Kindly
close the door,” and they were alone.\par

There was silence for a moment or two, during
which the O.C. rummaged amongst some letters on
his desk. He found the one he wanted and scrutinized
it carefully. “Sergeant Benton,” he began,
with a sudden snap in his tones and a quick upward
glance that strung that individual up to tense expectancy,
“I have here a letter—an {\itshape{anonymous}}
letter—accusing you-of-grossly and maliciously-assaulting
a well known and respected citizen of Elbow
Vale on the night of the twelfth instance.... Motive
unknown—all names—with the exception of
your own—omitted. Said assault of such severe
character that its recipient is still confined to bed.\par

“Now, sir!... although I generally make a
rule of treating anonymous correspondence with
the contempt it deserves—there seems something
vaguely familiar in this handwriting that inclines me
on this occasion to revoke my usual practise, and
make a few inquiries into this puzzle. I look to
you for the key. You have the reputation of being
a truthful man in this Division.... Is the statement
in this letter correct?”\par

Benton hesitated. “As far as the assault goes,
yes, sir,” he said finally.\par

“What led to this assault?”\par

The Sergeant hesitated again. “A dirty slander,
sir, connecting me with a married woman in the
town,” he said.\par

The Captain tapped with his pen and eyed Ellis
keenly. “{\itshape{Was}} it a slander?” he queried quizzically—and
then repented, for there was a look on that
reckless but gentlemanly face that dispelled all doubt—even
before the man’s answer came.\par

“Ah, well, then,” said the O.C., “that accounts
for this letter being anonymous. Now give me all
names and particulars of this affair.”\par

The Sergeant did so and the Captain’s face darkened
as he listened. “So that’s who it is, eh?” he
muttered thoughtfully. “Thought I knew that
writing again.... I remember the man—well—but
I don’t think I’ve ever met the lady.” And the
fair mustache was twirled gallantly.\par

The recital finished by the Sergeant remarking:
“I couldn’t very well—under the circumstances, sir—lay
a charge, or act otherwise than I did—without
dragging the lady’s name into this miserable affair.”\par

“You’ve no business going about assaulting people,
anyway,” retorted the old gentleman irascibly,
with one of his characteristic changes of front.
“And though it is not my intention to take any further
notice of this unsigned epistle, as I am fully
convinced you have told me the absolute truth—I
do not think it would be good policy to send a man
with your pugilistic tendencies back to this locality
again. Let’s see,” he mused aloud, “you’re a good
range man. I think I’ll transfer you to Cherry
Creek, where you will be, I hope, beyond all
temptation of getting involved again in any more of these—ah—social
misunderstandings (Ellis groaned inwardly).
Arrange for your kit to be sent in from
Elbow Vale and proceed to Cherry Creek. I will
give you a written order for Corporal Williamson
to hand over the detachment to you and to come
in to the Post. He seems to have been getting slack,
for there are a lot of stock-rustling complaints coming
in from his district lately. See if you cannot
effect a change in present conditions there.\par

“Well!” he grunted impatiently, as the Sergeant
halted irresolutely at the door, “what is it?”\par

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Benton, “but can
I keep the same horse?”\par

“Oh, I suppose—I suppose,” said the O.C. testily.
“Damme, sir!... You’ve had that cursed
horse transferred from every detachment you’ve
been stationed at!” He fussed with some papers.
“You’d better tell Williamson then, to ride in, and
the next man who goes to Elbow Vale can take {\itshape{his}}
horse. That is all, Sergeant.... Report to the
Sergeant-Major of your transfer.”\par

In the passage Ellis encountered the Sergeant-Major
and Dudley. “Banishment—physically,
socially, and morally—right back to the ‘bald-headed’
again!” he plainted dismally to their inquiring
grins. “Father intimating in his own happy
fashion that I wasn’t quite civilized enough to hold
down a Line detachment.... Cherry Creek!...
O Lord!”\par

Inside the orderly-room the Captain, meanwhile,
was slowly pacing backwards and forwards, hands
clasped behind back. Through his teeth he softly
hissed one of his eternal hymn tunes, which he suddenly
broke off short to ejaculate with a low-toned,
jerky abruptness to himself—“D—n the man!—d—n
the man! Don’t blame him! Couldn’t tell
him so, though! Thought I knew that writing!
D—d cad, that fellow Cooper!... Knew him
years ago! D—d rascal! Glad Benton thrashed
him! Done the same myself!—younger days!”\par

He resumed his interrupted hymn.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-iii}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iii}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER III}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Therefore, Christian men be sure,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Wealth or rank possessing,\par}
}

{\vl Ye who now will bless the poor,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Shall yourselves find blessing.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl —{\scshape{Good King Wenceslas}}. ({\itshape{Old Carol}})\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Three weeks elapsed and Benton again
showed up in the Post with the first fruits
of his new scene of operations—two prisoners
committed for trial on a charge of cattle stealing.\par

His had been a weary watch for many nights,
but he had caught his men at last, slaughtering stolen
beef cattle in an old deserted corral at three o’clock
in the morning. He looked worn out and had a
black eye, received in the rough-and-tumble arrest
that had followed.\par

The Captain was secretly pleased, but to Ellis he
evinced little sign of his satisfaction. “Praise men
up—spoil ’em! Let ’em think it’s their ordinary
course of duty,” was his customary maxim.\par

“Good man, that Benton,” he muttered to himself
during one of his office pacings. “He’ll
straighten that Cherry Creek district out before
long.”\par

He gave the Sergeant three days’ rest, though,
and spoke about transferring him a man if required,
which offer Ellis declined, however. With his taciturn
and secretive nature he preferred to follow
alone, and in various disguises, the tortuous windings
of stock cases, calmly relying on his own great
strength, cunning, and ability with gun and fist, to
effect any arrest.\par

The four-fifteen West-bound carried him as a passenger
back to Sabbano, his nearest railway depot,
the detachment being on the prairies forty miles
away from the line. It was raining, and Ellis felt
miserable as he gazed through the window and contemplated
the wet, cheerless ride he would have in
the morning.\par

He vaguely thought of “Johnny” waiting for
him in Sergeant Churchill’s stable at Sabbano. Was
he being properly looked after? Churchill was a
“booze artist,” d—n him, and like as not he’d neglect
him, like he did his own horse.\par

He was aroused from his gloomy abstraction by
something tugging at his riding-crop and, turning his
eyes he beheld a little curly-headed tot leaning over
the back of the seat ahead of him. She was perhaps
about three years old, and her blue eyes were sparkling
with determination as she pulled at the leather
thong with all her baby strength, in a desperate effort
to possess herself of the desired treasure.\par

Benton’s moody face immediately softened with
a friendly grin. He loved children and they instinctively
came to him without fear.\par

“Hello, Sis,” he said. “You want it?” and he
surrendered the coveted plaything, which she immediately
started to flourish with great glee. The
mother, a thin, shabbily dressed, careworn-looking
young woman about thirty, looked on with a loving
smile that glorified her poor, pinched face.\par

“Oh, Nellie, Nellie,” she said reprovingly; “you
mustn’t—you’ll hit somebody” and she turned to
Benton, saying, “I hope my little girl isn’t worrying
you?”\par

“Not a bit—not a bit,” he returned cheerily.
“Kids are welcome to tease me any old time.”\par

Scrambling down from her perch, the little one
gazed at his uniform with lively interest and tentatively
tapped his boots and the rowels of his spurs
with the crop. “Toldier,” she lisped, and without
more ado she climbed up beside him on the seat and,
putting her little arms around his neck, gave him a
genuine loving hug and kiss which fairly took him
by storm and caused broad laughs of amusement to
come from those sitting near.\par

The touch of those baby lips awoke a strange
longing in the heart of the lonely man, and a dreamy,
far-away look momentarily softened his hard face.
To have a comfortable home to come back to every
night, and not to be chased around here, there, and
everywhere at the whims of the powers that be.
To be happily married to a loving girl-wife, and
have kiddies that would climb all over you, and run
after you, and where you could lie on the sands, in
the sun, by the sea, somewhere, and watch ’em playing—\par

A sudden exclamation from the mother awoke him
sharply from his reverie.\par

“What’s the matter?” he asked. She seemed
terribly agitated. “Oh!” she said; “I’ve lost my
hand-bag, and my ticket was in it and some money!”\par

“Were you sitting here all the time since you got
on the train?” he inquired.\par

“No,” she answered; “I was on that seat at the
far end when I first came in this coach.”\par

He got up and, walking down the aisle, made a
thorough search of the place that she indicated, but
his efforts were fruitless. It was a little brown
Morocco-leather bag, she informed him, with her
name, “Elizabeth Wilson,” on it, under a celluloid
panel.\par

“Who was sitting by you?” he asked. “D’you
think you could recognize the person again?”\par

She shook her head despondently. “Oh, I don’t
remember,” she wailed. “My girlie was crying,
and in trying to quiet her I guess I didn’t notice anybody
in particular.”\par

“How much money was in your bag?” he asked.\par

“Twenty-five dollars,” she said brokenly. “I
am going to Vancouver to look for a position, and
it’s all I have in the world. Oh, what shall we do,
my baby and I?”\par

Ellis eyed the forlorn face a moment or two in
silent commiseration; then, seeking out the conductor,
whom he knew well, explained the situation.\par

“Yes, I mind ’em getting on at Calgary,” said
that official; “and she had a ticket through to Vancouver,
all right.”\par

“Say, Bob,” the Sergeant persuaded, “that bag’s
been pinched off her without a doubt; but as she’s
no suspicion of anybody I can’t very well search every
one on the bloomin’ train, and I’m getting off in a
minute at Sabbano—be a good fellow and pass her
on to Vancouver.... She’s dead up against it.”\par

The kind-hearted conductor agreed, and with an
easier mind Ellis went back to the woman and told
her.\par

The train began to slow down—“Sabbano—Sabbano!”
called out the brakeman, passing through
the coaches. The Sergeant reached into his pocket
and, drawing out a roll of bills, pressed them into
her hand.\par

“There,” he said gently. “That’ll keep you going
in Vancouver for a time, and I hope you’ll soon
strike something.”\par

Speechless with gratitude at the man’s impulsive
generosity, she gazed at him dumbly, with dim eyes.
Her mouth worked but somehow the words would
not come. She choked, and hiding her face in her
hands, sank down on the seat, the poor, thin shoulders
under the cheap blouse shaking with her convulsive
sobbing.\par

The child, still clutching the crop, which Ellis had
not the heart to retrieve, set up a shrill wail in sympathy
and clung to his leg. More moved than he
cared to show, but utterly indifferent to the slightly
ludicrous side of the situation, the policeman strove
to quiet her.\par

“Oh, come now, Sis,” he pleaded coaxingly.
“Mustn’t cry.... Let go of me for a minute....
I’m coming back!... Here,” and producing a pen-knife,
he sliced off one of the lower buttons of his
pea-jacket.... “There, give me a kiss.”\par

The whimpers slowly ceased, and her little face
brightened as she clutched the shining treasure and,
drawing his face down to hers, she pressed her little
rosebud of a mouth to his.\par

Disengaging the tiny arms gently, with a whispered
“Good-by,” he ran to the end of the coach and
dropped off as the train moved out.\par

It was only characteristic of the man’s strange,
impulsive, complex nature that he should have done
this thing, but how much money was there in that
roll of bills? Ellis himself, offhand, could hardly
have told you.\par

As in the rain he wended his way along the
wet platform, the station agent came up to him,
“Here’s the key of the detachment, Sergeant,” he
said; “Churchill’s gone West on that train to Parson’s
Lake. He’s coming back on Number Two
in the morning and he asked me to give it to you—didn’t
you see him?”\par

“No,” said Ellis shortly. “I wasn’t able to get
off till it was on the move.... Guess Churchill got
on another coach.”\par

Not particularly sorry at the other’s absence, he
walked on to the end of the little town where the
detachment was situated. The place smelled musty
and stale as he entered. Papers, old letters, and
torn novels lay littered about the local sergeant’s
desk. The bed was not made up and various items
of kit were strewn around. Everything seemed
covered with a thick accumulation of dust.\par

“Nasty, lazy, slovenly devil,” he growled.
“Lord, what a pig-pen! Inspector Purvis’ll happen
along down here, unexpected, one of these days.
{\itshape{Then}} there’ll be something doing.”\par

He passed on through the back door to the stable,
where a joyous whinny from “Johnny” greeted
him. He led the horse out along with the
Sergeant’s and watered them, their greedy thirst drawing
a savage curse from him. “Takes d—d good
care never to go dry himself,” he muttered.\par

After grooming Johnny down he went into the
kitchen and rummaged around until he found two
or three pieces of lump sugar, at the sight of which
the horse began to nicker softly and raised its nigh
forefoot, bending the limb back for a piece to be inserted
into the fetlock-joint, where it was promptly
licked out.\par

He was a superb, powerfully-built black, with
white hind fetlocks, standing fully sixteen hands, well
ribbed up, with the short back, strong, flat-boned
legs, and good, sloping shoulders of the ideal saddle-horse.
Benton had had him for over three years
and was passionately attached to the animal.\par

He petted Johnny awhile then, fixing both horses
up for the night, he went down to the only restaurant
the little town boasted—a Chinese establishment—and
got some supper. This despatched, he retraced
his steps and mooned around the dirty detachment,
where he tried to read; but his thoughts,
ever and anon, kept reverting to the little cherubic
face of the child on the train, with her hollow-cheeked
mother, and he found himself vaguely wondering
how far away they were by now.\par

He looked at his watch. It was about twenty
minutes to ten and, feeling inclined for a drink, he
strolled down town again and, entering the bar of
the Golden West Hotel, ordered a glass of beer.\par

There were about half a dozen men in the bar who,
after gazing awhile at his uniformed figure and
seeing he was not the convivial Churchill, eyed him
with sullen distrust. His gaze flickered over them
casually, but knowing nobody there but the bartender,
he kept aloof.\par

Suddenly, amid the babel of talk, a drunken, nasal
voice made itself heard:\par

“Oh, you Harry! Say, wha’s dat dere wit de
yaller laigs?”\par

Glancing sharply towards the end of the bar, he
became aware of two flashily dressed, undesirable-looking
individuals of the type that usually makes
an easy living preying upon the unfortunate denizens
of the underworld, sizing him up.\par

The one accosted as “Harry,” a big, heavily-built
man about thirty, with a sneer on his evilly
handsome, sinister face, answered slowly:\par

“Oh, {\itshape{him}}. I guess he must be one of them
Mounted Police ginks you hear tell of over our side
of the Line. Kind of ‘prairie cop,’” he added contemptuously,
and spat.\par

The epithet of “cop” was one held in peculiar
detestation by members of the Force and, coupled
with the fellow’s offensive manner, became a gratuitous
insult that was almost more than the Sergeant
could stand, for a slight titter followed, and
all the faces—with the exception of the bartender’s-wore
a sardonic grin at the policeman’s discomfiture.\par

Choking with silent fury, he glowered warily with
swift calculation around him.\par

“No, it wouldn’t do,” he reflected. There
would be too many witnesses, like in that last business
at Elbow Vale; and fearful of his own ungovernable
temper, lest any ensuing altercation should
precipitate the inevitable right then and there, he
held his peace.\par

Lowering his voice, his elbows on the bar, he spoke
quietly to the bartender:\par

“Who’s them two fellers at the end there, Pete—strangers?”\par

“Yes. I dunno who they are,” said that worthy
in the same low tone, busy polishing glasses the
while. “They blew in off’n the West-bound. Jest
stiffs, I guess, Sergeant. They was laughin’ fit to
split ’bout somethin’ when they first come in.”\par

Benton finished his beer and, turning, pushed
through the swing door, a vindictive purpose seething
in his mind. Crossing over to the dark side of
the street, he patiently waited.\par

“I’ll ‘vag’ the two of them,” he muttered savagely.\par

The rain had ceased and a few stars began to appear.
It was nearly closing time and his watch was
of short duration.\par

At the appointed time, with much bad language
and noisy argument, the bar slowly emptied, the
last to leave being “Harry” and his companion;
the latter quarrelsomely drunk, and expostulating
with the bartender, who was escorting him to the
door.\par

“Gimme another drink!” he demanded.\par

“No chance,” came the answer. “You’ve got
enough below. Beat it!”\par

The speech was accompanied with a sudden shove,
and the door banged to.\par

Still the Sergeant waited.\par

“Aw, come on, yer crazy mutt!” he heard the
soberer voice of Harry say, and saw him walk slowly
on down the street, his bibulous comrade unsteadily
following.\par

Keeping in the shade, Ellis noiselessly paralleled
their direction, until they were well beyond the last
false-fronted store and amongst some vacant lots,
not far from the isolated detachment. He stopped
for a moment and listened intently. Except for the
tipsy arguing of Harry’s companion, who was still
in the rear, all was quiet.\par

“Well, you gimme half, anyway,” he heard him
keep chanting.\par

Now was his chance. With two of them, he knew
he must act quickly, and “acting quickly” was only
a mild expression for {\itshape{some}} of the Sergeant’s little
methods in his business which, though invariably attended
with excellent results, did not, sad to relate,
always strictly conform to the rules laid down in that
worthy little Manual issued to all members of the
Force for their regimental and legal guidance.\par

With fell intention, he crossed over swiftly to the
drunk. It was no time for niceties in the manner
of arrest, for the man might arouse the neighborhood,
and the Sergeant had reasons for not being
particularly desirous of an audience just then.\par

With the deadly calculation of an ex-pugilist, he
carefully judged his distance in the dim light and
swung a single terrific right uppercut to the point of
the chin. The head snapped back and, with a choking
gasp, the man fell heavily to the ground in an
inert heap.\par

At the smack and the thud of the falling body,
Harry halted in the dark ahead.\par

“What’s up?” he growled. “Are yer all in?”\par

Ellis shouldered roughly into him and, with an
oath, the man reeled back.\par

“Why, what’s this?” he blustered and, as the
shadowy outline of Benton’s Stetson hat in the uncertain
light penetrated his vision, “why, it’s the
‘{\itshape{cop}}’!”\par

“Yes,” said the Sergeant through his set teeth
and, with suppressed fury, “I’ve got you now where
I want you! I’ll give you call me ‘{\itshape{cop}},’ you
G—d—d, dirty pimp!” and he smashed in a vicious
left drive, flush on Harry’s nose.\par

It was a staggering blow, and the blood squirted,
but somehow the man kept his feet and threw himself
into a fighting posture, like one accustomed to
using his hands.\par

He was by far the heavier of the two, but his
movements were slow and muscle-bound and the
tigerishly vicious attack of the Sergeant, with all its
concentrated hate and science behind it, paralyzed
him. He tried to cover up, but those terrible
punches with the giver’s vindictive “Oof—oof,”
accompanying each blow, seemed to reach his body
and face at will.\par

It was all over inside of three minutes. Presently,
ducking a savage swing from his weightier
opponent, Ellis feinted for the jaw then, like lightning,
drove two heavy, telling punches to that region
termed in pugilistic parlance the “solar plexus.”
The man, with a gasp, doubled up and sank down.\par

Breathing heavily after the exertion, Benton
kneeled on him and, reaching to his hip pocket,
dragged forth his handcuffs and snapped them on
Harry’s wrists; then, slowly rising to his feet, he
waited.\par

It was still quiet all round, and he felt a fierce
exultation at accomplishing his purpose without undue
disturbance. Stepping over to his first victim,
he made a quick examination, and satisfied himself
that the man was only knocked out. He would
come to after a time, he decided, and was probably
more drunk than hurt. {\itshape{Harry}} was the one who had
incurred his animosity the most.\par

Presently that individual, with a groaning curse,
sat up and was violently sick. Then for the first
time he became conscious of his manacled wrists and
began to raise his voice in filthy expressions at Ellis.\par

“Quit that talk,” said the Sergeant, in a tense,
fierce undertone. “I don’t want any bother and
have you waking everybody up at this time o’ night,
I’m arresting both you fellers for vagrancy. Now,
are you coming quiet or not?”\par

A torrent of blasphemy greeted the suggestion.\par

“Not you nor any other —— cop kin take me,”
he foamed from the ground; then, suddenly kicking
out, he caught Benton a nasty jar on the shin-bone.\par

The pain acted as the last straw to the exasperated
Sergeant. With an oath, he drew from his pocket
a small steel article known in police circles as a
“come-along” and, clipping it on one of his prisoner’s
wrists, he twisted viciously. The exquisite
torture drew a shriek from the wretched man.\par

“Shut up,” whispered Ellis savagely. “If you
start hollerin’ again and still refuse to walk I’ll”—and
he gave another slight twist to the wrist—“I’ll
break your arm! Now will you come, eh?”\par

“Oh, o-o-h. No, no; oh, don’t. Yes, yes, I’ll
come,” came the agonized response.\par

“So,” said the Sergeant quietly, as he jerked the
man to his feet. “I thought you would. Now
don’t you start monkeyin’ no more. Step out!”
And with his hand on the other’s collar, he guided
him towards the detachment, which was only a short
distance away.\par

On arriving there he unlocked the door and,
ushering his captive into the office, at the back of
which were two cells, he leisurely removed the handcuffs
and proceeded to search him. What with
blood, bruises, and dirt, the man’s face was a sight,
and Benton, his anger now somewhat assuaged, felt
slightly uneasy as he reflected on the prisoner’s appearance
at the morrow’s court.\par

“Put your arms up!” he ordered, and mechanically
dived into the coat pockets. His right hand
encountered something square and soft, and he drew
it out.\par

At the sight of the object his eyes dilated strangely.
Well, well; it was only a woman’s little hand-bag
with a name printed on it under a celluloid panel—\par

He read it at a quick glance and, ceasing his investigations,
he grew curiously still. The prisoner,
raising his head, met the Sergeant’s gaze. He
shrank back, appalled, and a cry of fear burst from
his mashed lips, for it seemed to him as if the devil
himself were looking out of Benton’s ruthless eyes.
With an indescribable bitterness of tone, the policeman
suddenly spoke:\par

“You skunk,” he said; “you dirty, sneaking
coyote. It was {\itshape{you}}, then, that robbed that poor
thing with the little kiddie on the West-bound?”\par

He stopped and choked with his rage. Presently
he burst out again: “Lord, Lord! but I’m glad I
bashed you up like I did, and but for a probable
charge of manslaughter I’d manhandle you properly.
So {\itshape{that’s}} what you and your pal were laughin’ about
when you went in to that bar? When you come to
die—which event, may it please God to grant
quickly—I hope that’ll be the very, very last thing
in your memory—that you once robbed a helpless
woman and her kid.”\par

He remained silent after this for a space, for a
sudden disquieting thought had occurred to him.\par

“See here; look,” he began again. “If I put
this charge of theft against you, it’ll mean having
to locate and drag that woman back here all those
weary miles, to identify her property and prove up
the case against you.”\par

At his words a gleam of hope lit up the prisoner’s
disfigured face.\par

“For God’s sake, policeman,” he mumbled out of
his twisted mouth, “give us a chanct—just this
once.”\par

The Sergeant pondered awhile. It was the
easiest way out for himself, {\itshape{and}} for the woman, he
reflected. Churchill was away and nobody would
know anything about this business. He tipped the
contents of the bag out. A bunch of keys, a woman’s
handkerchief, some smelling-salts, a ticket to
Vancouver, and various small odds and ends.\par

“Where’s that money?” he snapped out. “Here—let’s
go through you!”\par

His search revealed a dollar’s worth of silver.\par

“Dig up the rest of that twenty-five dollars!” he
demanded.\par

Slowly the other took off one of his boots, and
from it produced two ten-dollar bills.\par

“We had some dough of our own when we come
on the train,” he volunteered to Ellis’s silent look of
interrogation, “but we got inter a poker game with
some fellers and lost out, so we broke into the five-spot
fer some supper and booze.”\par

Benton considered a bit longer, then suddenly
made up his mind and opened the door.\par

“{\itshape{Voertsek, du verdomde schelm!}}”%
\footnotemark[1]\footnotetext[1]{A glossary of South African, and other words will be found at the end.
} he said
sharply, jerking his head towards the aperture.\par

The man stared at him stupidly for a moment.
“I don’t savvy you,” he muttered.\par

“Beat it, you d—d crook! D’you savvy {\itshape{that}}?”
came the policeman’s harsh response. “Out of
town by the first train that comes in—East or West—and
take your pal with you.”\par

“We ain’t got the price,” was the somewhat aggrieved
answer.\par

“Then take a ’tie pass,’ d—n you,” said the Sergeant
grimly. “And mind—if I catch either of
you fellers around this burg tomorrow morning, I’ll
shove you both in the calaboose {\itshape{and}} put the boots to
you as {\itshape{well}} as this charge. Now beat it, and go
and pick up your pal!”\par

Harry waited for no further invitation, but vanished
into the night.\par

Wearily Ellis gathered up the contents of the bag
and, putting in the money along, closed it. He felt
very tired and, lighting a cigarette, he sat down and
tried to think.\par

“Guess I can get it through to her,” he muttered.
“I’ll send a wire now that’ll catch her on the train
somewhere, and she can send me her address.”\par

And going to the telephone he rang up the night-operator
at the depot.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-iv}%
\hypertarget{chapter-iv}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER IV}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
And if you’re wishful, O maiden kind,\par}
{\vl To know concerning me;\par}
{\vl A far-flung sentinel am I\par}
{\vl Of the R. N. W. M. P.\par}
{\vl Renouncing women, as though wearing a cowl—\par}
{\vl I live for a monthly wage\par}
{\vl ’Way out on the bald, green-brown prairie,\par}
{\vl That stretches as far as the eye can see;\par}
{\vl Where the lone gray wolf and the coyote howl,\par}
{\vl And the badger digs in the sage.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Prairie Detachment}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The day broke fine and clear. The hot sun
quickly drying up the little puddles and
sticky mud resulting from the recent downpour.
Benton, rising early, watered and fed the
horses. These duties despatched, and his own breakfast
at the hotel accounted for, he leisurely proceeded
to ascertain if the two participants in his
previous night’s adventure had left town.\par

A few guarded inquiries and a brief, but thorough,
search satisfied him on this point; so saddling up
Johnny, and tying on his slicker, he rode slowly down
to the depot to await the in-coming East-bound train
prior to his departure for his lonely detachment.\par

The train arrived, and on it, Churchill. The local
sergeant was a man about Ellis’s own age, well
set up and passable enough in appearance, but with
the florid, blotchy complexion, weak mouth, and uncertain
gaze of the habitual drinker. A few lucky
arrests in which chance—more than pluck or ability
had figured, coupled with a certain cleverness in
avoiding trouble—had somehow enabled him to retain
his stripes and the sleepy little Line detachment.
That there was no love lost between them was very
evident; Benton, on his side, making little effort to
disguise the contempt he felt for the other.\par

It was a long-standing hostility, dating back many
years when, as recruits together in the Post, a trivial
quarrel originating first in the Canteen, had terminated
finally in the corral at the back of the regimental
stables—with disastrous results to Churchill—who,
ever since this event, had not been man
enough to forget, forgive, or attempt to get even.\par

A few cold civilities were exchanged, and Ellis
remarking, “Here’s the key of your dive,” chucked
him over that article; then with a careless “So long,”
turned his horse and edged up nearer to the platform
to speak to the station agent.\par

On account of a small wash-out that had happened
to the track some few miles east, the train was
held up for a short time, and the platform was
crowded with passengers who were strolling up and
down, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs
after their long confinement.\par

Benton, less impatient than Johnny, who was pawing,
eager to be off, was watching them absently,
when he suddenly became aware of his being, apparently,
an object of interest to somebody standing
near and, turning his head slightly, he beheld a tall,
magnificently-built, dark girl, eyeing him and Johnny
with eager curiosity and admiration.\par

And in very truth, handsome, saturnine-faced Ellis
Benton, and the big, black, pawing horse that he
bestrode with the long-stirruped, loose-seated, easy,
careless grace of an habitué of the range, were both
fitting representatives of the great Force which they
served.\par

Wistful and sweet, the girl stood there and gazed
awhile at man and horse and presently she slowly
came forward and, with a kind, impulsive friendliness
that immediately thawed the Sergeant’s habitual
reserve, said:\par

“I’m sure you must be thinking me awfully rude—staring
at you so long; but I was looking at your
beautiful horse and wondering whether you were a
policeman or a soldier or what.”\par

And, smiling whimsically down into the girl’s
eager upturned face, the Sergeant made answer:\par

“Young lady,” with a droll little vainglorious
gesture which amused her intensely, “behold in me
one of those important officials who hold the High
Justice, the Middle and the Low in these parts ...
a sergeant of the Mounted Police!” Then suddenly
bitter remembrance set his pale, steady eyes
agleam with their peculiar ruthless light and his
strong white teeth gritted, as he added, “Otherwise,
just a ‘prairie cop.’”\par

She stroked and patted Johnny who, scenting a
new friend, nickered softly, tucked up his nigh fetlock
in a beseeching manner, and nibbled at her for
sugar.\par

“Isn’t he just a beauty!” she murmured. “My,
but I’d be a proud girl if I had a horse like him to
ride. Do you ever?— What is it, Auntie?” she
said, breaking off short as a stout, elderly lady with
a petulant frown on her forbidding face, came bustling
up.\par

“Gracious, Mary!” snapped the aunt, very much
out of breath, “I’ve been looking everywhere for
you,” and angrily drawing the unwilling girl aside,
Ellis heard her say, “You shouldn’t go talking to
strange men in that way, child ... really, Mary,
I’m surprised at you!”\par

“But, Auntie,” came that young lady’s slightly indignant
answer, “I was only asking him about his
horse, and he speaks quite like a gentleman.”\par

The elder woman’s response was partially inaudible
to the Sergeant, but a fragment of it—“Only
a policeman!” smote his ears unpleasantly with its
pitiful snobbishness.\par

As they moved away, though, he was repaid for
that lady’s uncharitable remark, as the girl, taking
advantage of “Auntie’s” ample back being turned,
faced round and bowed to him with a kindly smile,
an unspoken “Good-by” manifested in the gesture
which he at once returned with a courtly grace, saluting
gravely.\par

Mechanically, his eyes followed the two ladies until
they became lost in the crowd, and then, with a
muttered oath, he wheeled Johnny around and rode
slowly out of the town.\par

“What a fine-looking girl that was,” he reflected.
“Some rich American’s daughter, no doubt, en route
from Banff or elsewhere in the mountain summer
resorts West, after having a good time.” {\itshape{Why}}
shouldn’t she talk to him? And mixed with his
brooding thoughts came the consciousness of his {\itshape{own}}
joyless, danger-fraught life, with the bitter,
hopeless, lonely feeling that the single man past thirty
knows so well, whose occupation, and more especially—means—place
him without the pale of matrimony.\par

With the exception of those holding responsible
staff appointments, marriage was not particularly encouraged
amongst the rank and file of the Force, for
many reasons. Lack of suitable quarters was partially
the cause of this policy; also (and not the
least) the indisputable fact that in the majority of
cases where men are engaged in hazardous pursuits
the average single man is freer, and—as is only natural—willing
to run far greater personal risk in
the execution of his duty than a married man.\par

True, many of the non-coms, and even “straight-duty
bucks,” {\itshape{were}} Benedicts, for various reasons best
known to themselves. But Ellis, forever mindful
of the old fable of “The fox who lost his tail in a
trap,” only laughed aside cynically all their feeble,
joking admonitions to him to join their ranks and,
taking “Punch’s” advice instead, “didn’t.”\par

Why had that cursed old frump come butting in?
“Only a policeman!” ... And with an angry
Ellis unconsciously rammed the spurs into poor, unoffending
Johnny, who immediately broke in his gait
with a sidelong jump which, in its suddenness, nearly
unseated him.\par

The spasmodic jerk of the horse brought Benton
to himself again, and with a “There, there, Johnny—you
old fool—I didn’t mean to rake you,” he
patted and eased that startled animal down to his
customary pace.\par

“She made a lot of you, didn’t she, Johnny?
And you know you liked it!”\par

He rambled on, for latterly—in the utter loneliness
of his long patrols—the Sergeant had contracted
the strange habit of talking aloud to his
horse, and Johnny’s sensitive ears would prick backwards
and forwards as if he thoroughly comprehended
what was being said to him.\par

Traveling easily, and in no particular hurry, Benton
made “Marshall’s” for dinner, and towards evening
drew in sight of Cherry Creek district, with
its few scattered ranches and mixed farms.\par

When about half a mile from his detachment,
some objects strewn on the trail ahead attracted his
attention which, on drawing near, took the form of
pieces of paper, some spilt chicken-feed and flour,
bits of board, and the tail-board of a wagon; also,
had he but noticed it, a lot of scattered nails.\par

With a grim chuckle he passed on. “Looks like
somebody’s had a smash-up,” he muttered. Suddenly
he pulled Johnny up sharply, for the latter had
begun to limp perceptibly on the off-forefoot and, on
examination, Ellis found a nail deeply embedded at
the side of the frog. He tried to pry it out with his
fingers and a knife, but it was in up to the head and
his attempts were useless.\par

“No help for it, Johnny,” he said. “You’ll have
to stick it till we get home,” and with a disgusted
malediction at the ill-luck, he wended his way slowly
ahead on foot, Johnny following on three legs like
a lame dog.\par

On arrival at their destination the nail was eventually
extracted with the aid of pincers, and after
bathing and syringing the bleeding prod with hot
water and peroxide of hydrogen, the horse moved
easier; but Ellis was well aware that several days,
perhaps a week, would elapse before it would be safe
to use him. And with the knowledge of this fact
oppressing him came also the realization that, should
anything turn up in the meantime, he would be under
the necessity of borrowing a horse from some one.\par

Stationed in a new district, he was naturally chary
of placing himself under obligation to anybody; so,
cogitating over his predicament, he watered, fed, and
groomed Johnny and, after fixing up the wounded
foot in a hot poultice for the night, he retired into his
own domain to cook some supper.\par

The detachment, originally a ranch dwelling, was
a square, solid-looking, log-built structure, with a
commodious stable in the rear, and a corral and a
fenced-in pasture. A huge, bleached buffalo skull,
with its stubby black horns—a relic of bygone
years—frowned down from over the main entrance,
and a faded, weather-flapped Union Jack hung from
a short flag-staff at one pinnacle of the roof. With
whitewashed stones, the letters R.N.W.M.P. were
formed in the earth banking on the front side of
the dwelling. The interior bespoke its occupant’s
tidiness and orderly habits.\par

One entered directly into a moderate-sized room
that was severe in its sparsely furnished simplicity.
A long, bench-like table, covered with a tartan police
rug, on which were some neatly piled blank legal
forms, and books, a Bible, and writing materials.
A plain oak arm-chair for the said table, and several
smaller ones, with a couple of form-seats, were
ranged around the walls, and immediately facing
the magisterial bench a strongly-built cell with a
barred door and aperture was partitioned off. A
few enlarged framed photographs of old-time police
and legal celebrities and a green baize-covered
board decorated with an assortment of brightly burnished
leg-irons and handcuffs completed the adornment
of the chamber. Nevertheless, in spite of the
room’s simple aspect, one instinctively guessed that
here, as occasion occurred, the solemnity of the Law
was upheld with no less a dignity than in the highest
court of justice.\par

A door at one side of the cell opened into a larger
apartment, evidently used as a combined living and
bedroom which, with its strange collection of interesting
objects, was typically significant of its owner’s
tastes and personality. A comfortable, bachelor-like
abode this, yet slightly regimental withal too;
for the blankets at the head of the cot were strapped
into the regulation neat roll with the sheets in the
center, whilst above, on a small shelf, were the folded
spare uniform and Stetson hat, on either side of
which stood a pair of high, brown Strathcona riding-boots
with jack spurs attached. On pegs underneath
hung the “Sam Browne” belt and holster containing
the heavy “Colt’s .45” Service revolver, together
with a bridle, a head-rope, and a slicker.
Two or three easy chairs were scattered around and
some tanned calf-skin mats covered the floor. A
table stood in the center littered with periodicals and
other reading matter, and a plain slung bookshelf
held a well-worn selection of classical and modern
works of fiction. The walls were relieved with
varrious photographs, clever pen-and-ink sketches, and
unframed copies of famous pictures, among which
were several examples of Charles Russell’s and
Frederick Remington’s works of art. A tent-pegging
lance, standing in a corner, supported a gaudy,
feathered Indian headdress on its point, while behind
the door hung a set of boxing gloves.\par

Five years of Benton’s wandering life having been
spent on the veldt—two of them passed in the
Chartered Company’s service—accounted for the
curious South African trophies that were noticeable
here and there. A stuffed {\itshape{meerkat}} crouched half
raised, like a gigantic gopher, and that ugly bald-headed
vulture, known in the {\itshape{Taal}} as an {\itshape{aasvogel}},
looked down with unpitying eyes. Two magnificent
leopard skin karosses were flung over the armchairs,
and a Zulu oxhide war shield was suspended
in an angle of the walls, flanked crosswise with its
companion weapons—a heavy knob-kerrie and a
short, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai, whilst above
hung those one-time sinister symbols of authority
north of the Vaal—a rhinoceros-hide {\itshape{sjambok}}, a
Mauser rifle, and a captured “{\itshape{Vierkleur}}” flag. Adjoining
this room were the kitchen and a small compartment
used as a storehouse.\par

His supper finished, and the daily diary, mileage
report, and “monthly returns” made out, the Sergeant
lit a pipe and lay back in one of the armchairs,
lazily scanning the various criminal photographs
in the last copy of {\itshape{The Detective}} he had
brought with him from the Post, until drowsiness
overcoming him, the paper fluttered to the floor and
his head sank back against the leopard skin. The
rays of the lamp shone full on the strong, moody
face, with the pipe still held clenched between the
teeth, and the athletic frame which, even in repose,
contrived somehow to convey in its posture an impression
of instinctive, feline readiness for sudden
action.\par

Indeed, the man’s whole appearance seemed to
fittingly bear out the many strange stories that were
current of his strenuous and eventful past.\par

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\label{chapter-v}%
\hypertarget{chapter-v}{}%
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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER V}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl {\noindent}
The elder was quelled,\par}
{\vl But the younger rebelled;\par}
}

{\vl So he spread out his wings and fled over the sea.\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Said the jackdaws and crows,\par}
{\vl “He’ll be hanged I suppose,\par}
}

{\vl But what in the deuce does that matter to we?”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Henry Kingsley}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The second son of an English cavalry officer
holding a high rank, young Benton’s life
up to the age of fifteen—with the exception
of a few escapades at Shrewsbury—which were due
more to an ingrained hardihood than viciousness,
had passed very much the same as that of any other
well-bred public school boy.\par

The death of his mother, however, and the later
advent of a step-parent, wrought a disastrous change
in the boy’s hitherto happy enough life. His stepmother’s
intolerance with his high spirits led to
many family quarrels and finally had the effect of
provoking a naturally wayward temper to open rebellion
and a definite course of action.\par

Her studied, unremitting hostility towards the boy
succeeded in arousing in him a bitter, lasting hatred
for her which, in its intensity and fixity of purpose,
was positively awesome and well-nigh incredible in
one of his years.\par

Scorning to follow his elder brother’s example in
meekly submitting to the new regime he turned, in
his misery and distress, to an old friend of his dead
mother’s, one—Major Carlton—his ofttime confidant
and mediator in many boyish troubles.\par

Borrowing fifty pounds from the latter, and taking
little else save his mother’s photograph and a
few clothes, with a farewell to none except his debtor,
he turned his back on that beautiful old Devonshire
home forever.\par

A youthful imagination inspired, perhaps, by prolific
and intelligent reading, inexplicably directed his
course to the United States; so, booking his passage
at Liverpool, he found himself later, depleted in
money—but not in pluck or resolution—a waif
in that vast assemblage of mixed peoples. One letter—the
last that he was ever to write home—he
despatched to his father.\par

Sir John Benton’s fierce, lined face softened for
an instant as he perused his son’s missive, but it grew
darker and drearier than ever before he had read it
through. The letter said no word of return, and he
guessed rightly it was meant for an absolutely final
farewell.\par

A strict disciplinarian in his own household, its
contents he never divulged to the rest of the family;
and if he felt the loss of the manly, headstrong boy,
he never showed it hereafter by word or deed. The
stern old soldier recognized in those lines—penned
with a certain boyish courtesy—only too well the
inflexible characteristics that matched, to the full, his
own.\par

Various vicissitudes eventually landed young Benton
in a great cattle-raising district of Montana,
where he obtained a job as a chore boy on a big
ranch, known as the “Circle H.” A fearless
upbringing amongst horses stood him now in good
stead, and this, combined with a willing capacity for
work, ultimately won for him the approval of “Big
Jim Parsons,” the silent, laconic ranch foreman, who
befriended the lonely, and now taciturn, youngster.\par

It is not to be supposed that he gained this patronage
any too easily. Although babbling little concerning
his history, his English speech and apparent
breeding were sufficient at the start to make him
the butt of many doubtful pleasantries from the
devil-may-care cow-punchers whose bunkhouse victim
he was. No sulker, he could assimilate the most
of it in good part; but there were limitations to such
“joshing,” as many of his tormentors found out
when the savage, uncontrollable Benton temper
blazed forth with such appalling venom of fist and
tongue that, immature youth though he was, caused
the bleeding and cursing authors of the disturbance
to retreat aghast at the devil they had raised. The
old Mosaic law—“An eye for an eye”—with its
grim suggestion of unforgiving finality, always
found in Ellis an ardent and exacting adherent.\par

At such scenes Big Jim would generally appear on
the field of hostilities, a threatening, nasal sneer
twisting his morose face.\par

“Quit monkey’n with that kid, now,” he would
snarl; and with rising wrath: “I tell yu’, fer guts,
that same dude maverick has yu’ all skinned! What
was it he called yu’, Windy?... Will yore mother
stand fer that?... What’s happened to yore face,
Ike?... Fell down an’ trod on it?”\par

The foreman’s rough championing, and his own
ability to take care of himself, in course of time
discouraged this systematic baiting, and ere long
he received the degree of comradeship. Possessing
an inborn love for music, which from childhood up
his mother had always sedulously encouraged, Ellis
was a pianist of no mean ability. This, coupled with
a sweet, boyish voice—which in later years was to
develop into a magnificent baritone—caused him to
be in constant request as a performer on the battered
old piano which the ranch-owner’s dwelling boasted.
Nothing loath, he played and sang to them the simple
old melodies and songs that they knew; and soon
from being the ranch butt he became one of its especial
favorites.\par

With characteristic honor, although the loan had
been but a mere trifle to the wealthy giver, his first
laudable ambition had been to pay back to Major
Carlton the sum he had borrowed from that kind-hearted
bachelor on emigrating; and this, with much
self-denial, he found himself able to do during the
next two years, thereafter keeping up a desultory
correspondence with his old friend which lasted until
the latter’s death.\par

Time went on, and Ellis, after drifting here and
there through Montana and Wyoming punching for
various cattle outfits, finally returned to the “Circle
H,” where at the early age of twenty-five he became
its competent young foreman—vice “Big Jim Parsons,”
deceased.\par

By this time, his character, like his frame, was set;
to the vehement ambition and ardor of youth had
succeeded the cool, matured resolution of manhood—powerful
to will, prompt to execute, and patient
to endure; he was proof against idle hopes, no less
than against groundless fears, and the common chagrins
of life took no more hold of his soul than toil
or privation of his body. Yet under all this case-hardness,
like a virgin pearl lying dormant within
its flinty habitation, there still remained deep in him
a certain softness of heart that he inherited from
the gentle lady whose picture and loving memory
he had cherished throughout his wanderings.\par

It is not to be supposed that during all this time
the rough associations and surroundings compatible
with the calling he followed had not left their mark
upon him. But hot-blooded, violent and impulsive
though he was by nature, a certain quaint cynicism
and command of will and feature enabled him to
suppress outwardly these visible signs of his temperament.
His life was probably not much more immune
from vice than the majority of his fellows who
bore themselves more jovially and noisily; but oh
the sin of violated love, or cruel desertion—too
often associated with the sowing of youth’s wild
oats—he could not accuse himself. The dark eyes
of more than one ranch beauty had looked approvingly—perhaps
lovingly—on the somber, handsome
face and slimly-powerful frame of the reckless
young bronco-buster, wondering, half-pityingly, what
should make so youthful a countenance so stern. And
more than once the inviting loneliness of many whom
ties bound had been made only too apparent for his
benefit. But the remnants of a nearly forgotten
family pride, rather than shyness or coldness, kept
Ellis’s feet clear of the snares. He was not specially
cold, or continent, or tender of conscience, but
he chose to take his pleasure in places where he
troubled no man’s peace, and where there could be no
ignominious aftermath to torture him with its useless,
heart-aching remorse.\par

Every wayfarer through this world must needs encounter
certain points in his journey where the main
trail divides. For awhile the two tracks may run
so near to each other that they may seem still almost
one, but they will diverge more and more till, ere
they end, their issues lie as widely apart as those of
good and evil, light and darkness, life and death.
So it was now with Ellis Benton, for a chance episode
occurred in that young man’s life which was fated to
bring about a material change in his fortunes and
surroundings.\par

A born fighter, and possessing unusual cleverness
with his hands, he was one night unavoidably forced
into an encounter with a professional prize-fighter
on a public street, in Butte. A young girl, whom the
latter was persecuting with his unwelcome attentions,
appealed to the young cow-puncher for protection,
and not in vain. Despite the terrible punishment he
received, the deadly fury and ability with which he
finally put his formidable antagonist away made a
visible impression on a well known fight promoter
who happened to witness the affray. That worthy,
an ex-pugilist himself of considerable renown, with
his glib tongue, apparent sincerity, and cleverly
framed appeals to the younger man’s vanity, succeeded
at last in inducing him to enter the ring in
earnest. Ellis, in that unsettled period that comes
in most strong men’s lives, was perhaps, too, subconsciously
getting a little weary of the range life
that up to now had entirely satisfied his full-blooded
energies, but there is little doubt that had he remained
with the soberer calling that he had followed
so long, it would have been more advantageous to
both his profit and honor. But the reckless hardihood,
ingrained in his nature, stifled the suggestions
of prudence and ambition; when he cut himself adrift
from family and friends he severed himself, in intent,
no less decisively from the class in which he
was born and bred than if, as an heir to a throne, he
had relinquished his birthright, and become but a
humble subject. With a characteristic indifference
to possible consequences, he was not the least
ashamed, as yet, of the doubtful profession that
he had adopted. His subsequent spectacular fighting
speedily demonstrated his ability to become
a future middleweight champion, and for a while
the bouts in which he participated drew eager
crowds, curious to see the coming young pugilist who
gave them such a good run for their money, invariably
drawing with, or putting away his opponent
each time, with a sensational class of fighting that
was highly gratifying to their taste. Becoming
gradually disgusted with the crooked practises and
propositions which, somehow, seemed to be inseparable
from the game, and more or less incumbent
on those who were dependent on the ring for a living,
he made up his mind to forsake the profession
which demanded of him the sacrifice of his common
honesty. His commendable decision, however, certainly
did not carry with it the solace of much pecuniary
acquisition; for although fighting with great
frequency, and winning, or splitting many big purses
during his brilliant, if brief, career, the fast life and
heavy expenses compatible with such a profession
soon dissipated them along with a considerable portion
of his previously accumulated savings, limiting
the sum total of his worldly wealth to less than a
thousand dollars.\par

Becoming, by now, thoroughly restless and inclined
to wander afresh, his fancy next took him to
South Africa, where he obtained a position in the
Chartered Company’s service, at which occupation
he remained until the outbreak of the South African
War two years later. Enlisting then as a private
in a well known, and afterwards famous, Irregular
Horse, in the later engagements at Elandslaagte,
Waggon Hill, and Wepener, he showed to the full
the soldierly instincts only natural in one come of
his fighting race and breeding, at the latter action,
particularly, when in the storming of a strong Boer
position, he exhibited a characteristic courage of
such an utterly reckless, desperate nature, that subsequently
gained for him the Distinguished Conduct
Medal and a Sergeant-Major’s promotion.\par

During the terrible Mauser fire, however, which
well nigh decimated his squadron, he received a bullet
through the body, the same passing the base of
the right lung, luckily without permanently injuring
that vital organ. On recovery, he served throughout
the succeeding guerilla warfare until peace was
proclaimed at Veereneging, on May 31, 1902.
Wearying, then, of South Africa and its war-ravaged
desolation, he returned to the country and scenes
of his former life, resuming his avocation, riding for
a newly-formed cattle company, whose headquarters
were near the Canadian border.\par

Here, during the next few months, he became
acquainted with various members of the scattered
posts of the Royal North West Mounted Police.
Craving companionship, and with the recollections
of his late military experiences still fresh within him,
he joined that Force, and after passing through the
inevitable curriculum of their headquarters at Regina,
he was eventually transferred to L Division.\par

Several notable stock-stealing cases, in which his
fearless ability and previous range experience enabled
him to obtain long term convictions on the
offenders, soon brought him under the favorable notice
of his superiors, who recognized his worth in
this particular line, and in a little less than four
years he was promoted to the rank in which we
find him in the beginning of this story.\par

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\hypertarget{chapter-vi}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VI}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Whoo-oh!—Steady!... Let’s git me cigarette lit!\par}
{\vl Oh, a cow-puncher’s curse on that frizzling sun!\par}
{\vl There!... Whoop!... Go to her, goldarn it!\par}
{\vl Yu’ dirty, mean, locoed old son of a gun!”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Bronco-Buster’s Chorus}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Morning came, and with it a visit from
one Gallagher, a middle-aged bachelor,
his nearest neighbor, whose ranch lay
about a mile distant. The Sergeant, seated outside
the door, in the sun, smoking an after-breakfast pipe,
greeted the newcomer civilly as he lowered himself
stiffly out of the saddle, and waited for the other to
divulge his business.\par

Nature had not been kind to Mr. Gallagher in
regard to his physiognomy, and Ellis, whenever he
contemplated that homely visage, from certain canine
peculiarities therein, always mentally labeled
him “Old Dog-face.” It {\itshape{was}} an ugly, repellant
countenance in a way, but the eyes were those of an
honest man, and the thick lips expressed a species of
genial humor.\par

Meeting each other casually at the usual weekly
mail gatherings, Benton was always conscious of a
kind of surly friendliness on Gallagher’s part, that
showed up in marked contrast to the silent, mistrustful
antipathy, with which many of those present generally
regarded him; which attitude, be it remarked,
worried the Sergeant but little. The rancher
broached the subject of his visit with little preamble.\par

“Old man Tucker, from Fish Creek, was over
wantin’ to see yu’ yesterday, Sargint. Didn’t find
yu’ in, so he come around to my place before he went
back.”\par

“Oh,” said Ellis absently, and with a slight trace
of weary irritation in his tones; “what’s bitin’ that
old fool now—was he full?”\par

It was curiously noticeable that, when back amidst
the habitues and surroundings of his former life and
calling, how naturally he reverted to the terse, ungrammatical
speech of the range.\par

Gallagher, with a grin, lit his pipe, and leaning
back in the chair that the Sergeant had dragged out
for him, blew out a cloud of smoke reflectively.\par

“Well, he weren’t what you’d call exactly sober,”
he drawled. “It was the same old business....
Says there’s some of them a layin’ to run off that
bunch o’ hawsses o’ his. Reckons he’s got it straight
this time.”\par

“He always has,” responded the policeman, spitting
with contemptuous remembrance. “I’m just
about fed up with his picayune happenings. He
makes me tired. Time and again he’s got me a
chasin’ over to his place, and there’s never nothin’
doin’.... Just some gag they’ve bin a throwin’
into him.”\par

The other was silent for a space. “Mebbe,” he
acquiesced musingly. “But I don’t know, Sargint ... he
seemed more worked up this time’n I ever
see him.”\par

Ellis pondered over this dilemma. A complaint
was a complaint, and anyhow, no one could ever accuse
him of neglecting his duty.\par

“See here; look,” he said presently. “I’d go
on over and see what’s worryin’ that old {\itshape{soor}}, but
fact is, I’m stuck for a hawss. That black o’ mine
went lame on me comin’ home last night. Picked
up a nail. He won’t be fit to ride for three or four
days. Got anythin’ in yore bunch yu’ could fix me
up with till he gets sound again, Gallagher?”\par

The rancher considered a moment or two with a
grave, inscrutable face. “Let’s see,” he said
thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth twitching ever
so little. “I guess,” he broke out finally. “Will
yu’ come on over, Sargint?”\par

An hour later Benton, perched on the top rail of
Gallagher’s horse corral, lazily watched that worthy
driving in his band of horses from their range in
a neighboring coulee and, slipping down on their
near approach, he opened the gate and then effaced
himself out of their sight carefully, to prevent a
possible scare.\par

Well strung out, with heads up and manes and
tails flying, they followed their leader, a powerfully-built,
buckskin gelding. It was an old, well-known
trail to them and, presently, with customary obedience,
they surged through the opening into the big
main corral, where they stood around, a playfully
biting, kicking mass of horseflesh, while their owner,
bringing up the rear, dismounted from his quiet old
cow-pony and hung up the gate behind them. Ellis,
emerging from his hiding-place, climbed up beside
him on the fence, and together the two men gazed
silently awhile at the animated scene below them.\par

There were perhaps about thirty head all told, of
different grades, ages, and colors, from the heavy
Percheron-bred draught-horse to the slender, cat-like
cayuse.\par

Benton, with the eye of a connoisseur of horseflesh,
quickly ran them over. “Pretty mixed
bunch,” he mumbled, ungraciously.\par

“Well, yu’ ain’t buyin’ ’em, Sargint,” answered
Gallagher, somewhat nettled at the other’s remark,
and a silence ensued which was finally broken by
Ellis “shooing” at a big Clyde-built mare, heavy
in foal, that was hiding another horse from his view.
The startled animal slowly waddled away, disclosing
the aforementioned buckskin, which bad somehow
escaped the Sergeant’s notice.\par

He quickly appraised its points. “Eyah,” he
muttered; “now {\itshape{that’s}} some horse!”\par

And indeed his approval was justified for it was
about as likely a looking specimen of the saddle-remount
as one could wish to see, with the short,
strong back, long, springy fetlocks, and powerful
quarters that denoted speed and endurance no less
than an easy gait.\par

“That sorrel ain’t a bad looker, either,” he pursued.
“Are they saddle-broke, them two?”\par

“Yep,” said Gallagher shortly. “Yu’ kin take
yore pick, Sargint, of anythin’ that’s in here.”\par

Benton, shading his eyes from the sun, scrutinized
the two horses a little longer and then, leisurely dropping
to the ground, slid into the saddle of Gallagher’s
waiting horse.\par

“Guess I’ll have to borrow yore saddle and
bridle a space, old-timer, if yu’ don’t mind,” he
remarked. “Lord, but yu’ must be split to the chin.
I’ll have to take these stirrups up a hole or two.”\par

Quickly unlacing the rawhide thongs, he adjusted
them to his liking and, tying the horse’s halter-shank
to the corral, unshipped the heavy stock-saddle and
bridle, depositing them on the ground beside the
fence.\par

The rancher’s high-heeled Kansas boots, with their
huge-rowelled Mexican spurs, next attracted his attention
and he stood for a moment silently eyeing
them and his own broad-welted, flat-heeled footwear.\par

“What size boots d’yu’ wear, Gallagher?” he inquired,
with a mild grin. “Nines, eh? ... same
as me. D’yu’ mind changin’? I’m sure on the borrowin’
stunt all right this trip, but them stirrups of
yores ain’t none too wide an’ I don’t much fancy
gettin’ ‘hung up.’”\par

The other acquiesced willingly enough and the
exchange was soon effected. Unstrapping the lariat
from off the saddle, Benton climbed up and dropped
inside the corral, the horses beginning immediately to
circle around uneasily at his approach, raising clouds
of dust.\par

“Which ’un yu’ goin’ to take, Sargint?” inquired
their owner.\par

“Guess I’ll try out that buckskin first!” Ellis answered
laconically. “I wanta hold him and that
sorrel. We’ll let the others drift.”\par

Standing in the center of the corral, with an ease
that bespoke long practise, he slowly shook out a
workable loop and began to adroitly maneuver the
buckskin to the rear of the bunch. But the latter,
scenting danger, and being apparently an old hand
at the game, was very elusive, diving head-down into
the ruck always at the psychological moment. Patiently
watching his chance as, for about the twentieth
time the buckskin’s head reappeared amidst the
flying manes, the Sergeant carelessly, with a curious
overhand flip, swung and threw, the noose dropping
fairly over the ears and nose.\par

Tailing onto the rope, with heels digging into the
soft ground, he slid for a few yards, then suddenly
detaching the animal from the retreating bunch with
a powerful hip-heave he brought it up facing him.\par

Gallagher watched the performance with a lazy
curiosity. “Knows his business with a rope all
right,” was his silent comment.\par

Once caught, as Benton coiled in the slack, hand
over hand, the buckskin walked meekly up to his
captor like one who knows the game is up, and allowed
himself to be patted. Leaving Gallagher to
hold the animal, Ellis proceeded to cut the sorrel
into a small inner corral. This done, he opened
the gate once more, and with a wild whirl and surge
that scattered clouds of dust the late occupants
eagerly streamed out on the run back to their range
again.\par

Carrying the blanket, saddle, and bridle, the Sergeant
entered the corral and cautiously approaching
the held horse, deftly slipped the bit between
its teeth and buckled the throat-lash firmly, then,
drawing off the lariat, picked up the blanket and
flopped it over the withers with a smack. The saddle
next followed suit; the double cinches, although
slapping the animal’s belly with the same deliberate
roughness, failed to produce any startling
effect.\par

“Seems gentle,” Benton muttered aloud.\par

“Yep,” assented Gallagher, in a toneless voice.
“Better take th’ sorrel, Sargint.”\par

Ellis glanced up sharply, but the rancher’s face
was set like an ugly, expressionless mask, and he
gleaned nothing there.\par

“Why?” he inquired.\par

“Pitches some,” said the other drily and, with
calculating inference, “the sorrel, he’s gentle. {\itshape{I}}
kin ride {\itshape{him}}.”\par

Ellis hesitated a moment. He was hardly to be
classed in the same category as a greenhorn, whom
ignorance, taunt, or bravado will often provoke into
climbing onto a bad horse, with equally bad results,
but his reputation as a rider was at stake, for he
knew Gallagher’s tongue was prone to wag at times.
The latter’s last words—“The sorrel, {\itshape{he’s}} gentle!”—rankled
a little, and his decision was made with
an unconscious snort of contempt, as he dragged at
the latigo straps and drew the cinches taut.\par

“Pitches, does he?” he mumbled to himself. All
right, then! He would show Mr. “Dog-face”
Gallagher something. And bending down he buckled
on the big, straight-shanked, Mexican spurs.
“Gimme yore quirt, Gallagher!”\par

Crossing the split reins carefully in the palm of
his left hand and catching the cheek-strap of the
bridle, he reached out his right and guided his foot
cautiously into the stirrup, eyeing the buckskin
closely the while. The animal stood ominously
quiet. Grasping the horn he swung lightly and
warily into the saddle and settled his feet home.
Still no movement from the motionless horse.
Vaguely uneasy, he clucked and gave it a light touch
with the spurs. The effect was magical. The ears
suddenly flattened. A ripple ran along the black-striped
back and as, with a hoarse, grunting scream
the buckskin dropped its head and bucked into the
air, in a flash Benton realized that he was on one
of the worst horses it had ever been his lot to
tackle.\par

“Oh—o-ooh—he-e—s-ss—a-ah!” in bitter
bodily anguish, he groaned, as again and again the
horse rocketed and propped, stiff and hard with
terrible impact, and with a jarring side-shake that
seemed to shiver his very soul. The blood burst
from his nose and mouth under the constant violent
concussions and he felt deathly sick. Still the snapping,
whalebone-like back rose and descended, “sun-fishing”
in midair with a curious upward flirt of the
rump that was well-nigh irresistible, causing the Sergeant’s
hand to swing up towards the horn more than
once, and but for the fact of Gallagher watching,
he would have “pulled leather” without shame.
“Not grain fed.... Can’t keep this up much
longer!” he gasped to himself. And shifting
slightly in the saddle he threw all his dead weight on
to the nigh fore-leg. It was an old trick that Ellis
had often used in his younger and more elastic days,
and by degrees he became conscious between the
twisting, jerking leaps of the bucking fury under
him, that the animal was weakening.\par

Its resistance provoked a wild, unreasoning wave
of anger to surge through him, driving the remnants
of his sick faintness before it, and raising his hand
he quirted and raked the still pitching buckskin with
a ferocity that finally drove it to a sweating standstill.\par

“Go to it, d—n yu’!” he yelled, but the horse
had had enough and only broke into an easy trot
around the corral. Swinging out of the saddle, he
stood for a moment swaying, dazed from the terrific
ordeal he had undergone.\par

To him came Gallagher. “Holy doodle!” exclaimed
that worthy, with a sort of miserable heartiness,
“he sure went after yu’ some!”\par

The policeman did not answer, but breathing in
deep, heavy gasps, and streaming with perspiration,
slowly raised his head. At the unmistakable silent
animosity depicted on that drawn, bitter face, the
rancher changed countenance and retreated slightly
with a deprecating gesture.\par

“Now don’t yu’ go for to blame me, Sargint!”
he began. “—’Member I warned yu’!”\par

Ellis looked at him loweringly, with evil irresolution.
The man was right, he reflected, but nothing
makes us so unforgiving as the consciousness of being
in the wrong.\par

“Warned me?” he echoed, with a mirthless
laugh, and at the same time blowing a stream of
blood from his nose. “Oh, aye, yu’ {\itshape{warned}} me all
right—like Paddy warned his landlord!...”\par

Regaining his breath somewhat, he resumed with
savage ill-humor. “Yu’ve an ugly mug, Gallagher....
If I thought for a minute yu’d handed me this
here stick of dynamite for a josh, I’d push what’s
meant to be yore face right in, an’ don’t yu’ forget
it!”\par

The other’s dog-like visage contracted with a grin
and he emitted a short, barking laugh.\par

“Easy! easy there, Sargint!... Now don’t yu’
start for to get mad ’bout it,” he chuckled. “Never
yu’ mind my mug. I ain’t a beauty, I know....
But handsome is that handsome does.... ’Member,
I’m lendin’ yu’ a horse.”\par

At the remembrance of the man’s generosity, and
his good-natured response, Benton’s short-lived fit
of bad temper quickly evaporated, and he felt guilty
and ashamed at his own illogical outburst.\par

“Gallagher,” he said hoarsely, spitting out a
mouthful of blood and dust, “I guess I’m in wrong....
I take it all back.”\par

With an earnestness that there was no mistaking,
the rancher reached out his hand.\par

“Sargint,” he said solemnly, “shake. Yu’re a
rider.” And in the warmth of that grip Ellis became
vaguely conscious that his nerve had won for
him a friend.\par

Good fellowship established once more, Gallagher’s
taciturnity vanished and he became voluble and
communicative.\par

“Now, see here, look; I’ll tell yu’, Sargint,” he
rambled on. “I raised that hawss, an’ I know him
like a book. There’s only two men ever stayed with
him. They’re no-goods, both of ’em, but they kin
{\itshape{ride}}. Yu’ know ’em, too—Short an’ Dirty’s
one, an’ that there Jules Le Frambois yu’ve just took
down for rustlin’ Billy Jacques’ stock, t’other. Jules—he
got piled higher’n a kite, first crack outer th’
box, but he stayed with him th’ second trip. Wanst
he finds a feller kin ride him he quits pitchin’ right
away {\itshape{with}} that feller—for good. Yu’ git on him
now an’ see ’f I ain’t right.”\par

Ellis did so and, with a rough slap of the quirt
and a thrust of the spurs, thumbing the horse’s withers
and fanning its ears with his hat; but all his
efforts to make the buckskin hump again were fruitless,
and the Sergeant, as he felt the surge of the
easy-gaited, powerful animal under him, knew that
here was a remount that could be depended on in any
emergency.\par

“What’d I tell yu’?” said Gallagher, as Benton
dismounted and off-saddled. “Nary a jump—an’
Short an’ Dirty, he rode him for three months—an’
he says he’s good on th’ rope an’ll stand wherever
his lines is dropped. Now yu’ take him and ride
him as long as yu’ want, Sargint.... I guess there
ain’t nobody else around here as is anxious,” he
added, grinning. “What’s his name? Why, I calls
him ‘Shakem.’ He’s sure shook a few of ’em, too.
I didn’t aim to get yu’ hurt none, but some of th’
boys had it that yu’ used to bust for th’ ‘Turkey-Track,’
an’, well, I kinder own I was a bit minded
to see if yu’ shaped like it,” he ended whimsically.\par

The ghost of a smile for a moment illuminated
Benton’s blood-stained, tired face as, lighting a cigarette,
he retrieved his own boots and prepared to
lead his borrowed mount away.\par

“An’ are yu’ satisfied?” he queried wearily.\par

“Aye,” answered the rancher, with fervent conviction.
“I sure am that. Yes, I’ll ride on over
an’ fix up that black o’ yores if yu’re away th’ night.
So long, Sargint.”\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-vii}%
\hypertarget{chapter-vii}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VII}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Oh, sheriff an’ ranger both wished me luck,\par}
{\vl Yu’ bet! when I jumped th’ Line last Fall—\par}
{\vl Yep!... Kind that a hog gets when he’s stuck,\par}
{\vl For I’d cert’nly made them cattle-men bawl.\par}
{\vl Them fellers has cause to love me as much\par}
{\vl As they do a wolf, or a sneakin’ Piute;\par}
{\vl But wouldn’t this jar yu’—’gettin’ in Dutch’\par}
{\vl With th’ Mounted Police, thru’ a mangy coyote?”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Rustler’s Lament}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
After giving the buckskin a light feed of
grain and attending to Johnny’s hoof carefully,
Ellis despatched an early lunch, saddled
up Shakem, and struck out for Tucker’s ranch,
which was about eight miles distant. It was a
glorious day and, feeling fully recovered from the
effects of his morning’s shake-up, he rode slowly on
through the golden haze with that ease and contentment
that comes to a man who feels that he has
earned it, and has sound health and a good horse
under him.\par

Three miles or so beyond Gallagher’s the trail
veered slightly west, then south, skirting the dense
brush and timbered slopes of the foot-hills. Emerging
from a patch of poplar that fringed the base of
a small butte around which his trail led, a moving
object suddenly appeared above him, sharply defined
against the sky-line. Glancing up quickly he
instantly recognized the tawny-gray, dog-like form
of a coyote. Benton, in common with most range
men, loathed the slinking, carrion-fed brutes and
always shot them down remorselessly whenever opportunity
offered. Averting his gaze and still keeping
steadily on his way to deceive the wary animal,
he cautiously lifted the flap of his holster with the
intention of making a quick whirl and snap-shot.
With shortened lines, he was just about to execute
this maneuver when something strange and unfamiliar
in the actions of his intended victim suddenly
caused him to halt, paralyzed with open-mouthed
curiosity and astonishment.\par

Apparently, for the moment, completely heedless
of the close proximity of its mortal enemy, Man, it
was pawing violently at its snout, and to the Sergeant’s
ears came the unmistakable sounds of choking
and vomiting. Gripping the Colt’s .45, Ellis’s
hand flashed up, but the shell was never discharged.
For just then came the sharp crack of a rifle shot
from somewhere on the other side of the butte, and
the coyote, with a bullet through its head, tumbled
and slid, jerking in its death-struggle almost to the
horse’s feet.\par

With a startled exclamation at the unexpected
occurrence and, wrenching his steed around as it
shyed instinctively away, Benton swung out of the
saddle and turned wonderingly to examine that still
twitching body. A peculiar {\itshape{something}}—evidently
the cause of its previous choking motions—was protruding
from its mouth and, prying open the
clenched, blood-dripping paws, Ellis tugged it out
from away back in the throat, down which it had
apparently resisted being swallowed. Wiping the
slimy object on the grass, he spread it open. His
eyes dilated strangely with instant recognition, and
a savage oath burst from him. It was the brand
cut out of the hide of a freshly killed steer.\par

With lightning-like intuition and a quick, apprehensive,
upward glance, the Sergeant crumpled up
the clammy, half-chewed flap of skin, jammed it up
under his stable-jacket and, jumping for the buckskin,
wheeled and dashed into the shelter of the bush.
Breathing rapidly with excitement, he dismounted
and, lying on his stomach, dragged himself cautiously
forward until he could discern the dead
coyote.\par

His rapid movements had been only just in time.
For, as he peered from his hiding place, another
object silhouetted itself against the sky-line. A man,
this time, wearing white-goatskin chaps, and in the
short, powerful body, red hair, and prognathous jaw,
the policeman discerned the all-familiar figure and
lineaments of one—William Butlin—generally
known in the district by the soubriquet of “Short
and Dirty,” or “Shorty.”\par

He was coatless, and his bare, brawny arms were
blood-stained up to the elbows as, clutching a rifle
in one hand and a knife in the other, he slowly descended
the incline and inspected the result of his
marksmanship. Being summer, it was a poor skin
and mangy so, with a muttered oath and a contemptuous
kick, he turned and retraced his steps up
the butte, with bent head scrutinizing the ground
carefully around for something as he did so.\par

With a grim chuckle, the Sergeant watched him
disappear from view and, after waiting a moment
or two, quietly raised himself and slid out of his
place of concealment. Climbing noiselessly until he
reached the brow of the incline, he dropped prone
and, removing his hat, looked warily down. He
found himself looking down a narrow draw, dotted
here and there with patches of alder, willow-scrub,
and cottonwood clumps—a huge specimen of the
latter rising from amongst its fellows at the lower
end of the draw. There, at the bottom, not fifty
yards distant, Benton beheld Mr. Short and Dirty
busily engaged in stripping the hide from the bloody
carcass of a newly butchered steer.\par

He had chosen an ideal spot for his nefarious
work, the slopes on either side of the draw rendering
him completely immune from ordinary observation,
and the hot rays of the overhead sun beat down
on the sprawled, glistening, pink and yellow monstrosity
that his knife was rapidly laying bare. His
rifle lay on the ground, well out of his reach, near
his horse, a chunky, well-put-up white animal and,
with back turned to the fierce scrutiny of the representative
of the Law that followed his every movement,
he bent over his work with nervous haste,
skinning with long sweeps of his knife and glancing
furtively around him from time to time.\par

With a stealthy movement Ellis arose, stood upright,
and walked noiselessly down to the impromptu
barbecue.\par

“Oh, Shorty!” he called.\par

At the policeman’s voice the man started violently
and, wheeling like a flash, knife in hand, faced him
with open-mouthed amazement, fear, guilt, cunning,
and desperation flitting in turn over his rugged, evil
face. With carelessly-held revolver the Sergeant
watched him intently with glittering eyes, his attitude
suggestive of a snake about to strike.\par

“Pitch up!” he rapped out harshly.\par

The other made no move but a terrible spasm
of murderous indecision momentarily convulsed
his face, which angered the policeman beyond
expression.\par

“{\itshape{Pronto!}}” he roared explosively, with a shocking
blasphemy and a forward jump of his gun that
sent Shorty’s arms aloft with a galvanic jerk, the
knife dropping to the ground.\par

Silently Benton surveyed him awhile, a deadly,
menacing light like green fire flaming in his deep-set
eyes, and the muscles under the livid scar on his
cheek twitching.\par

“Yu’ look at me like that agin,” he drawled slowly
and distinctly, “an’ I’ll blow a hole thru’ yore guts.
Three paces forward, march!—halt!—’bout
turn!”\par

The movements were executed with a precise obedience
that drew forth a sneer from the observant
sergeant.\par

“Huh! an old bird, eh?” he gibed. “Always
thought yu’ were, from th’ cut of yore mug. I guess
th’ ‘Pen’ shore went into mourning th’ day yu’
worked yore ticket. There’s a lump on yore hip
I don’t like,” he continued sharply. “Here! Let’s
go thru’ yu’!”\par

He deftly extracted a revolver, glanced at it
quickly, and then transferred it to his own pocket.\par

“Packin’ a Colt’s automatic around, eh?” he
snarled. “That’s another charge I’ll soak into yu’—carryin’
concealed weapons.”\par

His swiftly working brain had, meantime, evolved
a definite scheme of action that he felt the circumstances
required. Never for a moment underrating
the notoriously desperate character of his captive,
he was taking no chances, and purposely kept that
individual under the tense influence of his powerful
will, giving him no opportunity to collect his crafty
wits.\par

“Quick, now, my lad!” he broke out in a fierce
undertone, seizing the other’s shirt collar and pushing
the muzzle of the revolver into his back; “step
out to that big cottonwood down there—keep yore
wings up. Make one break an’ this’ll go off!”\par

Bursting with helpless, impotent rage, the cowed
and bewildered man was roughly thrust forward to
the indicated spot. Arriving there, Ellis jerked out
his handcuffs, opening these carefully so that he
would be able to manipulate them with one hand.\par

“Shove out yore mitts on each side of this stick!”
came his sharp command.\par

Shorty blinked at him with feigned stupidity out
of veiled, bloodshot eyes.\par

“Quick!” snapped the Sergeant, with a fresh
burst of fury at the other’s irresolution. “Quick,
yu’ sorrel-topped skunk, or I’ll kill yu’!”\par

Sullenly the gory arms were clasped around the
tree and the handcuffs clicked home. His man secure,
the policeman turned swiftly.\par

“{\itshape{Adios}}, Shorty,” he said, with grim levity. “I’m
just takin’ a little {\itshape{paseur}} now. I’ll be back before
the coyotes get yu’.”\par

The rustler gazed after his retreating form with
evil wonder. So far he had uttered no sound, but
now his lips framed themselves for speech. Something
causing him to change his mind, however, he
only spat viciously and resolutely held his peace.\par

An hour passed. A slow one, too, for the shackled
man. Shifting wearily from one foot to the
other, he eventually sat down, shoving out a leg on
either side of the cottonwood, his arms, of necessity,
hugging the butt. The sound of voices presently
smote his ear, not unpleasantly either, for by this
time he was beyond caring for {\itshape{what}} happened to
him so long as he was released from his cramped,
ludicrous position. Soon two riders hove into view
at the entrance to the draw, and in them he recognized
his captor, and—Gallagher.\par

The sight of the latter vaguely disturbed his
warped conscience. Gallagher had always been decent
to him, he reflected. Had once even lent him
money. How could the policeman know it was
Gallagher’s steer? He {\itshape{couldn’t}}, he argued to himself.
They were just trying to put some bluff over
him. And the conviction that he still held a trump
card hardened his heart.\par

Pulling up at the dead steer, they dismounted
and, leaving Gallagher examining the carcass, Ellis
walked on down the draw and released his prisoner,
snapping the handcuff back on the wrist again.\par

“Get yu’ over to th’ beef an’ set down,” he ground
out curtly.\par

The rancher looked up at their approach.
“Howdy, Shorty,” he said quietly, with a grim nod,
which salute the other returned sullenly, with a
brazen stare, sitting down resignedly, with his
manacled hands clasping his knees. Benton, rolling
a cigarette, looked interrogatively at Gallagher.\par

“Well,” he queried.\par

“Shore {\itshape{looks}} like one o’ mine,” answered that
worthy; “but—”\par

His speech was suddenly interrupted by the rustler.
Throughout his capture he had remained as
mute as a trapped wolf. Now he broke in with:\par

“Yes, but yu’ cain’t {\itshape{swear}} it’s yores.” And the
sneering taunt conveyed a meaning that was not lost
on his listeners.\par

For a moment or two the Sergeant scanned the
faces of the two men, a lazy, tolerant smile playing
over his hard features as he fumbled inside the
breast of his stable-jacket.\par

“Oh, he cain’t, cain’t he?” he drawled mockingly.
“No, but {\itshape{I}} can, my strawberry blonde.
Here’s a letter for yu’, Gallagher,” he continued,
grinning. “Reckon I’ll let Shorty read it first,
though.” And, unfolding the flap of hide, he carelessly
held it up for that gentleman’s inspection.\par

With starting eyes and a ghastly imprecation the
prisoner gazed at the missing link, fear, anger, and
astonishment flitting in turn over his evil visage.\par

“Why, why—” he stuttered.\par

“Yes, {\itshape{why}}—” Ellis finished for him sarcastically.
“{\itshape{Why}} do yu’ aim to start in chokin’ poor coyotes
to death with other people’s brands?”\par

He handed the sticky piece of evidence over to
Gallagher. “Double H.F.,” he said. “That’s
yore brand all right, ain’t it, old-timer?”\par

The rancher nodded wonderingly.\par

“Yu’ll find it fits into th’ cut-out all hunkadory,”
the Sergeant added.\par

“Satisfied?” he queried presently. “All right,
then.” And, in the set formula that the Law prescribes,
he proceeded to formally charge and warn
his prisoner. This duty ended, he sank down with
a lazy yawn and, rolling a fresh cigarette, tossed it
good-naturedly over to the captive, with a match
along.\par

“Have a smoke, Shorty,” he observed, with an
indolent, meaning smile. “I guess yu’ shore needs
one.”\par

The three men smoked meditatively awhile, amid
a silence that was eventually broken by Gallagher.\par

“Playin’ it up kinder mean on me, ain’t yu’
Shorty?” he remarked bitterly. “I reckon I’ve always
treated {\itshape{yu’}} white.”\par

The shackled man, with sullen, averted eyes, gave
a hopeless shrug.\par

“Didn’t aim to put it over on {\itshape{yu’}} in particular,
Barney,” he mumbled in a low voice. “I was just
a ridin’ past here, casual like, lookin’ for some
horses, when I see this steer a tryin’ to catch up to
th’ bunch with a broken leg. I kin pay yu’ for it,”
he added defiantly. “An’ if yu’—”\par

“{\itshape{Payin’}} don’t go on a job like this,” interjected
the Sergeant sharply. “Even if Barney {\itshape{was}} willin’....
Case is out of his hands. Besides, if yu’ can
afford to pay for beef yu’ ain’t obliged to rustle it.\par

“Broken leg,” he continued, with an incredulous
grin. “Yes, an’ I guess it ain’t hard to figure {\itshape{what}}
broke it. I’ve seen th’ way yu’ rope an’ throw—lots
of times. {\itshape{Casual!}} What? Oh, mighty
bloody {\itshape{casual}}! A skinnin’ knife. A block an’ tackle
an’ a butcher’s cleaver in a gunny-sack an’ that
big cottonwood to sling th’ beef up to out o’ reach
of th’ coyotes till yu’ could come around with a
wagon an’ team for it after dark. What? {\itshape{Casual}},
eh? ... well, I should smile.”\par

A lull followed this sally. Presently Shorty raised
his head.\par

“My shootin’ at that there coyote, it was, I guess,
as fetched yu’?” he inquired gloomily. “I was
down at th’ creek, gettin’ a drink, an’ when I was
comin’ back I see him with somethin’ in his mouth.”\par

Ellis nodded and blew out a smoke ring with
dreamy reflection.\par

“Aye, that an’ other things,” he drawled, slowly.
“’Member makin’ that crack about a certain red-coated,
yaller-laigged stiff whose goat yu’ was a goin’
to get, like th’ feller’s before him? ... A little bit—not
much—I {\itshape{don’t}} think. Yu’ ain’t got no Corporal
Williamson here. I’ve been a-layin’ for yu’
ever since, an’ now I reckon it’s yu’ for th’ goat.”\par

Gallagher, listening amusedly, uttered his low,
barking laugh.\par

“Goat!” he chuckled softly. “Goat!” The
expression seemed to tickle his imagination greatly.
“Don’t often get it put over yu’, Sargint, I’ll gamble.”\par

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Benton lazily. “Do
sometimes.” He wriggled into a more comfortable
position. “Talkin’ o’ goats,” he continued, with a
dreamy smile of reflection, “just for th’ sake of a
yarn I’ll give myself away.\par

“It was two winters back—when I was stationed
at Goddard,” he began. “I caught a feller there
fixin’ up another man’s calf—all same Shorty, here.
I got th’ owner to identify th’ hide an’ locked th’
feller up. Inspector Purvis happened to be down
that day inspectin’ detachments, so I rustled up another
J.P. and got them to commit this gink. I
mind his wife came to see him that night, an’ kinder
out of respect for her feelin’s I kept out o’ hearin’
while they chewed th’ rag. Next evenin’—I had a
case on durin’ th’ day—I drives to th’ station with
him to catch th’ eight-thirty East-bound, usin’ a
wagon an’ team I’d borrowed. We had to pass {\itshape{his}}
place on th’ way, an’ he says to me, kinder simple
like: ‘Corporal,’—I was a corporal then—‘I’ll
most-like be awaitin’ trial some time an’ I’ll be
wantin’ some clothes. I fixed it up with th’ woman
last night to have ’em ready when we come past.
D’yu’ mind stoppin’?’ ‘All right,’ I says, never
suspicionin’ nothin’, for he seemed a sorter homely,
foolish kind o’ ‘mossback.’ Sure enough, when we
comes opposite his place, out comes his wife with a
big, fat gunny-sack. Puts it in th’ wagon. Cries,
an’ kisses him, an’ says ‘good-by.’ It was a bitter
cold night, I mind, an’ I had my fur coat collar
turned up high ’round my face, an’ my cap pulled
down. Presently, when we was about half ways
there, he starts in to groan an’ shiver up against me.
‘What’s up?’ I says. ‘Cramps,’ says he, still
groanin’. ‘Gosh, but I’ve got ’em bad.’ There
was some straw in th’ bottom of th’ wagon, an’
thinkin’ it might ease him some if he lay down a bit,
I helped him over th’ seat into th’ box, an’ he lay
down amongst th’ straw, with his gunny-sack for a
pillow—{\itshape{mine}}, with th’ calfskin exhibit in it, alongside
me on th’ off-side of th’ seat. Havin’ cuffs an’
leg-shackles on him I knew he wouldn’t be fool
enough to make any kind of a breakaway, especially
as he really seemed sick, so I didn’t watch him particularly
close, an’ we jogged along through th’ dark.
He still seemed pretty bad when we made th’ station,
so I got him a slug of whiskey an’ we boarded
th’ train. I handed him over at the guardroom,
when we got into th’ Post—locked up my gunnysack,
an’ beat it back on th’ West-bound that was late
that night. I didn’t want to be around th’ Post next
day for fear Mickey, th’ S.M., might keep me in for
duty. Well, the case came up about three months
later at th’ Supreme Court.\par

“Mr. Man hires him a lawyer an’ pleads ‘not guilty,’
as bold as brass. As I figured I had th’ case
all hunkadory I only had one witness—th’ owner
of th’ calf. I goes into the box an’ gives my evidence
an’ pulls out th’ hide exhibit to identify. A
red an’ white one I’d put in an’ a red an’ white one
I pulls out, but I well-nigh had a fit when I saw th’
brand on it. It was th’ prisoner’s {\itshape{own}}. I looked
like a proper fool, I guess, with th’ mossback an’ his
‘mouthpiece’ both givin’ me th’ ‘ha, ha.’ Luckily
for me, Inspector Purvis happened to be in court an’
of course his statement that everything had been in
order at th’ preliminary trial when he committed th’
man was accepted by the judge, an’ after a hard
fight with th’ defending counsel—who, of course,
wanted to proceed right then an’ there—we got th’
case set over, an’ started in to investigate. ’Twasn’t
much use, though. They—th’ prisoner, his wife,
an’ th’ lawyer—put it all over us—easy. Yes,
{\itshape{sir}}, they had th’ bulge on us, all right, an’ they knew
it. Case was dismissed at its second hearing through
lack of evidence—th’ judge intimating, however,
that he was satisfied that there’d been some funny
work somewhere, though, under th’ circumstances he
had no alternative but to give th’ prisoner th’ benefit
of th’ doubt. Th’ O.C., Purvis, an’ th’ lawyer,
well-nigh crucified me with their remarks. Been
mighty careful ever since, yu’ bet!\par

“A constable named Mason nailed him later,
though, for stealing a horse. He had him dead to
rights an’ made a better job of things than me.
My ‘rube’ got three years. I had charge of th’
escort when we took him, along with some others,
up to th’ ‘Pen.’ It was then that he told me the
whole business. He’d fixed it up with his wife th’
night she come to see him in th’ cells. When she
came out with that gunny-sack, she’d put one of their
own calf-hides in on top of his clothes. That’s what
made th’ sack look so big. How in h—l he ever
managed to snake {\itshape{my}} sack from alongside me on
th’ seat—without me feelin’ him—swop them
two hides, an’ then put it back again, was a corker,
but he managed it, somehow, an’ dropped th’ real
’un on th’ trail, where his wife, followin’ us up in th’
dark on a saddle-horse, snaffled it an’ took it home
in quick shape an’ burnt it.”\par

This story, delivered with the Sergeant’s characteristic
humorous, arrogant abruptness, caused his
listeners—in spite of the gravity of the circumstances
attending its telling—considerable amusement.
It was a curious anecdote for a man to relate
of himself, especially in the midst of the somewhat
grim situation under which they were met, but
it was quite in keeping with Benton’s strange, complex
character.\par

The three men lay silent awhile after this, each
busy with his own reflections. Presently Gallagher,
who was gazing absently at the scar on the
policeman’s cheek, said quietly:\par

“It was yu’ killed ‘Slim’ Cashell, over to Pitman,
wasn’t it, Sargint?”\par

At the question the lazy good humor died out of
Benton’s face strangely. Bleak and inscrutable became
his expression on the instant—lowering and
sinister. His far-away, ruthless eyes began to glow
with their peculiar baleful light. It was the sun suddenly
enveloped by a storm-cloud.\par

“Aye,” he said darkly, and a long pause ensued.
“It was me or him,” he went on, in a cold, even,
passionless voice. “An’ my way o’ thinkin’ {\itshape{an’}}
actin’ at such show-downs is th’ same, I reckon, as
old Israel Hands’—a certain gentleman o’ fortune
in a book I guess yu’ve never read, Barney....
‘Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don’t
bite; them’s my views—amen, so be it.’ ... He
had his chance, anyway, an’ he left me his card,
which I’ll pack to my grave,” he ended significantly,
touching the scar.\par

The flies began to buzz around the carcass and
the steady “munch, munch” of the feeding horses
sounded in their ears, whilst the sun, blazing hotly
down upon them without the mercy of a cooling
breeze, sent up little shimmering heat-waves from
the sagebrush-dotted parched ground. Shorty presently
found his voice again.\par

“Sargint,” he began, with a certain surly respect
that it was noticeable had hitherto been omitted,
“d’yu’ mind me askin’ yu’ a question?”\par

Ellis glanced at him indifferently, his deep-set
gray eyes wide with their peculiar, aggressive blank
stare.\par

“Go ahead—what is it?” he said.\par

Shorty licked his dry lips. “Was it Jules le
Frambois as told yu’ ’bout—?”\par

“No,” interrupted Ellis irritably. “Jules told
me nothin’, an’ I asked him nothin’; an’ what’s more,
I’d see yu’ an’ him ten fathoms deep in h—l before
I’d suck up any of yu’ Ghost River crooks’ cursed
lies.”\par

“Were it George Fisk, then—or Scotty Robbins?”
the other pursued.\par

A puzzling, suspicious thought suddenly flashed
into the policeman’s alert brain at the man’s persistence,
and instantly his face became an inscrutable
mask.\par

“Now yu’re talkin’,” he answered meaningly.\par

His words produced a horrible change in the
weather-beaten, sinister countenance of his prisoner.\par

“By ——, I was a-thinkin’ so.... Right from
th’ fust crack,” he said spitefully, with an oath.
“An’ now I’ll tell {\itshape{yu’}} somethin’ that ain’t no lie.
Them two same fellers has it fixed to annex old Bob
Tucker’s bunch o’ hawsses—tomorrer night. I
was a-goin’ to give ’em a hand, too,” he continued
defiantly, with reckless abandon. “They figures on
takin’ ’em up to a place they knows of in th’ bush—up
Ghost River way—for a spell, till things quietens
down a bit, I guess; then they’ll drive ’em South, to
Paralee Junction, an’ try an’ ship ’em East from
there. George Fisk an’ me had a sorter diff’runce
’bout whackin’ up. He says to me: ‘Take it, or
leave it!’—them were his words—‘Me an’ Scotty
ain’t exactly pertic’lar whether yu’ stays in th’ family
or not,’ he says.”\par

He paused for breath. Ellis shot a warning
glance that spoke volumes to Gallagher who, with
open-mouthed curiosity, was listening eagerly to this
amazing recital.\par

“Well, yu’ see they’ve double-crossed yu’, {\itshape{amigo}},”
he said, with a calm, convincing composure that left
no further doubt in his prisoner’s mind.\par

“Just a frame-up,” he continued. “Why, them
fellers has good steady jobs punchin’ for th’ Wharnock
Cattle Company, which they ain’t got no intention
o’ leavin’ for to run off anybody’s hawsses.
They ain’t exactly stuck on yu’ so, naturally, they
figured this was th’ easiest way to get rid of yu’.”\par

Shorty spat vindictively, and his pale, lynx-like,
merciless eyes glowed as, with horrible blasphemies
and threats, he broke out, reviling the two alleged
informers.\par

“Frame-up!” he snarled. “Yes! ... on me
{\itshape{an’}} yu’. Why, this very beef here was for ’em, while
they was up cached in the bush. Feller was a-goin’
to foller ’em up with it in a wagon. {\itshape{I}} won’t be th’
only one to get double-crossed, as yu’ll find. Yu’ll
be gettin’ one o’ th’ worst falls {\itshape{yu’}} ever got in yore
natural if yu’ turn this whisper o’ mine down now.
Well, I’ve told yu’, anyways.” And, spent with his
rage, he lay back like a man weary of life.\par

The practical Gallagher glanced up at the slowly
descending sun and leapt to his feet.\par

“Time’s gettin’ on,” he said. “I don’t figure on
losin’ that beef, anyways.... It’s a-stiffenin’ up
a’ready.”\par

And, picking up Shorty’s knife, with practised dexterity,
he proceeded to complete what the rustler
had begun. Ellis, outwardly nonchalant, but seething
inwardly with excitement at the news, the truth
of which was confirmed unhesitatingly by a certain
native intuition he possessed, lent him a hand at intervals
and, presently, with the aid of the block-and-tackle
and a lariat on one of the saddle-horses, the
two sides of roughly dressed beef were slung up to
a branch of the big cottonwood tree, well out of
reach of the coyotes.\par

Catching up the rustler’s patient horse, the Sergeant
picked up the rifle and, after pumping out the
shells, thrust it into its scabbard slung under the
legadeiro of the saddle; then, knotting the lines
around the horn, he proceeded to swiftly fashion a
hackamore with his lariat.\par

“Reckon yu’ll have to ride as yu’ are, Shorty,”
he said. “I’m a-goin’ to trail yu’ alongside.
What’s up?” he added, as the other, with manacled
hands on the saddle-horn, in the act of mounting,
was staring at the buckskin with interest.\par

“Some hawss, that, yu’re ridin’, Sargint,” he remarked,
with a meaning, bitter smile.\par

“Some,” assented Ellis dryly. “Well, yu’ oughta
know—bein’ as ’twas yu’ topped him off. {\itshape{Umbagi!}}—let’s
{\itshape{trek}}. Don’t forget that hide, Barney!” he
shouted. “Hang onto that brand, too—mind
Shorty don’t swop it on yu’,” he added with grim
pleasantry.\par

The rancher, busily rolling up the bloody mass,
with the rustler’s knife and cleaver inside, responded
with one of his customary barking laughs and, lashing
it on behind his saddle, mounted; and with him
bringing up the rear, the little cavalcade turned
homewards.\par

In due time they arrived at the detachment, and
the Sergeant, after carefully searching and locking
up his prisoner, withdrew outside the building to
discuss matters with Gallagher.\par

“Guess there ain’t no Bull-Durham about th’ tip
old Bob Tucker’s got this trip,” he said with conviction.
“Wonder who ’twas put that old stiff
wise?”\par

He was more excited than was his wont, and his
brow was contracted with impatient thought.\par

“Reckon he’s tellin’ th’ straight tale?” Gallagher
ventured dubiously, with a back-flung jerk
of his head to the building.\par

“Shore,” answered the policeman. “’Twas just
a bit o’ lucky gammon I threw into him—I’d no idea
he’d fall for it like he did. Yu’re a witness of his
admissions of being an accomplice o’ these fellers.
As a matter o’ fact,” he continued, with a sly grin,
“I haven’t seen either o’ {\itshape{them}} for well-nigh a month
now. ’Twas Little Benny Parker wised me up ’bout
what Shorty figured he was goin’ to do for me....
He was down at th’ post-office one mail day—quite
a while ago, this is—an’ these fellers was all outside
together a-talkin’—Jules le Frambois along.
Benny’s only a little nipper, an’ bein’ on th’ other
side o’ his horse, cinchin’ up, I guess they didn’t
notice him. Some cute kid, Benny!”\par

He remained silent for a space, in deep thought.\par

“Barney,” he said presently, “I’d like yore help
in this business. Scotty Robbins ain’t o’ much account.
He’s a poor cur, he is. But Big George’s
some bad man. I’ve got his record from over th’
Line. He’s done two fives an’ a three-year term
for horse-stealin’, an’ I know for a fact, too, that
he’s a gun artist. He killed two men in a dirty
mix-up at Los Barancedes, over in New Mexico,
quite a while back. Th’ Rurales well-nigh put th’
kibosh on him, but somehow he beat ’em out. So,
yu’ see,” he concluded with a whimsical smile, “it
ain’t exactly a one-man job—at night, too. That
is, if yu’re willin’?”\par

His request was met more than half-way.\par

“Eyah! that I will, Sargint,” the other answered
bluntly and briefly. “I guess I know me duty as
a law-abidin’ man should.” He had, in his brief
acquaintance, formed a profound respect for the
fearless man who sought his assistance.\par

“I know it’s not exactly a civilian’s end o’ th’ deal
to get shoved into takin’ unnecessary risks,” Ellis
went on. “If I had time I’d ride out to Buffalo
Wallow an’ get Nicholson—he’s about due there,
on patrol. But I haven’t ... an’ this lay’s supposed
to come off tomorrow night. Besides, I
wanta go an’ see Tucker. Pity old Boswell, th’
J.P.’s, gone East. I’d a got yu’ sworn in as a ‘special.’
So yu’ see how it is,” he ended simply.\par

“Eyah!” said Gallagher, with a grim heartiness;
“don’t yu’ worry over nothin’ son. My name’s Barney
Gallagher. I kin ‘trail me coat’ as good as
me father or me grandfather ever did. Yu’ll find
I’m right there with th’ goods.”\par

Ellis regarded the speaker’s hard-featured face
with its twinkling Irish-blue eyes, and his angular,
powerful frame.\par

“Yu’ just bet yu’ are, Barney,” he murmured
thoughtfully. “Yu’ just bet yu’ are. See here;
look! I’ll mosey on over to Tucker’s first thing in
th’ mornin’; an’ I’ll find out, if I can—without
tellin’ him nothin’—what he knows. Shorty’ll be
safe enough locked up here while we’re away, an’ if
we nail these other two we can take th’ whole bunch
into Sabbano for their preliminary trial. I’ll be
back mid-day, an’ towards evenin’ we’ll slide out.”\par

Their arrangements thus settled, Gallagher departed
to his ranch, and Ellis proceeded to cook
supper for himself and his prisoner. Later he fixed
up the horses for the night and, on second thought,
after examining Johnny’s hoof with a satisfied scrutiny,
and leading him around a little, he wrenched
off the remaining shoes and turned him loose in the
pasture, where there was good feed and running
water.\par

“Go to it, old boy,” he chuckled, amused at that
animal’s antics as, delighted with his unwonted freedom,
the horse, after a roll or two, sailed off with
a joyous kick and squeal, his previous limp now
hardly perceptible.\par

Ellis watched him lovingly a minute or two then,
lighting his pipe, he reentered the detachment.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-viii}%
\hypertarget{chapter-viii}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER VIII}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
He was a dirty, aged man, who to his bottle clung,\par}
{\vl And ever and anon did curie in some queer foreign tongue,\par}
{\vl The tale he told was passing strange, yet pitiful, withal—\par}
{\vl Of the lonely, care-fraught, troublous life\par}
{\vl He lived from Fall to Fall.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Old Nester}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
An uneventful hour and a half’s ride next
morning brought Benton within sight of
Tucker’s homestead at Fish Creek. Leaving
the main trail, he struck into an old cow-track,
which short cut wound its way through the thick
brush on the west side of the latter’s pasture, emerging
from which, into a clear open space, he found
the gate that he sought.\par

What little feed there had been inside the few
fenced-in acres was cropped as close as if sheep had
been herded there, and a bunch of horses and a
few gaunt cows wandered disconsolately hither
and thither, roaming the fence round and groping
through the wire strands at the nourishment that
lay just beyond their reach. It was a pitiful sight
and Ellis, with his love for animals, felt a spasm of
anger pass through him as he noticed bad festering
barbed-wire scratches on more than one of the poor
hungry brutes.\par

“Th’ cursed, scared old fool,” he muttered savagely.
“I reckon he’s got reason to be, though, if
that whisper o’ Shorty’s is straight goods.”\par

He rode slowly across the parched, dusty ground
and, fording the creek, passed through the gate at
the opposite end. Circling around the stables and
corrals, he dismounted outside the weather-beaten
shack in which the old man passed his lonely life.
Dropping the buckskin’s lines, the Sergeant climbed
up the broken steps and shoved his way in through
the half-opened door.\par

With an oath he reeled back and his hand streaked
like lightning to his hip. For a second or two he
remained perfectly motionless then, a grim smile
slowly relaxing his features, he dropped his hand
and gazed silently at the strange scene that met his
eyes.\par

He beheld an under-sized, grizzled-bearded old
man about sixty who, with the vacuous smile of the
partially intoxicated, was leveling a rifle at him with
shaking hands. He was seated in an arm-chair, at
a rough table, that was littered with dirty crockery
and cooking utensils. An empty glass was in front
of him.\par

“{\itshape{Saku bona, N’kos}},” greeted Ellis mockingly.\par

“{\itshape{Saku bona, Umlungu,}}” came the guttural response,
while the wavering rifle barrel slowly descended
and the shriveled, stringy old throat worked
convulsively. “{\itshape{Allemachtig}}—but I thort you wos
that {\itshape{verdomde schelm}}—Short an’ Dirty—come
a-nosin’ arahnd agin.”\par

Born and bred in the East End of London, thirty
years on the South African veldt and ten in Canada,
had not depreciated Tucker’s accent much, and his
speech was a curious jargon of Afrikander, Cockney,
and Western vernacular.\par

“H—l!” said the policeman irritably. “Is this
th’ way yu’ greet yore friends these days? Been
gettin’ yore Dutch up, eh?—an’ early, at that.
What’s th’ matter with Shorty? {\itshape{He’s}} all right!
Wen wos ’e arahnd?”\par

“Yestiddy mornin’,” piped Tucker. “I tell yer
I cawn’t abide that feller. I dahn’t like th’ looks of
’im an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave ’im come a-messin’
abaht ’ere ... ’e ain’t up ter no good. {\itshape{Whau!}}—I’ll
{\itshape{skiet die verdomde schepsel}},” he finished with a
screech, and raising the rifle again.\par

“Here! Yu’ come across with that gun!”
snapped the Sergeant. “Yu’ make me nervous.
Come on now, Bob—let’s have it. D’yu’ hear?”\par

Alternately threatening and cajoling, he at length
obtained the weapon and, jerking open the lever,
pumped the magazine empty of shells. These he
gathered up and put in his pocket.\par

“Got any more?” he inquired, ledging the rifle on
some pegs.\par

The old man glowered at him silently, and pointed
with a shaking finger to a cupboard, where a minute
search produced two more packets of cartridges,
which speedily joined the others.\par

“A man that’s {\itshape{dronk}} ain’t got no business monkey’n’
around with a gun,” remarked the policeman
judicially.\par

“You’re a {\itshape{leugenaar}}” hiccuped Tucker indignantly.
“I ain’t {\itshape{dronk}}.”\par

“No—yu’ ain’t,” retorted the Sergeant ironically.
“Yu’ve got th’ makin’s of a first-class jag,
though. Th’ smell of yore breath’s mighty refreshin’.
Yu’ wanta do what’s right when a man
wearin’ th’ King’s uniform comes arahnd yore
{\itshape{laager}}.”\par

The implied appeal to his hospitality was not lost
upon the other who, arising with difficulty, walked
unsteadily over to a dirty sofa and, groping underneath,
dragged forth a half-full Imperial quart bottle
of “Burke’s Irish.”\par

“{\itshape{Whau!}} Got it cached, eh? I {\itshape{korner}},” chuckled
Ellis, reaching for a glass and pouring himself
out a generous libation. “{\itshape{Allemachtig}}, but I’m dry
this mornin’. Wish this was good, cold tickey beer
instead o’ whiskey. {\itshape{N’dipe manzi?}}”\par

His elderly host, relaxing back into his arm-chair
again, indicated a bucket and dipper. Benton mixed
his drink and raised his glass.\par

“{\itshape{Salue}},” he muttered, and drank.\par

“{\itshape{Drink hael}},” the other responded gruffly.\par

Putting down his empty glass, the Sergeant seated
himself and proceeded to roll a cigarette.\par

“See here; look,” he began, licking the paper
across. “Yu’ll be gettin’ {\itshape{dronk}} an’ doin’
some poor sucker a mischief with that gun if
yu’ ain’t careful; an’ then yu’ll most likely land in
{\itshape{die tronk}} on a murder charge, {\itshape{Myjnheer}} Bob
Tucker.\par

“Say,” he continued suspiciously, as a sudden
thought struck him. “Yu’ was over to th’ detachment
to see me th’ day before yesterday, wasn’t
yu’?”\par

“{\itshape{Ja}},” answered the old man sulkily. “An’ yer
ain’t never abaht w’en a feller wants yer.”\par

Ignoring the testy reply, the policeman resumed:
“When yu’ left Barney Gallagher’s which trail d’yu’
come home by?—th’ long ’un, or th’ short ’un
through my pasture?”\par

“Th’ short ’un,” said Tucker wonderingly.
“W’y?”\par

“Anythin’ happen to yu’ on th’ trail?” inquired
his interlocutor.\par

The old man hesitated a moment. “{\itshape{Ja!}} Did
’ave a bit of a shindig,” he admitted shamefacedly.\par

“{\itshape{Ja}},” said the Sergeant. “I thought so; an’
now I’ll tell yu’ what happened. Yu’ was {\itshape{dronk}} an’
let yore lines catch under th’ end o’ th’ {\itshape{disselboom}},
an’ yore team up an’ run away on yu’. Managed
to pull ’em up, somehow, I suppose. Providence
always seems to hand out a special dispensation to
fellers that’s full, else more’n likely it’s th’ hospital
{\itshape{yu’d}} be in instead o’ that chair.”\par

“Well, I pulled {\itshape{die schelms}}, anyway,” said the
other. “An’ I ’ad to go back abaht ’arf a mile fer
a bag o’ chicken feed as fell aht.”\par

“{\itshape{Ja!}} ... an’ a bag o’ blasted nails yu’ had
aboard fell aht wiv’ it,” mimicked Ellis, irritably.
“An’ my hawss picked one of ’em up in his nigh-fore
an’ he’s been out o’ business ever since.”\par

The old man, fumbling with trembling fingers
about his waistcoat, produced a short day pipe and,
filling it, proceeded to smoke.\par

“If yu’ don’t let up on th’ {\itshape{dop}} for a space,” resumed
the policeman severely, “yu’ll be havin’ fancies
again—bad ’uns, too.”\par

The abandoned Tucker cocked a boiled eye at his
would-be mentor.\par

“Tchkk!” he clucked testily. “Rats ... an’
sech like. I’ve ’ad ’em.... Yer cawn’t skeer me
wiv yer {\itshape{fancies}},” he shrilled suddenly, with senile
defiance. “’Ow abaht {\itshape{you}}? ’Tis an Aberdeen
man’s ‘Say w’en!’ yer poured aht fer yourself, I
noticed—an’ then yer turns rahnd an’ torks ter
me like a bloomin’ {\itshape{unfundusi}}. {\itshape{Whau!}} I {\itshape{korner
fancies}}!” he wound up bitterly.\par

The Sergeant swallowed the home-thrust with a
tolerant grin.\par

“Ain’t figurin’ on practisin’ what I preach just
yet,” he rejoined.\par

“I’m a pore old feller,” whimpered Tucker, dropping
his pipe and beginning to weep with maudlin
self-pity. “Yer all tries to ‘come it’ over me.”\par

The gray beard jerked up and down convulsively
with his sobs.\par

“Aw, h—l! come, now,” said Benton, not unkindly.
“Yu’ bring a lot o’ yore troubles on yoreself.
Why, don’t yu’ sell out here, Dad, an’ go back
East to yore son there, where yu’d be looked after
properly? Yu’re too old to be livin’ here on yore
lonesome like this.”\par

The old man gazed drearily through the open
door.\par

“I {\itshape{wuz}} dahn theer two years agone,” he said
huskily, and with a querulous, childish simplicity that
moved his hearer more than that individual cared
to show. “My ’Arry’s a good lad, but that theer
{\itshape{vrouw}} o’ ’is kills my pig properly. Nah!—there
ain’t no peace theer. An’ th’ {\itshape{kinders}} cries, an’
w’enever ’e tries ter stan’ hup fer hisself she hups
an’ knocks ’im off th’ perch reg’lar. She started on
me, too,” he went on, spitting vindictively. “But
I pulled aht of it an’ come back ’ere. I ’member
one night I went ’ome wiv a bottle ter ’ave a smile
wiv me b’y. Th’ kitchen door were shut, an’ I c’ud
’ear ’em a-goin’ to it fer fair. All of a sudden there
come such a smack, that I guess she were a-tryin’ ter
prove whether ’is block or ’er mop-stick were th’
’ardest. I weren’t a-goin’ buttin’ in where dry pokes
an’ ’ard words wuz a-goin’, so I {\itshape{trekked}} ant of it
quick—dahn ter th’ pub on th’ corner o’ Iroquois
Street, an’ got {\itshape{dronk}} peaceful on me own. Nah,”
he concluded, spitting again contemptuously, “folks
is best single.”\par

The Sergeant looked hard at the careworn, dissipated
old face, doubting—and not for the first
time, either—whether, under that simple exterior,
there lay not a better philosophy than he himself
could boast of.\par

“Aye,” he agreed slowly. “Like as not yu’re
right, Dad—like as not. Now, what was it yu’
come to see me about?”\par

The old man fidgeted in his chair uneasily.\par

“You mind me a-tellin’ yer once abaht that theer
old nitchie ‘Roll-in-th’-Mud,’ as I fahnd larst year
in th’ bush, wiv ’is leg broke, an’ took back ter th’
Agency ag’in?”\par

The policeman nodded. He had heard the oft-repeated
tale more times than he could remember.\par

“Well,” continued his host. “Th’ old feller
comes arahnd ter see me now an’ ag’in—just ter
say ‘Howdy’ an’ cadge a bit o’ baccer. Well, th’
mornin’ I come over ter see you I wuz ahtside th’
stable {\itshape{inspannin’}} me team, meanin’ fer ter {\itshape{trek}} over
ter Barney Gallagher’s fer some chicken feed an’
stuff, w’en ’e comes a-jiggin’ by, a-{\itshape{sjambokin’}} ’is old
cayuse like them nitchies ullus does. ’E pulls hup
w’en ’e sees me, an’ grins. ‘Howdy,’ says I.
‘Howdy,’ says ’e. I dahn’t savvy ’is {\itshape{indaba}}, so we
ullus mykes sign tork. ’E seemed kind o’ excited
like an’ ’e catches me by th’ coat an’ leads me rahnd
th’ back o’ th’ stable, where we cud see th’ ’orses in
th’ field. ’E starts in ter wive ’is arms like as if ’e
wuz a-tryin’ ter imityte a bloke a-drivin’ ’em aw’y
to’rds th’ West, then ’e touches ’is chest an’ grunts
‘{\itshape{Naymoyer, naymoyer}},’ two or three times, an’
shykes ’is ’ead. I catches on ter wot ’e meant, quick ... cudn’t
’elp it. ’E wuz a-meanin’ that some
bloke wuz a-goin’ ter try an’ run ’em off from me,
an’ wanted ’im ter ’elp ’im an’ ’e wudn’t. That’s
wot ’e meant,” wound up Tucker breathlessly, turning
an imploring, frightened face to the Sergeant.
“An’ I figger that theer bloke wuz that same {\itshape{schelm}},
Short an’ Dirty.”\par

For reasons of his own, the policeman tried to
allay the old man’s shrewd suspicions.\par

“Now, don’t yu’ go for to get a-blamin’ poor
Shorty for everythin’. He ain’t figurin’ to do yu’
no harm. P’r’aps th’ nitchie was only meanin’ yore
stock wanted turnin’ out of that god-forsaken pasture
o’ yores, onto th’ range again, where they can
rustle a bite. It’s a blasted shame, yore coopin’ ’em
up like that. That’s what old ‘Roll-in-th’-Mud’
meant.”\par

Thus he chided, but Tucker only shook his
gray head obstinately, and clung firmly to his pet
conviction.\par

“Had any more visitors th’ last two or three days
besides Shorty?” queried Benton.\par

The old man struggled with his liquor-fumed wits
awhile, torturing his memory.\par

“Let’s see,” he said slowly. “W’y, yes!...
That theer young feller—Scotty Robbins, I think’s
’is nyme—wot works fer th’ Wharnock outfit ...
’e come arahnd abaht fower d’ys ago. ’E’s come
’ere ter see me lots o’ times. ’E said once as ’ow
’e wished ’e ’ad th’ money ter buy me plice. ’E
seems a nice, kind-’earted young feller—that.
Sometimes ’e brings another feller wot works wiv
’im along too. ’E’s a big chap—’is nyme’s Fisk.”\par

“Yes,” said Ellis meditatively. “I know ’em.
They’re both nice, kind-’earted fellers, as yu’ say.”\par

He looked at his watch and jumped to his feet.
“Well, I reckon I’ll be pullin’ back,” he said. “I’ll
go on over to th’ Reserve sometime soon, and see old
Roll-in-th’-Mud, an’ have a palaver with him through
an interpreter.”\par

The old man arose shakily and, with a string of
Dutch and Zulu maledictions on his supposed enemies,
put a trembling, withered hand on the policeman’s
sleeve.\par

“Yer won’t let any o’ th’ {\itshape{schelms}} put anyfink
over on me, will yer, son?” he said wistfully.\par

Benton turned and looked at him kindly, and a
wave of compassionate pity for the helpless old reprobate
who besought his protection, not unmixed
with anger at the men who aimed to despoil him,
stirred his deep, sympathetic nature strangely.\par

“Now, don’t yu’ worrit none. I’ll look after
yu’, Dad,” he said gently. “Only yu’ wanta take a
tumble an’ turn that stock o’ yores out tomorrow ... they’re
starvin’. An’ don’t yu’ go a-gettin’
full an’ monkey’n’ around with that gun no more,
else I won’t,” he added warningly. “I’m a-goin’
to keep them shells for a time, to insure yore good
behavior.”\par

Tucker, overwhelming him with abject promises
of immediate and lasting reform, tottered out into
the open after him.\par

“W’en I see that theer buckskin ’orse o’ Barney
Gallagher’s thru’ th’ winder, I made shore as it wuz
Short an’ Dirty comin’ arahnd ag’in,” he piped.
“W’y, {\itshape{’e}} used ter ride ’im.”\par

“{\itshape{Ja}},” answered Ellis enigmatically, as he swung
into the saddle. “{\itshape{Used.}} Well, so long, Dad.
Mind what I told yu’, now. I’ll be around to see
yu’ again soon.”\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER IX}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Saint Pether ... who hold’st th’ Keys av Hivin—\par}
{\vl Oi’m poor ... an’ Oi’m old ... comin’ sixty-sivin—\par}
{\vl Thru’ booze ... ? Eyah!—partly ... but honust, Oi’ve bin—\par}
{\vl Saint Pether ... Och!—won’t ye—plaze—let me—come in?”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Derelict}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
With a feeling of exultation he loped
swiftly away. His morning had not been
wasted, he reflected. “All over but th’
shoutin’,” he muttered.\par

“Wish I’d got time to go an’ see that nitchie,
though. Can’t make th’ Agency today, now. Well,
let’s see how this comes off. I can get that old beggar
any old time.”\par

Then, suddenly, an uneasy thought crossed his
mind. What if they didn’t show up. If they were
hanging around somewhere close at hand, and had
seen him coming and going from Tucker’s. His
alert eyes flickered around the rolling stretch of
prairie unceasingly, but nothing more disturbing
than a few scattered bunches of horses and cattle appeared
to his vision. Presently, topping the summit
of a small rise on the familiar trail, he came
within sight of the detachment again.\par

Suddenly he pulled up sharply.\par

“Why, hello!” he ejaculated. “What th’ devil’s
up now?”\par

For, in the distance, he saw a team and wagon
outside the dwelling, with two figures scuffling at the
horses’ heads, and the wind brought to his ears the
sounds of a violent altercation. Jabbing the spurs
into the buckskin, he raced towards them, and his
speed soon brought him up to the combatants, who
were just picking themselves up from a clinch on
the ground. In one of them he immediately recognized
a rancher in the district named Pryce—commonly
known as “Ginger” Pryce, from the somewhat
sanguine color of his hair and corresponding
temperament. The other, a tall, stooping, shrunken-faced
old man, was a stranger to him. The latter’s
face was bleeding, and he was gasping for breath
from his encounter with his younger antagonist with
long, wheezy, asthmatical sobs that shook his emaciated
body terribly.\par

“Here, now! What in h—l’s this racket
about?” shouted the Sergeant, dismounting.\par

Spitting, and breathing heavily, Pryce burst out:
“Them hawsses an’ wagon is mine!” He choked
with his rage, and paused to regain his wind. “Yu’
’member I come around to yu’ when they was stole
’bout three weeks ago?” he ran on excitedly. “I
was comin’ along th’ trail ’bout a mile nor’west o’
here when I meets this old stiff comin’ sailin’ along
with {\itshape{my}} team an’ wagon, as bold as yu’ like. He
says he bought ’em, an’ he’s showed me a bill o’
sale that he says he got off’n th’ feller he bought ’em
from ... but I’ll gamble it’s only a faked-up one,
an’ {\itshape{he’s}} th’ feller what stole ’em. I made him drive
on here to yore place. Yu’ wasn’t in, so we gets
arguin’, an’ he calls me a ‘red-headed rooster.’ I
won’t take that off’n any man—old or young.”\par

“Why didn’t yu’ put th’ boots to him while yu’
was at it?” said Ellis, with sneering sarcasm.
“He’s only an old man an’ I guess yu’ could easy
do it.\par

“Well, old gentleman,” he continued. “What
about this outfit? Where’d yu’ get ’em?”\par

Pale and exhausted, the aged man strove to recover
from his distress. His agitation was pitiable,
and the Sergeant gave him time and waited quietly.\par

Speech suddenly broke from him, in a torrent of
expostulation.\par

“I didn’t steal ’em!” he shrilled, in a thin, high,
cracked falsetto. “I didn’t!—I bought ’em honest ... an’
I’ve got th’ bill o’ sale to prove it.
I’m an honest man ... always have bin ... an’—an’
this feller here’s abused me an’ beat me up ... an’ he’s
twenty years younger’n me, if he’s a
day. O-oh, o-oh, oh, my God!...” And the tears
ran down his lined old face into his gray beard.\par

“Yu’ did steal ’em, you old liar—yu’ know yu’
did!” Pryce commenced to yell back at him.\par

“Aw, quit yore squallin’, Pryce,” snarled the policeman
angrily, “or I’ll damned soon give yu’
somethin’ to squall about. This ain’t a dog fight.
{\itshape{I’m}} runnin’ this inquiry, an’ I’ll have it conducted in
a proper manner. Just yu’ keep yore traps closed—both
of yu’—an’ only open ’em to answer my
questions. D’yu’ hear?”\par

This roughly administered tonic had its effect, and
the agitators grew perceptibly quieter. The Sergeant
watched them narrowly.\par

“Now, let’s start in again,” he said. “Yu’,
Pryce! Yore team, wagon an’ harness disappeared
on th’—th’—wait a bit, I’ve got it in my notebook—‘on
th’ sixth o’ June. Team o’ dark bays,
branded E four on th’ right shoulder. One with
white star on forehead an’ two white hind-fetlocks,
an’ t’other, white strip on forehead, an’ a small
kidney-sore on left side o’ back. Heavy, double-stitched
harness, with brass-mounted hames.
Wagon—Studebaker—almost new.’”\par

He leisurely examined the brands on the team and
nodded as if satisfied.\par

“That’s yore team all right,” he said. “Now,
let’s have a look at th’ wagon. ‘Studebakers’ is
common enough. Is there any marks, or somethin’
yu’ can positively swear to, about it—harness, th’
same?”\par

The other, nodding sulkily, indicated various features
of identification.\par

With a final scrutiny, Ellis turned to the old man
who, by this time, had recovered sufficiently to give
fairly coherent answers.\par

“Let’s have a look at yore bill o’ sale, Dad,” he
said.\par

The other, fumbling with shaking old hands about
his pockets, at length produced a dirty folded paper.
Benton opened it and proceeded to scan it closely,
with a running commentary.\par

“‘Sold to Hiram Bryan. One bay team.
Branded E four on right shoulder.’ H’m, h’m.
‘Thirteenth of June.’ Unlucky day for yu’, Dad.
‘One horse, two white’—h’m, h’m, descriptions correspond
O. K. ‘Two hundred an’ fifty.’ Got th’
outfit cheap enough ... but I don’t know ...
nigh horse is all right, but th’ off’n ain’t worth a
d—n with them bog-spavins. Seems to be made out
in order, all right. Hello! Whose signature’s
this? ‘Gordon Brown’!” He looked up suddenly.
“Now, perhaps you’ll tell me who, an’ what like of
a feller this ‘Mister Gordon Brown’ is?”\par

The old man gazed at his interlocutor out of
watering, rheumy eyes.\par

“Why, he’s a big feller, with a black beard,” he
piped unhesitatingly. And slowly and haltingly,
with heavy, asthmatical breathing, he began his labored
explanation.\par

“I’d just come over th’ Line, from Nebrasky.
Things was bad down ther’, an’ I figgered on filin’
on a bit of a homestead somewheres around this part
o’ th’ country. I was in th’ hotel at Sabbano when
I first met this feller—him an’ his partner, a
younger chap—an’ we got a-talkin’ together. He
said as how they’d had a homestead down this ways,
but had got burnt out ... so they was—or he
was—goin’ ter take up ’nother place, somewheres
up in th’ bush, west o’ here ... later. I told him
as I had a bit o’ money an’ was a-figgerin’ on buyin’
a wagon an’ team ... an’ he says: ‘Why, we’ll
sell yu’ our’n ... we ain’t got no use fer ’em jest
now, an’ afterwards I kin offer yu’ a job—freightin’
some stuff o’ ours up to our new place.’ He said
as how him an’ his partner were a-workin’ fer an
outfit called th’ Wharnock Cattle Company.” (Ellis
started involuntarily.) “They was a freightin’ some
supplies back ter th’ outfit with a four-horse team,
an’ he says ter me: ‘Yu’ kin come back with us, ef
yu’ like, an’ see th’ team an’ wagon ... an’ ef yu’
buy ’em, I guess I kin get yu’ a job teamin’ fer th’
company till we’re ready ter pull out ter our own
place.’ They’d got a big load on, so it was a two-days’
trip, an’ th’ night we gets ther’, he says:
‘We’ve got ’em bein’ kept over at a friend o’ our’n.
Me partner here’ll go get ’em in th’ mornin’.’ Well,
th’ young feller brings ’em in th’ next afternoon an’,
as they looked as th’ kind I wanted, an’ th’ price bein’
all right why, I buys ’em, an’ he gives me this bill o’
sale.”\par

“D’yu’ pay him cash?” inquired Ellis.\par

The old man nodded wearily. “Two hunnerd
an’ fifty dollars,” he murmured. “I on’y had a
hundred left, but they got me inter a poker game
at th’ outfit, an’ they skinned me o’ that. Th’ big
feller, he fixed it up with th’ foreman fer me ter
work ther’ with me team fer a week or two. Th’
day before yestiddy he comes ter me an’ he says:
‘Termorrer mornin’ yu’ get yore team an’ pull out
fer Cherry Creek. We’re ready ter quit now, an’
there’s some stuff down ther’ as we wants yu’ ter
freight up ter our place in th’ bush.’ He tells me th’
way, an’ he says: ‘Yu’ hit th’ trail that goes south,
past a feller called Barney Gallagher’s. Don’t yu’
{\itshape{stop}} ther’, though. Ther’ll be a feller with red
hair, on a white hawss, meet yu’ somewheres around
ther’, and’ he’ll show yu’ wher’ ther’ stuff is, an’
help yu’ ter get it loaded.’ Well, I pulls out, an’
comes over here, an’ fust thing I know is, I meets
up with this feller” (here he indicated Pryce), “an’
he holds me up, an’ says as how th’ team an’ wagon’s
his’n,” he wound up, with a hopeless inflection in his
tones.\par

There followed a long silence. The policeman
remained in deep thought awhile.\par

“See here; look,” he said. “Yu’ tell me as near
as yu’ can, what this big feller’s like.”\par

The old man looked at him absently a moment.\par

“Eh?” he said. “Why, he’s a big feller with
a black beard. They calls him ‘George’ around
th’ outfit. Th’ young feller ... they calls {\itshape{him}}
‘Scotty.’ I dunno what his other name is. All my
dealin’s has bin mostly with th’ big feller—‘George.’
He does all th’ talkin’ ... an’ th’ young chap ...
seems ter do as he tells him.”\par

The Sergeant nodded gravely. “That settles it,”
he said sharply.\par

Pryce, who, all this time, had been an eager listener,
now sputtered excitedly: “Why, why—that’s
George Fisk an’ Scotty Robbins he’s a-meanin’.
Must be. H—l! {\itshape{They’re}} all right. I know ’em
both well. It ain’t likely as {\itshape{they’d}} come a-sneakin’
’round a feller’s place while he was away an’ steal
his outfit. I’m a-goin’ ter ride over ter th’ Wharnock
outfit right now an’ see’f this old gink’s a-tellin’
th’ truth,” he ended, with a spiteful glance at the
old man.\par

Ellis turned and regarded him with his peculiar,
blank, aggressive stare.\par

“Well, I guess yu’ {\itshape{ain’t}},” he drawled coldly.
“That’s {\itshape{my}} end o’ this business. I know more about
them same two fellers’n what yu’ do. I know this
much, too. From information I’ve received, yu’
wouldn’t find ’em {\itshape{at}} th’ outfit just now, anyways.”\par

The other stared at him sullenly.\par

“That ther’ team an’ wagon’s mine, no matter
whether them fellers is at home or abroad,” he
began blusteringly. “An’ I guess I’ll take ’em back
with me.”\par

“Reckon yu’ve got another guess comin’, then,”
rejoined the policeman dryly. “Th’ outfit may be
your’n, all right, but yu’ don’t get ’em till this business
is all cleared up, an’ th’ Court orders ’em to be
returned to yu’. When I’m ready, I’ll notify yu’ to
come into Sabbano—with yore witnesses, yu’ understand—to
prove yore ownership. D’yu’ get me
now?” he rapped out harshly, with a rising inflection
in his tones.\par

The red-headed rancher regarded him with a
sulky, brooding stare, the premeditated retort dying
on his lips. For there was {\itshape{that}} in the Sergeant’s
face and voice, just then, that forbade any talking
back; so, with a last, lingering, dissatisfied look at
his newly found property, he slowly mounted his
waiting horse and rode away.\par

Benton noted the course he took with grim satisfaction.
No fear of his meeting {\itshape{them}} now. He
was going home, all right—his place {\itshape{lay}} nor’east,
he reflected. {\itshape{They}} would come in from the sou’west.
He turned to the old man, whom the bill of sale had
named as Bryan.\par

“Unhitch that team an’ put ’em in th’ stable,
Bryan,” he said. “An’ take th’ harness off ’em.
I’m a-goin’ to hold yu’ on a charge of vagrancy till
this mix-up’s all squared out.”\par

Slowly the other complied with the Sergeant’s
order and, leading the horses into the stable, endeavored
to unharness them; but the weight of the
heavy, brass-mounted hames seemed too much for
his strength to raise and hang on the stable-pegs.
He staggered and almost fell, the Sergeant coming
to his assistance, and giving him a hand.\par

“An’ {\itshape{yu’}} figured on takin’ up a homestead, Dad?”
he said incredulously. “Why, with yore age, an
th’ shape yu’re in, it’d kill yu’. Yu’ ain’t fit for
nothin’ like {\itshape{that}}. Whatever d’yu’ come over here
for? Ain’t yu’ no friends—relations, or family,
back where yu’ come from—to look after yu’?”\par

The old man shook his gray head despondently
and, with a weary sigh and long-drawn whistling
breaths, sank down on an oat bin.\par

“I did hev one time,” he wheezed, in the cracked,
querulous tones of the aged. “Plenty o’ money,
too! Oh, I hed lots o’ friends—then. I raised
four of a family—three boys an’ a girl. They’re
all married, an’ livin’ in different parts o’ th’ States.
They don’t bother none over th’ ol’ man—now.
Th’ wife—she was th’ last one as I hed in th’
world ter call friend. She died last Christmas, so
I come over here. Son,” he said, with an impressive
solemnity, pausing a moment, “whin yu’ see a
man o’ my years down an’ out, what d’yu’ gen’rally
figger’s wrong?”\par

Ellis, with an inscrutable face, was thoughtfully
studying the venerable, weary countenance of his
elderly vis-a-vis.\par

“Booze?” he queried slowly.\par

“I reckon yu’ hev it,” was the hopeless reply.
“Me own worst friend! But—I hev always bin
honest.”\par

The policeman considered the other’s face a moment
or two longer, then suddenly made up his mind.\par

“I’ll take a chance on it,” he muttered; then, raising
his voice. “See here; look, Bryan,” he said.
“Sizin’ things up as they’ve panned out up to date,
I believe yu’ve been tellin’ me th’ straight tale, all
right. Now, I’ve got another feller in here—locked
up. There’s only one cell. But I’m not
a-goin’ to shut yu’ in with a dirty criminal like him,
if yu’ll give me yore word as th’ honest man yu’ call
yoreself, yu’ won’t try to skip out on me. I’ll be
away tonight—or th’ best part o’ th’ night—on
duty. So yu’ an’ this feller’ll be alone in here.
Yu’re not to talk to him, mind. Yu’ can give him a
cup o’ water thru’ th’ bars if he wants it, but no
matches or anythin’ to smoke. I’m takin’ no chances
on a fire while I’m away. Yu’ can just lay around
an’ sleep on my cot, an’ let that feller think as yu’re
a-watchin’ him. ’Member,” he added warningly,
“if yu’ {\itshape{did}} try to skip, I could easy catch yu’ ag’in ... an’
it’d be a sure sign yu’ was a guilty accomplice
o’ these fellers. I need yu’ as an all-important
witness, an’ this is th’ only chance yu’ve got of gettin’
clear. D’yu’ get me now?”\par

The old man, seeming grateful at the trust thus
reposed in him, eagerly gave the required promise.\par

“Son,” he said solemnly. “I give yu’ my word.
Yu’re treatin’ me like a white man.”\par

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CHAPTER X}

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{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!\par}
{\vl No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!\par}
{\vl That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,\par}
{\vl Through bars of brass and triple steel!—\par}
{\vl They tug, they strain! down, down they go,\par}
{\vl The Gael above, Fitz-James below.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Scott}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Seven o’clock came, and the Sergeant, with
a few parting instructions to old Hiram Bryan,
saddled up and departed for Gallagher’s.\par

The latter who, pipe in mouth, was seated on the
steps of his shack busily splicing a hondu in a rawhide
lariat, or riata, looked up at the other’s approach,
and glanced curiously at the Sergeant’s unfamiliar
dress and mount.\par

“Hello,” he said waggishly. “Fancy-dress ball,
eh? What’s th’ idea?”\par

For Benton was riding the prisoner’s white horse
and also wearing that gentleman’s chaps, coat, hat,
and white handkerchief.\par

Ellis grinned. “They’re expaictin’ Shorty,” he
said. “Mustn’t disappoint ’em.”\par

Half an hour later the two men rode slowly along
the trail leading to Fish Creek. The evening shadows
began to close in, but they dawdled, keeping a
wary look-out and talking in low, guarded tones, for
voices carry far over the range on still nights.\par

“Sergeant,” said Gallagher casually, during their
progress. “’Member, it ain’t that I’m grudgin’
givin’ yu’ this bit o’ help but, d’yu’ know, I’ve often
thort it kinder queer-like as yu’ don’t get ’em to give
yu’ another man to help yu’ out here?”\par

Ellis did not reply immediately. “I could,” he
said presently. “But what’d be th’ use? They’d
most likely send me along some gentlemanly young
‘Percy,’ just fresh up from Regina, who didn’t know
his mouth from a hole in th’ ground. It ain’t no
child’s play—handlin’ th’ crooked stock cases in a
district like this. A man’s got to be onto his job
right from th’ drop o’ th’ hat. Look how they put
it over Williamson—what! He should never have
come here. He should have stayed with that staff
job in th’ Q.M.’s store ... never did nothin’ else
since he’s bin in th’ Force. They saddled me with a
peach once, I mind—when I was stationed at Goddard.
He was a nice, well-meanin’ kid, all right,
but all th’ same he queered two o’ th’ best cases I’ve
ever had,” he ended bitterly.\par

They rode side by side in silence awhile.\par

“Yu’ heeled?” inquired the Sergeant quietly.
And, as the other nodded, and tapped his hip significantly:
“Mind, though, I ain’t anxious to have
any shootin’ on this business, unless it’s absolutely
necessary. I don’t want no cursed chasin’ in th’
dark, either, with th’ chances o’ th’ hawsses comin’
down wallop, in every doggoned badger-hole around.
I ain’t just figured {\itshape{how}} I’m a-goin’ to get ’em yet!
Can’t tell, this stage o’ th’ game. It’ll most likely
have to be somethin’ almighty sudden, yu’ can take
yore oath o’ that!”\par

Arriving later at the previously mentioned line of
brush that fringed the west side of Tucker’s pasture,
they struck in along the old cow trail and dismounting
about thirty yards from the gate, still within the
shelter of the dense bush, they squatted down and
awaited events.\par

A three-quarter moon showed itself rarely through
a thick rift of clouds and, as their eyes became accustomed
to the curious gray light that flooded everything
around, objects within a certain radius stood
out with surprising clearness.\par

“Lord!” said the policeman in a low undertone,
“I wish we could smoke. ’Twon’t do to chance
strikin’ a match, though. Reckon they’ll foller th’
fence-line from th’ sou’west angle when they {\itshape{do}}
come. Good job Tucker ain’t got no dogs to start
in yappin’. Guess {\itshape{he’s}} drunk an’ sleepin’ by now.
Good job, too, he don’t know no more’n he does.
He’d be a-runnin’ around all worked up like a flea
in a mitt, with that old Mauser o’ his, an’ shootin’
at th’ moon.”\par

“We’ll have ter look out for them hawsses o’
our’n a-whinnyin’, too,” said Gallagher anxiously.
“That’s what I’m scared of.”\par

A slow, dreary hour passed. Ellis arose stiffly,
and stretched himself.\par

“I’m gettin’ tired o’ settin’ here,” he whispered
to the other. “I’m a-goin’ out to th’ edge o’ th’
brush. If either o’ them hawsses starts in, yu’ cut
th’ wind off’n him quick.” And he stole away noiselessly.\par

He was barely away ten minutes before he came
gliding back.\par

“Here comes somebody,” he whispered.
“Along from th’ sou’west angle, as I figured, too.
Guess it’s them, all right. If ’tis, I reckon I’ll have
to jump somethin’ hot off’n th’ brain ’bout gettin’
’em.”\par

With all their faculties on the stretch, they held
their breaths and listened intently. Soon their eager
ears caught the sound of approaching horses and the
faint creak of leather. Straining their eyes in the
gloom, they presently made out the forms of two
riders slowly and cautiously traversing the cleared
strip that lay between the fence and the line of
brush.\par

Reaching the gate they halted, but making no attempt,
as yet, to dismount or open it, remained lolling
on their horses and talking in low tones.\par

“Waitin’ for Shorty,” whispered Ellis to Gallagher
who, smothering a chuckle, whispered back:
“Some wait!”\par

Even in that dim light they could see that one of
the riders loomed up a big, bulky shape, in contrast
to his slighter-appearing companion.\par

“That’s Big George, all right,” murmured the
rancher into Benton’s ear as a low, deep bass undertone
rumbled to them. “Listen ter that voice o’
his!”\par

Ready for emergencies, they quietly watched the
two dark forms and patiently waited. Their vigil
was short. An unmistakable, smothered oath came
to their ears. The guarded, booming growl of the
bigger man, became more insistent. They saw the
slighter shape dismount and, presently the “tang”
of a tightly stretched barbed-wire gate being released
and drawn aside sounded sharply in the stillness.
The big shape, still mounted, slowly disappeared
into the shadows beyond, the smaller one resuming
his seat in the saddle and waiting at the opening.\par

Feverishly the Sergeant weighed the situation.
“Scotty” Robbins—and, without a doubt, it must
be he—possessed an extraordinarily fast horse, he
reflected. Even if he {\itshape{was}} able, under the guise of
Shorty, to range near enough to close, it was not particularly
easy to pull a good rider like Scotty out of
the saddle. He would be sure to raise a loud outcry
at the first attempt, and thus warn Fisk. If he
once got away, it would be futile to follow him in the
dark.\par

The emergency caused a wild thought to flash into
Benton’s fertile brain. Why not {\itshape{rope}} him? Long
years of constant practise had rendered him clever
with a lariat. It was worth trying. The tumble
would insure Scotty’s partial silence anyway, and
Gallagher could fix the rest, leaving him free to
tackle Big George, whom he knew it would be suicidal
to ever call on to surrender at close range.\par

Clutching his companion, he whispered tensely:
“Now they’re split! I’ll have to nail Mister
Scotty quick, before he gets a chance to make a
breakaway. That roan o’ his—‘Duster’—can
run anythin’ around here off’n its laigs. I’m a-goin’
to try {\itshape{ropin’}} him. Let’s have that rawhide riata o’
yores—that ‘black-jack’ o’ mine kinks. Get yore
handkerchief ready, an’ run out an’ cram it into his
kisser an’ choke th’ —— if he starts in to holler.
Here, Barney!”—he slipped the latter a pair of
handcuffs—“hold these. Keep ’em open an’ give
’em to me when I say. Now look out! Gaffle him
quick when I jerk him off’n th’ perch.”\par

Leading Shorty’s horse slowly and heedfully back
through the brush, the way they had come, he
mounted and, after carefully shaking out a loop to
his liking in the riata, which he trailed in readiness
with back-flung hand, he circled around until he
reached the clear space between the fence and the
brush.\par

Suddenly his borrowed mount nickered. Scotty
Robbins started nervously at the sound, but a sigh
of relief escaped him as the shape of the familiar
white horse became revealed to his vision.\par

“Oh, Shorty—that yu’?” he called out, in a
loud, tense undertone.\par

There was no answer from the rider, who approached
near—{\itshape{nearer}}.\par

Suddenly. “Swis-s-s-s,” came the sibilant hiss of
something through the air, and the loop of a riata
flopped fairly over his head and shoulders. Taken
utterly by surprise, he uttered a frightened squawk
and, with a quick upward thrust of his arm, endeavored
to free himself of the encumbrance. The
movement was too late. That single squawk was his
limit. For the other, wheeling his horse on the instant,
rammed in the spurs, and the next moment
there came a terrible jerk that tore his clutching
hands from the saddle-horn and flung him to the
ground with all the breath knocked out of his body.\par

The startled, riderless horse gave a violent jump
at the unexpected occurrence and tried to run, but
the trailing lines under its feet causing its head
to be yanked down severely at every step, from
customary experience it soon pulled up, snorting
nervously.\par

With as much compunction as a cow-puncher who
drags a calf up to the branding fire, so Ellis swiftly
trailed the unfortunate Scotty towards the opening
in the brush. The watchful Gallagher darted noiselessly
forward and, turning him on his back, slacked
off the lariat.\par

Benton leaped down. “Quick!” he whispered
fiercely. “Let’s have ’em!”\par

Snatching the handcuffs from the other, he snipped
them on Scotty’s wrists. The latter was still moaning
and gasping with the shock of his fall.\par

“Yu’ ain’t croaked him, hev yu’, Sargint?” said
the rancher, in a low voice.\par

“Nah,” snarled the policeman, in a tense whisper.
“That flop’s jerked th’ wind outa him, that’s all.
He’ll come to in a second an’ most likely start in to
bawl, so yu’ll wanta be ready with that handkerchief.
Say! that’s sure some rope-horse o’ Shorty’s—c’n
turn on a dollar. See here; look! I’m a-goin’ to
wait at th’ gate for George. No use for to try an’
rope {\itshape{him}}—he’s too heavy. I’ll have to fix him
some other road. He’ll be some handful, too, believe
me! If I shout for yu’, leave Scotty an’ come
on th’ dead run. Mind, though, I don’t want no
shootin’ unless it’s absolutely necessary.”\par

He turned swiftly, and was about to mount again,
when a sudden thought flashed into his mind.
Scotty was not wearing white chaps. They would
be a “dead give away,” he reflected. At close range
they would show up plainly to Fisk in that light.\par

The next instant he had unbuckled the waist-strap
and kicked them off; then, leaving Shorty’s white
horse, he ran to where his late victim’s mount still
stood waiting. At his sudden, hasty approach, it
edged away slightly, and snorted, scenting an unfamiliar
being; but, impatient, he grabbed at and
caught one of its trailing lines, and the next minute
was in the saddle. The stirrups were about an
equal length to his own, so he felt comfortable
enough on the beautiful, springy beast. Taking up
its owner’s previous position at the open gate, he
waited quietly.\par

Soon there came a slowly gathering, muffled thud
of many hoofs, and the shadowy blurr of a bunch of
horses became visible to him as they drew near.
On they came, and the leader, after suddenly stopping
and snorting with puffed-out nostrils at the apparition
of the rider, who remained so motionless
at the side of the gate, darted through, the others
speedily following, well strung out by the skilful
tactics of their driver to avoid jamming at the opening.\par

As the last horse passed through the gate, Ellis
planted himself squarely in the midway, facing the
rider, who was bringing up the rear. The huge
form gradually loomed up nearer to him in the
surrounding gloom.\par

“H—l! what yu’ waitin’ fur, d—n yu’?” rumbled
the deep, harsh, low-pitched voice. “Why
didn’t yu’ head ’em off, west?”\par

Benton moved forward slowly with raised hand.\par

“Sh-sh!” he hissed warningly.\par

Fisk halted irresolutely. Scotty’s horse fooled
him completely.\par

“What’s up?” he growled.\par

Ellis, his powerful right arm swinging free,
ranged up alongside as if to have speech with the
other. Then suddenly, and with an uncanny swiftness,
he silently and viciously struck for the angle
of the big man’s jaw.\par

The blow crashed home, and the great body went
lurching sideways out of the saddle. Like a flash
the Sergeant swung down off his horse and jumped
for the rustler, dragging out another pair of handcuffs
as he did so.\par

His haste was his undoing, for he got wedged in
between the frightened, jostling horses and knocked
sprawling. The next instant a huge, bear-like shape
that made horrible, beast-like noises in its throat,
fell upon him and clutched his arms. Frenziedly he
writhed under that terrible grip.\par

“Barney!” he yelled. “Oh, Bar—!”\par

But his cry changed to a gurgle as the other’s hold
shifted to his throat. With desperate efforts he
fought off the choking clasp and, wriggling somehow
from under his enemy’s smothering weight, scrambled
with reeling brain to his feet.\par

Big George had arisen also, snorting and grinding
his teeth with mad, demoniacal passion, and
Ellis instinctively guessed that he was fumbling for
his gun. Entirely forgetful of his own weapon in
the Berserker rage that possessed him, the Sergeant
sprang at the giant rustler, hitting out with great
smashing punches to the jaw and stomach, that sent
Fisk staggering back and gave him no opportunity
to draw. With a snarl like a wild beast, he closed
again with his slighter antagonist and, as the two
men swayed hither and thither, Benton became dimly
conscious of Gallagher’s form and voice added to
the melee.\par

Stumbling and tripping, the struggling, cursing
trio came headlong to the ground. Suddenly, with
a gurgling yell of pain, Fisk released his grip on
Ellis, who was the under dog and, clutching at his
own throat, fell backwards; his head, meanwhile,
giving curious, spasmodic jerks. Uncomprehending,
but quick to follow up his advantage, the Sergeant
rolled over upon him; and as he did so, his
hands, seeking the other’s neck, encountered a rope,
and he instantly realized what had happened.\par

“Steady, Barney!” he panted. “Ease up a bit.
Yu’ll choke him.”\par

Roughly, and with the swift celerity of men accustomed
to throwing and hog-tying steers, they
trussed up their late formidable antagonist, winding
the forty-foot riata around him as he kicked and
raved, with a maze of knots that left him as helpless
as a child. Then, utterly spent with their exertions,
they lay back, gasping for air and sweating.\par

Gradually recovering, they regained their speech
somewhat.\par

“G—d!” said Ellis, still breathing heavily,
“that’s about the worst man-handling I guess I ever
{\itshape{did}} get! Here! This won’t do, lyin’ on our backs
all night. Where in h—l’s them bracelets? I
dropped ’em somewheres around here.” And, arising
unsteadily, he began to kick amongst the short
grass.\par

With the aid of some matches the missing articles
were eventually found. The two men then turned
to the huge, bound figure of the rustler, who was
still cursing and twisting under his bonds. Cautiously,
loosening one great arm at a time, they
clasped the steel loops around the enormous wrists.\par

“Should have a gun,” muttered the Sergeant.
“He was a-tryin’ to draw, all right. Can’t get at
it, though, while he’s on his back. Here, let’s roll
him over on his face, Barney, so’s I can get at his
hip-pocket.”\par

In about as gentle a fashion as a lumber-jack twisting
a log with a cant-hook, so the big body was
heaved over into the desired position, and Ellis commenced
his investigations. A smothered exclamation
escaped him.\par

“Hullo!” he said, “what’s this? So {\itshape{that’s}} why
I didn’t get mine, eh?”\par

He struck a match, disclosing by its light the butt
of a long-barreled Colt’s .45 protruding from the
rustler’s right hip-pocket. Being unscabbarded the
wing of the hammer had (providentially, for Benton)
caught in the torn lining of the pocket and become
firmly fixed therein.\par

“Eyah!” ejaculated Gallagher. “D’yu’ ever see
th’ likes o’ that, now? Talk about luck—what!”\par

Ellis carelessly spilled the shells into his hand.
“How’s Scotty?” he inquired.\par

“Oh, him?—he’s all right,” answered the
rancher. “He come around while yu’ was a-waitin’
at th’ gate fur Big George, here. He started in to
snivel, but I d—d soon shoved th’ handkerchief in
his trap.”\par

“Mighty good job yu’ fixed George as yu’ did,”
said the Sergeant. “I didn’t wanta shoot, but I
guess I’d a-had to if yu’ hadn’t come along just
then. I ain’t heavy enough to rough-an’-tumble it
with a bull like him. He well-nigh got me that first
trip. Thank yu’, Barney. Yu’re right there with
th’ goods, an’ no mistake.... I’ll never forget it.”\par

“Aw, h—l,” said the other roughly, to hide his
feeling. “’Twarn’t nothin’, Sargint. I on’y picked
up th’ first thing as come handy—that riata yu’d
chucked off’n Scotty. That’s all right.”\par

A string of oaths from the recumbent Fisk aroused
them.\par

“Hey!” rumbled the growling, bass voice threateningly.
“Who is yu’ fellers, anyways? What’n
h—l d’yu’ think yu’re at? Yu’l....\par

“One o’ yu’s Barney Gallagher—I know that.
I’ll fix yu’ fur this, Barney!”\par

Ellis unwound the lariat from around the big
man’s legs; then, striking another match, held it to
his own face.\par

“Know {\itshape{me}}, now?” he said. “George—I
reckon I’ve got yu’! Get up, yu’ big stiff, or I’ll fix
{\itshape{yu’}}!”\par

A fresh burst of blasphemy greeting his request,
he picked up the riata again and, dropping a loop
over the rustler’s head and shoulders, drew it taut.\par

“Yu’ go get me one o’ them hawsses, Barney,” he
said quietly.\par

Gallagher sauntered over to where the two animals
had halted after their first scare and were placidly
feeding, and returned with Scotty’s horse. The
Sergeant mounted and took a turn of the riata
around the saddle-horn.\par

Amidst an ominous silence he swung around in
his seat with shortened leg. “Comin’?” he inquired
significantly.\par

Big George was no coward, but he was between
the devil and the deep sea; for in the cold cruelty of
the policeman’s tones he read aright the signs of a
pitiless purpose if he still persisted in further obstinacy.
Sullenly he rolled over onto his knees,
and awkwardly raised himself on his feet.\par

“So,” said Ellis approvingly, “that’s better.”\par

Dismounting leisurely, he drew off the loop and
coiled up the riata.\par

“Get yu’ over to that openin’ in th’ brush, where
yore partner is,” he continued, in an authoritative,
menacing voice. “Here!—this way.” And,
grasping the big man’s shoulder, he guided him over
to the indicated spot.\par

There they found the handcuffed, miserable Scotty.
He had made no attempt to run away. Naturally
a timid rogue, the rough handling that he had received
had knocked whatever little pluck he possessed
out of him completely. Now he whined like
a frightened child, blaming Fisk for their mutual
mischance; but the latter cursed savagely back,
threatening him in horrid terms, so he ceased his
lamentations in pure dread of the other’s dominant
personality, and relapsed into shivering silence.
Fisk began to raise his voice again.\par

“What d’yu’ figure on chargin’ us with, anyways?”
he snarled. “Why, yu’ ain’t got nothin’
on us! We was on’y lookin’ fur one o’ our own
hawsses, as we thort might—”\par

“George,” said the Sergeant appealingly, with
up-raised, protesting hand, “don’t! Yu’ gimme a
pain—honest, yu’ do. I’ll tell yu’ what I’m
chargin’ yu’ both with, bein’ as yu’re from Missouri,
an’ want to be shown.” And in no uncertain terms
he proceeded to do so, and cautioned them.\par

“Why didn’t yu’ call on me an’ tell me yore business,
as yu’re supposed ter do?” blustered Big
George in injured tones. “I’d a-come with yu’
peaceable enough. I’ll make a statement ag’in yu’
two fellers ’bout th’ way I was man-handled.”\par

The policeman uttered a snort of ironical amusement.\par

“‘Come peaceable’!” he echoed. “Yes, yu’d
a-come peaceable enough—yu’ve shown that. I’ve
got th’ marks an th’ feel o’ yore little donnies on my
throat yet. I don’t bear yu’ no grudge fur that,
though. Yu’ go ahead, then, with yore statement,
Mister Bloomin’ Lawyer, an’ I’ll come back at {\itshape{yu’}}
with a charge of ‘resisting arrest an’ assaultin’ a
police-officer in th’ lawful execution of his duty,’ fur
which yu’re liable to get two years extra. ‘Call on
yu’ an’ tell yu’ my business’ indeed! An’ who’s to
prove I {\itshape{didn’t}}?” he queried, with an ugly laugh.
“If yu’ like to call it square why, all right. But if
yu’ mean actin’ dirty, I’ll act dirty, too—an’ ahead
o’ yu’ at that.”\par

The force of the other’s argument seemed to impress
the big rustler considerably, and he remained
silent.\par

“I’ve got yore record from over th’ Line,
George,” the Sergeant continued. “It’s sure a
peach.... Five years in th’ State ‘pen’ at Huntsville,
Texas. Another five in Rawlins, Wyoming.
An’ three in Sante Fé, New Mexico.... ‘Call on’
a rough-neck like yu’?” he repeated. “With such
a record as that? In th’ dark—at close range—with
a .45 on yore hip? ‘Call on yu’! ‘—an’ bring
my knittin’. What’d yu’ bin doin’ th’ whiles?
Shot me dead, most likely, or made some break that’d
a-forced me to shoot {\itshape{yu’}}—just ’bout th’ last thing
I wanted to happen. No, Mister George; for reasons
yu’ll know later, yu’re worth more to me alive
than dead. ‘Call on yu’!’ Not if I know it. I’d
trust yu’ ’bout as much as I would a grizzly, a wolf,
or a ‘diamond-back.’ Yu’ don’t get me like them
two yu’ stretched down at Los Barancedes. Yep, I
know all ’bout {\itshape{that}}, too. What’s that? On’y
‘greasers’? Mebbe—but if th’ Rurales’d a-caught
yu’ they’d a-surely bumped yu’ off, greasers
or not. Now, see here; look,” he concluded with a
harsh ring in his raised voice, “yu’ get me, once an’
for all. Yu’re a prisoner. I know my duty as a
Mounted Police-Sergeant, an’ I don’t have to get
arguin’ th’ point with four-flushin’, tin-horn scum
like yu’. An’ mind, now, what I said about that
charge goes if yu’ make one more break, talkin’ back
to me.”\par

A hasty search of the two men’s pockets, revealing
nothing more dangerous than a jack-knife belonging
to Scotty, he turned to Gallagher and bade
him bring up the horses.\par

“Knot th’ lines ’round th’ horns o’ George’s an’
Scotty’s,” he said, “an’ string ’em together ’bout
three foot apart with yore lariat, Barney. I want
yu’ to trail ’em. I’ll come on behind.”\par

When all was in readiness he jerked out a curt
order to the captives, to “Climb aboard an’ hold
onta th’ jug-handle!”\par

“’Member,” he added warningly. “I’m close behind,
so don’t be so foolish as to chance anythin’.
First man that does’ll get hurt—bad.”\par

Then, and for the first time, Big George noticed
the Sergeant’s mount. Speechless for the moment,
he stood, pop-eyed, gaping stupidly.\par

“Look, look!” he ejaculated to his partner in
distress, “why, that’s Shorty’s—” his voice failed
him.\par

“Eyah! That’s what put th’ kibosh on me,”
commiserated poor Scotty feelingly. “He must ha’
corralled {\itshape{him}}, too, an’ th’ ——’s given us away.
{\itshape{Must}} have—who else could ha’ put this feller onta
us?”\par

Ellis, in his own saturnine fashion, chuckled grimly
at this last remark. “Sure,” he said, “{\itshape{that’s}} what.
Now, yu’ fellers climb up {\itshape{pronto}}. I ain’t a-goin’ to
hang around here all night.”\par

In dismal silence they obeyed resignedly, and
the grim little procession eventually reached the detachment.
Wearily they dismounted, and the Sergeant
drew Gallagher aside.\par

“Yu’ go on in first Barney,” he whispered.
“Light th’ lamp, an’ wake th’ old feller I told yu’
about. Tell him to go an’ camp in th’ kitchen for
th’ night—I’ll bring him in some blankets, later. I
don’t want them fellers to see {\itshape{him}}.”\par

The other, nodding silently, entered the building,
and soon a light shone through the open door.
Presently he came out again.\par

“All set,” he said.\par

The Sergeant then proceeded to usher in his prisoners
and, after leg-ironing them together, with a
significant gesture handed the key over to Gallagher.
Seen in the light the two rustlers presented a grotesquely
dissimilar appearance.\par

Big George fully justified his soubriquet. Standing
nearly six feet two, his enormous breadth of
shoulder and hairy, barrel-like chest which the torn
shirt revealed seemed, somehow, though, to detract
from his actual height. His age might have been
forty or thereabouts. On some physiognomies evil
passions have imprinted their danger signals unmistakably.
Fisk’s sinister countenance, with its somber,
desperate eyes and bushy tangle of coal-black
beard which hid, one instinctively guessed, a cruel
mouth and a terrible, animal-like jaw, might to many
imaginations have found its prototype in the ruthless
visage of a moss-trooping cattle-reiver of the
Middle Ages captured, perchance, in some Border
night foray.\par

In strange comparison to {\itshape{his}} formidable personality,
a comparison which might have been likened to
that of a coyote shackled to a grizzly bear, stood
alongside him his slightly-built companion, Scotty.
He had sandy hair, closely set, shifty blue eyes, and
a large, loose-lipped mouth with a receding chin.
It was a cunning, vicious, yet decidedly weak face
and, noting its defects, one could easily imagine the
truth of old Hiram Bryan’s previous assertion:
“Th’ young chap seems ter do as he tells him.”\par

Ellis, with seemingly careless indifference, but
keeping a wary eye on Big George, removed the
handcuffs off both men. He then proceeded to relieve
them of all their belongings, which he placed
in separate bags that were specially made for that
purpose, and numbered. Then, after making out an
itemized list for each, he began to—ostentatiously—count
out their money. Each of the men possessed
a small quantity, and this he put in a couple
of envelopes, marking the amount on the outside.
Gallagher, leaning against the door, watched the
performance with curious interest. He had an
inkling of what was coming. Benton, seating himself,
beckoned the two forward to the table. Shackled
together, they awkwardly obeyed. He chose
Scotty first, and reckoned up the few bills and silver
belonging to that individual.\par

“Eight dollars and sixty-five cents,” he concluded.
“That correct?” Scotty nodded. “All right,
then,” said Ellis, licking up the envelope and pushing
over a pen. “Look over that list an’ see ’f it’s
O. K. before yu’ sign for it.”\par

Scotty glanced through the items and nervously
affixed his signature. The same procedure was gone
through with Fisk. As the latter finished signing,
the policeman drew the piece of foolscap towards
him and, extracting a folded paper from a small
wallet, leisurely compared the two specimens of
caligraphy. With a satisfied sigh, he thrust them
both into his pocket and looked across the table with
a sinister smile at Big George.\par

“Mister Gordon Brown,” he murmured reflectively.\par

The two culprits started violently, and stared with
dismay at the man who had thus outwitted them once
more. Fisk strove to recover himself. Over his
perturbed, evil face there crept the blank, lifeless
expression of duplicity.\par

“Wha’s that?” he inquired innocently.\par

The Sergeant’s smile vanished. His face hardened,
and he began to speak, drawling out his words
one by one.\par

“I’m chargin’ yu’ both,” he said sententiously,
“with stealin’ a team, wagon, an harness, valued
at two hundred an’ seventy-five dollars, from one,
Lloyd Pryce, of Beaver Dam, on th’ sixth o’ June;
afterwards selling the same as your own property to
one, Hiram Bryan, on th’ thirteenth o’ th’ same
month.” Then followed the customary warning.
“That’s all,” he finished, “an I guess it’s sure
enough, too.” He eyed them a moment amidst a
dead silence, and then broke out irritably:\par

“What do th’ likes o’ yu’ want to come over {\itshape{this}}
Side for—peddling yore dirty work in a decent,
law-abiding country? Why in h—l couldn’t yu’ stay
where yu’ both belong? Now, get yu’ away back
there an’ sit on that bench.”\par

Apathetically they obeyed, with the hopeless resignation
of men for whom life could hold no more
surprises, and which, in Fisk’s case, was all the more
remarkable, considering his previous belligerent attitude.
It had been on the tip of the policeman’s
tongue to question him as to what had become of
the money thus fraudulently obtained but, on second
thought, he desisted. Some lie or another would be
the only result of such an inquiry, he reflected; and
besides, he had warned them. Gambling, he knew,
was notoriously rife at the Wharnock ranch, which
was probably the true cause of its disappearance.
(A correct guess, as was subsequently proved at
their trial.)\par

Ellis looked at his watch. It was just going on
midnight.\par

“Seems too bad—a-commandeering yu’ for
all this work, Barney,” he said apologetically, to
Gallagher.\par

“Oh, I ain’t worryin’ none, Sargint,” the other
answered. “I got that meat in all right, this
mornin’; but there’s my team I’d like to turn out
inter th’ pasture, a cow as should be milked, an’
some chickens I wanta leave some feed out for. I
guess yu’ll be wantin’ me inter Sabbano with yu’ th’
next couple o’ days, eh?”\par

Benton nodded. “P’r’aps it’s more’n likely somebody’ll
be around in th’ mornin’,” he said hopefully.
“An’ then yu’ll be able to run on down an’ do yore
chores. Say, will yu’ off-saddle an’ fix up th’
hawsses? Turn them two belonging to these fellers
out in th’ pasture—there won’t be room for no
more when yores an’ Shorty’s is in—an’ say, Barney;
bring in all th’ blankets yu’ can lay yore hands
on in there.”\par

In about half an hour the rancher returned, laden
with a heavy bundle of the aforesaid articles, which
Ellis shook down on the floor in the corner farthest
from the door, subtracting two, however, for old
Bryan in the kitchen.\par

“Yu’ll have to bunk down here for th’ night,”
he remarked curtly to the prisoners. “Yu’ might
as well get down to it right away, an’ get all th’
sleep yu’ can, because it’ll be a long trip tomorrow.”\par

Wearily they rolled their coats for pillows, and
curled themselves down, dormant murder gleaming
in Fisk’s somber, brooding eyes as he glanced now
and again at the cell door whence issued the untroubled
snores of Shorty.\par

Benton drew Gallagher on one side. “We’ll
have to do a ‘night guard’ on these fellers,” he
whispered. “Guess we’ll do two hours apiece.
I’ll do th’ first trick an’ hand over th’ watch to yu’
when I’m through. Yu’ go on inta my room there,
an’ lie on th’ bed.”\par

Slowly the night dragged through for the tired,
haggard, unkempt watchers. After waking the Sergeant
up at eight o’clock, the rancher went out and
did the stable chores, and when he returned Ellis
cooked breakfast for all hands—taking good care
to keep Shorty and old Bryan aloof from their former
acquaintances.\par

As they were finishing the meal there came a
knock at the door, and on opening it the policeman
was surprised to see Pryce and two other riders outside.
Benton closed the door behind him and
stepped forward. The rancher seemed oppressed
with a certain shamefacedness, and fidgeted nervously
with his quirt.\par

“Sargint,” he began. “I guess I kinder riled yu’
yesterday—actin’ as I did—but I was fair mad,
an’ I—well, it’s that cursed temper o’ mine gets
th’ better o’ me. I ask yu’ to try an’ forgit it.”\par

“Oh, that’s all right, Pryce,” said Ellis shortly.
“I’m glad yu’ve come around, anyways, as I was
just figurin’ how I was goin’ to get word to yu’ to
come inta Sabbano.” And in a few words he acquainted
the other with an account of the previous
night’s adventures.\par

“Well, yu’ do surprise me!” exclaimed Pryce
wonderingly and, with rising wrath: “Why, Big
George, an’ Scotty—I always give ’em th’ run o’
my place as if they belonged there, whenever they
come a-ridin’ around. Why! come to think o’ it,
three days before my outfit was stole, I ’member
meetin’ up with Scotty in th’ Four-mile coulee; we
was both lookin’ for strayed stock—an’ I mind
tellin’ him as me an’ th’ woman figured on drivin’
inta Sabbano on th’ Thursday, an’ he asked me to
bring him some Bull-Durham ’baccer from there.
Guess I forgot it. Anyways, Big George, he was
around about a week afterwards, an’ listen! He
had th’ gall to tell th’ woman as how what a dirty
deal it was to rustle a feller’s outfit, an’ what th’
parties deserved as did it. Where was them hawsses
all th’ time, d’yu’ think, Sargint, before they sold ’em
to th’ old man, I mean?”\par

“Staked out in th’ bush somewheres, I guess,”
said Benton. “They’ve both o’ ’em got touches o’
rope-burn around th’ fetlocks. Say, who’s yore
friends, Pryce?”\par

“Two fellers as kin swear to my outfit,” replied
the rancher. “I brought ’em around to see
it.” And, turning, he introduced the men to the
Sergeant.\par

“Well, put yore hawsses up an’ come on in,” said
Ellis. “Don’t yu’ get a-talkin’ to th’ prisoners
mind, though,” he added. “Least said, soonest
mended. We figure on pullin’ out in ’bout an
hour’s time.”\par

A clatter of wheels disturbed them and, turning,
they beheld a wagon and team approaching, driven
by none other than old Bob Tucker. There was
something irresistibly funny in the excited motions
of the dissipated, elderly Jehu, as he urged his team
forward with an unending string of Afrikander expletives,
which made them all burst out laughing.\par

“{\itshape{Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ké!}}”
he bawled.\par

The policeman stepped forward and held up his
hand as the sweating horses drew near.\par

“{\itshape{Wana!}}” he shouted. “{\itshape{Wacht-een-bietje!}}
What’s bitin’ yu’ now, Dad?”\par

Tucker was tremulous and incoherent, but by degrees
he managed to impart the somewhat belated
news that “’is ’orses ’ad bin let aht of ’is field” during
the night, and that “’e ’ad fahnd ’em abaht free
mile sou’west from ’is plice.”\par

“Yu better let ’em stay out now, too,” said the
Sergeant. And he told the old man everything.
“Yu needn’t be scared of yore bunch no more now.
What! Yu’ didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night? Why,
I reckon we made ’bout as much racket amongst us
as yu’ do a-shovin’ yore old team along. I guess
‘Johnny Burke’ put {\itshape{yu’}} to sleep, all right. Yu’d
better {\itshape{outspan}}, now yu’ve got here, an’ turn yore
team out in my pasture. We’ll want yu’ along with
us in Sabbano as a witness. Yu’ can come back with
Barney Gallagher on Shorty’s hawss. Yu’ can ride
{\itshape{him}}, all right—he’s quiet.”\par

Fisk looked up brazenly at the new-comers as they
entered, but Scotty remained with downcast eyes, in
nervous trepidation as Ellis and his visitors, withdrawing
into a corner, commenced to converse in
low tones. Seeing the re-enforcements, Gallagher
slipped away and departed to his ranch. When
he returned, he found Pryce’s wagon and team
standing outside the detachment, with old Hiram
Bryan occupying the driver’s seat and Tucker
alongside him.\par

Putting the stable-blankets and some hay in the
bottom of the box, the Sergeant led forth the handcuffed
and shackled Fisk and Robbins, and assisted
them into the wagon. Shorty, for obvious reasons,
he placed on the former’s own horse, which was led
by Gallagher. A wise precaution, considering the
glances of deadly hatred which, from time to time,
were exchanged between the former and Big George,
each still firmly believing the other to have turned
traitor. Ellis brought up the rear on the buckskin,
with Shorty’s rifle in a carbine sling at the saddle-horn.\par

It was a long, monotonous trip, but nothing untoward
happened. To avoid stopping anywhere for
dinner, the Sergeant had previously put in the wagon
a big pack of cooked food and a jar of water; so,
halting mid-day, they ate a meal and then, resuming
their journey, arrived in Sabbano about sundown.
Tired and dusty, they eventually drew up at the detachment.\par

Sergeant Churchill surveyed the party with astonishment.\par

“Hello! Where you klatch-um?” he inquired
jocosely.\par

“Klatch-um allee same Chellee Kleek,” responded
Ellis. “Give us a hand, Churchill, an’ let’s get ’em
inside. Cloakey an’ Wardle—them two J.P.’s of
yours—are they both in town?”\par

“Billy Cloakey is,” answered the other. “But
Old John Wardle went away to th’ coast a couple o’
days ago, for a holiday. Don’t know {\itshape{when}} he’ll be
back. What’s up? Want ’em to hold a prelim’?”\par

“Yes,” said Benton thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll
go an’ wire the O.C. just now, to send one o’ the inspectors
down by the mornin’ train.”\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
As the nine-thirty west-bound train drew up at the
little station next morning Benton, who was on the
platform awaiting it expectantly, stepped forward
and saluted a tallish, blond man, dressed in the
dark-blue serge uniform of an inspector.\par

“Well, Sergeant,” greeted the latter, “you’ve
been doing great business, I hear? But I can’t forget
you’re the disturber of my rest, all the same,”
he added, with a wry smile. “Aren’t there any local
J.P.’s around here who could have handled these
cases?”\par

Ellis grinned back apologetically. “Sorry to
have had to drag you out of bed so early, sir,” he
said. “Yes, there are a couple of resident J.P.’s
here. Wardle, who runs a general store and the
post-office, and Cloakey, a real estate man. Wardle’s
away at the coast just now, so I was forced
to wire for you. Cloakey’s here, though, to sit with
you on these cases. Two of the men I’ve arrested
are particularly tough, and I was anxious to get them
into the Post by tonight’s train, if possible.”\par

They turned away from the station, and commenced
to walk slowly up the main street.\par

“Have they engaged counsel?” pursued Inspector
Darby. “I didn’t see any one on the train I
knew, coming up.”\par

“No, sir,” answered the Sergeant. “I asked
them all, individually, last night, before I wired to
the O.C., but none of them seemed inclined to want
a lawyer when I explained that this was merely the
preliminary trial. It was the same about witnesses
before we left Cherry Creek. Fisk, the ringleader,
starting in to bluff that: ‘They’d have all the
“mouthpieces” {\itshape{and}} witnesses they wanted, when the
{\itshape{real}} trial came off’; so I didn’t bother with them any
further. But, as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t see
how they possibly could have any witnesses at all.
They’ve taken pretty good care of {\itshape{that}} in the crooked
work they’ve been carrying on. This is Mr. Cloakey
coming down the street now. I don’t think you’ve
ever met him, have you, sir?”\par

The Inspector replied in the negative, as he gazed
with well-bred curiosity at his prospective associate
on the magisterial bench, who was just then drawing
abreast of them. He beheld a big, cheery-faced,
somewhat corpulent, man nearing middle age,
who grasped his hand with genial warmth, as the
Sergeant, with easy deference, introduced him. A
few civilities were exchanged, and Ellis led the way
to the detachment which, on entering, he perceived
to have suddenly assumed an unwontedly tidy appearance.
After hurriedly gathering his witnesses,
he formally opened the court, and the preliminary
inquiry began.\par

Shorty’s case was taken first, the local sergeant
guarding the other two in an inner room, so as to
be out of hearing. A sullen plea of “Not guilty”
was entered to the first and second charges. “Guilty”
to the third—that of “Having a weapon on his
person when arrested.” Dealt with summarily on
this minor offense, he was given the option of paying
a fine or the alternative of a short term of imprisonment
with hard labor. He chose the latter.\par

The two principal charges—“Cattle stealing,”
and “Conspiring to commit an indictable offense”—were
next proceeded with. Ellis, after being sworn,
gave his evidence, the strange nature of which—in
the former charge—relaxed even the imperturbable
Inspector’s judicial calm, as he and his colleague
listened with unconcealed interest to the coyote episode,
and viewed the half-chewed brand which the
Sergeant fitted into the cut-out in the hide. Benton’s
testimony in both cases being largely corroborated
by Gallagher, Shorty was duly committed to stand
his trial at the next sitting of the Supreme Court.\par

The case against Fisk and Robbins was much more
protracted and tedious. Charged jointly, they entered
a similar plea to their confederate on each
indictment. From time to time, during the proceedings,
the Inspector’s casual glance flickered curiously
from Big George’s battered physiognomy to
the bruised face and scratched throat of the Sergeant.
But he was a wily, old, experienced officer
and, as neither side appeared anxious to enlighten
him, he drew his own conclusions and wisely refrained
from comment. Adjourning for lunch, and
also to view the alleged stolen team and wagon, the
hearing was resumed again in the afternoon, and
eventually the two rustlers were committed.\par

Ellis then drew the attention of the Court to the
case of old Hiram Bryan, who had shakily given
his evidence during the trial. All huddled up, the
aged, decrepit man sat there in silence, his wistful
gaze wandering from face to face.\par

“Your Worships,” he said, “in the absence of
all proof of complicity, I have detained this man
merely under a ‘vagrancy’ charge, so as to insure
his appearance in this court as an all-important
witness.”\par

The two justices of the peace nodded understandingly.
A whispered colloquy ensued between them,
then they turned and gazed thoughtfully at the
bowed figure of the broken man who was awaiting
their will with the apathetic resignation peculiar to
the aged. Inspector Darby, leaning forward, chin
resting in hand, presently broke the silence.\par

“Sergeant Benton,” he said, with a slight note of
irresolution in his voice, “taking into consideration
the somewhat cruel position that circumstances have
placed this man in, it is not, of course, our intention
to press that charge against him. But you no doubt
realize that it is of vital importance to this last case
that his evidence be forthcoming at the Supreme
Court.”\par

Ellis bowed his head in assent. He was prepared
for this emergency that he had foreseen from
the beginning.\par

“Your Worships,” he said, in quiet, convincing
tones, “if you see fit to discharge the accused I will
hold myself personally responsible for his appearance
when this case comes up at the next Sessions.”\par

His superior turned again to his fellow justice,
and they conferred awhile in low tones. This consultation
ending, the Inspector faced round once
more.\par

“All right, Sergeant,” he said.\par

Ellis motioned to the old man to stand up. Dully
and awkwardly though the order was obeyed, the
venerable face was not devoid of a certain dignity
as its owner raised a pair of honest eyes and gazed
back unflinchingly at his judges. The Inspector
cleared his throat.\par

“There has been no evidence adduced in this case
to prove that you had any knowledge of these men’s
alleged criminal actions and intent,” he said, in his
even, passionless tones. “Rather, it seems that you
have been their unfortunate victim, for which you
have this Court’s sympathy. This charge of ‘vagrancy’
against you will be dismissed ... but you
understand that your evidence will be required
again when the Supreme Court sits.”\par

The old man gazed at him vacantly, and the Sergeant
opened the door.\par

“All right, Bryan,” he said; “you can go. I
want to see you later, though.”\par

And, clutching his hat in his trembling old hands,
the other tottered slowly out.\par

Pryce arose. “Your Worships,” he began imploringly,
“how ’bout me team an’ wagon? Is there
any chance of me bein’ able to take ’em back with
me? I’ve got a tur’ble pile o’ work to do, an’ I
need ’em bad.”\par

The Inspector contemplated the rancher’s anxious
face thoughtfully a moment or two before replying.\par

“Why, yes, Mr. Pryce,” he answered slowly, eyeing
his confrère, who nodded his concurrence to this
request. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. But you
will have to sign a document undertaking to produce
them, if required, when this case comes up at the
next Sessions, you understand.”\par

All business being now at an end, the Sergeant
formally closed the court, Inspector Darby and the
congenial Mr. Cloakey departing to the hotel, and
Ellis to the depot freight office with Pryce to make
inquiries respecting the arrival of some police stores
that were overdue. Finding that the latter had
come, he arranged with the rancher to haul them
out to the Cherry Creek detachment on his return
trip.\par

With this and various other small duties the time
passed rapidly, and twilight was descending when
the Sergeant retraced his steps up the main street
on his way back to the detachment. He felt jaded
and weary from lack of sleep and the strain on his
physical and mental powers during the past forty-eight
hours, but a certain exultation at the thought of
all that had been accomplished in that space of time
buoyed him up.\par

In the midst of his somewhat tiredly complacent
reflections he became aware of a figure approaching
him unsteadily along the uneven board sidewalk
whom he recognized as Hiram Bryan.\par

A sharp gust of wind suddenly deposited the latter’s
ancient battered hat in the gutter and made
merry sport with his venerable wisps of hair and
gray beard. Stooping to recover his headgear, he
lost his balance and pitched heavily forward. He
struggled to his feet again with difficulty and leaned
for a space, all covered with dust, up against the
wall of the Chinese restaurant, his breath coming
and going with wheezy asthmatical sobs.\par

Ellis presently drew up alongside and contemplated
the unlovely but pitiable spectacle with a
slightly compassionate grin.\par

“Hello, Dad,” he remarked. “Where d’yu’ get
it? Been celebratin’ along with Bob Tucker, I
guess. Well, old gentleman, yu’ got outa that mix-up
all hunkadory, an’ I was glad of it.”\par

But the old man only rocked perilously on his
heels, regarded his interlocutor somberly awhile with
liquor-blurred eyes, and resolutely held his peace.\par

Momentarily nonplussed at the other’s silence,
the Sergeant continued in tones half playful, half
serious:\par

“Come, old Kafoozleum; yu’ ain’t very grateful,
it seems. Life an’ liberty’s somethin’, anyhow, an’
it’s more than teams an’ wagons—or booze. For
now, see here; look! This is th’ straight goods—if
yu’d ever gone up in th’ Ghost River bush, along
with them two fellers, either yu’ or th’ nitchie, they’d
a-seen to it as neither o’ yu’ come out of it alive again
to, perhaps, get a-talkin’ afterwards. Yu’ can take
yore oath o’ {\itshape{that}}.”\par

“An’ I hadn’t bin diddled out o’ me outfit,” piped
old Bryan doggedly, with the hopeless, unreasoning
obstinacy of the aged. “I’d a-bin away from yu’ all—a-livin’
quiet on some little ol’ homestead. But—yu’
corralled me team an’ wagon, lad. I’m little
better’n a hobo now.”\par

Surprise, not unmixed with amusement at this
somewhat illogical outburst, rendered Ellis speech-
less for the moment.\par

“But they {\itshape{wasn’t}} yore team an’ wagon, Dad,” he
said. “Th’ Law—” And then he stopped, recognizing
the absurdity of ever attempting to argue
under such conditions. A great pity, though, for the
old, broken man, welled up in his heart.\par

“Here, here,” he began, not unkindly. “Don’t
get a-talkin’ foolish, now, Hiram.”\par

And his hand sought the other’s shoulder. But
Bryan avoided his touch.\par

“Nay,” he said thickly. “Let be, lad. I’m an
old man, an’—an’ draw fast to homeward. I’ll
soon be in a good place, God grant—an’ out o’
reach o’ all yore laws an’ contraptions. Let be, lad.
Yu’ve played h—l wi’ me, amongst yu’.”\par

The words of rough condolence died in the Sergeant’s
throat. He saw, through misty eyes, the
poor old derelict, fuddled with whiskey and sorrow,
go shambling on his way with bowed gray head.
And the sight was more than he could stand. With
a few strides he overtook the aged Hiram and, in
spite of his feeble resistance, gently, but firmly,
turned him around.\par

“I’ve been a-figurin’ this business out—right
since we come in from Cherry Creek,” he said huskily.
“Yu’re comin’ along with us on th’ train to-night,
Dad, when we take them prisoners down.
An’ I’m a-goin’ to get yu’ into a certain place that
I know of, where yu’ll be looked after good for th’
rest o’ yore days—Father Rouleau’s Home for the
aged an’ infirm. Besides—I want yu’ somewheres
handy when that case comes off.”\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xi}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xi}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XI}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“My object all sublime\par}
{\vl I shall achieve in time—\par}
{\vl To let the punishment fit the crime;\par}
{\vl The punishment fit the crime.”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Mikado}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The three rustlers were tried at the following
Criminal Assizes held about two
months later.\par

Fisk, obtaining money from some unknown
source, was the only one of the trio represented by
counsel, retaining that eminent criminal lawyer—Denis
Ryan—to defend him. Robbins’ craven
heart failing him at the eleventh hour, he pleaded
guilty to all charges, and threw himself unreservedly
upon the mercy of the Court. Shorty, actuated
more by motives of spite against Big George, whom
he still firmly believed to have betrayed him, entered
a similar plea. Brooding over his former accomplice’s
imaginary perfidy during his past two
months in the guardroom awaiting trial, the one
thought—to “get even” with his enemy—had
gradually become an obsession, which finally culminated
in a deliberate intention to reverse his original
plea on arraignment.\par

These two totally unexpected occurrences combined
to render Fisk’s case hopeless. His counsel,
with characteristic ability, put up a brilliant and spirited
defense for his huge, ill-favored client; but it
was a forlorn hope, and he knew it long before the
jury returned with their verdict of “Guilty.”\par

One of the most decisive factors in the case had
been the evidence of the old Indian—“Roll-in-the-Mud”—who,
examined through an interpreter,
stated that Fisk had approached him with an offer of
a five-dollar bill and one of Tucker’s best colts, in
return for his help in driving the bunch of horses
at night up the difficult bush trail in the Ghost River
district.\par

Sentence in each case was deferred until three days
later, when the prisoners were taken to court again.
Big George and Shorty, whose previous criminal
records told heavily against them, were very severely
dealt with by a judge whose lack of sympathy
with stock rustlers was proverbial. The former,
proven to be the ringleader and instigator of the
crimes, received a sentence of ten years’ penal servitude;
the latter, seven. Scotty, being that it was, as
far as could be ascertained, his first offense, and
who, furthermore, was adjudged to have been the
tool of Fisk and Shorty, drew the comparatively
lenient sentence of four years.\par

The two first named took the announcement of
their punishment with the silent, dogged indifference
of men to whom durance vile was no new thing;
but Scotty burst out into loud lamentations and weeping
as the prisoners were quickly ushered downstairs
to the court cells underneath.\par

Filled with pardonable elation at the successful
termination of his cases, Benton left the courthouse
and leisurely betook his way back to the Post. All
the genial {\itshape{bonhomie}} that his many-sided nature could
command now asserted itself, and he strolled along,
humming a cheery lilt, his heart merry within him.
Still in this enviable frame of mind, he departed later
in the day for his detachment.\par

That night, standing on a corner of the main street
in Sabbano, idly smoking and watching the faint reflection
of a far-distant prairie fire, he heard himself
hailed and, turning, greeted a man who sauntered
slowly across the street to him with a familiarity that
bespoke long acquaintance.\par

“Hello, Charley,” he said. “What’s blown
{\itshape{you}} into this jerkwater burg?”\par

The other struck a match and relit his cigar before
replying, disclosing a gaunt, lined, intellectual face
with a grim mouth, which was somewhat accentuated
by a close-cropped, grizzled military mustache.\par

“Case,” he answered laconically. “Say, Ellis,
where’s Churchill? He’s stationed here, isn’t he?”\par

Benton nodded. “Yes,” he said; “but he’s been
in the Post, now, for three days—waitin’ for a
case of his to come off at Supreme Court. He was
there when I came away this afternoon. Why?
What d’you want {\itshape{him}} for?”\par

“M-m! Oh, nothing in particular,” his companion
mumbled. “Just wondered where he was,
that’s all.”\par

The newcomer deserves a more especial mention,
for his history was a sad, though not an uncommon
one. Charles Musgrave, M.D., had begun life as
a clever young house-surgeon attached to a famous
London hospital. Possessing extraordinary daring
ability, inspired by a genuine love for his profession,
he gradually obtained a reputation that caused him
to be regarded as one of the foremost exponents
of surgery of his day. Then it was—unluckily
for him—at the zenith of his fame, that he became
enamored of lovely Blanche Farrel—then a nurse
in St. John’s Hospital.\par

It was the old, time-worn, sordid story that the
world is aweary of—his wife’s education and morality
proved to be inferior to her beauty. After enduring
two soul-wracking years of jealousy and humiliation
as the result of the unfortunate misalliance
that he had contracted, he obtained a divorce, and,
abandoning his career, went to South Africa, where
he strove to efface the bitter memories of his past
misery amidst the vast whirlpool of cosmopolitan
adventurers that thronged the Rand.\par

Still retaining the skill and love of his profession
that had once created him a power amongst his fellow-men,
he rapidly acquired an immense practise
in Johannesburg. This, coupled with various lucky
mining speculations, enabled him in a few years to
amass a considerable fortune which, alas, was
doomed, however, to be swept away, along with
thousands of others, at the commencement of the
great war. Declining, then, the offer of an important
position at the Wynberg base-hospital, he became
the principal medical officer of the Irregular
Horse, which Ellis had joined—composed mainly
of his fellow-refugees of the Rand. Possessing
much personal bravery, he served throughout the war
with great gallantry, exhibiting on many occasions
such an utter disregard for his own life whilst attending
wounded men under fire, that frequently
caused him to be mentioned in despatches.\par

The climax of that long-protracted, bitter struggle,
leaving him an impoverished man once more, he forsook
the country that had engulfed his second fortune
and prospects. Still resolutely turning his face
away from England, he came to Western Canada,
where his ability in his profession speedily raised
him again in the medical world. Here, working
hard and drinking obstinately, he led an existence
which, if it was not commendable, was only in accord
with that of many others whom Fate and the
vicissitudes of life have entreated thus unkindly.\par

Most men can, and invariably do, recover from
the first benumbing effects of misfortune, but—they
cannot {\itshape{forget}}. In appearance the doctor was a
rather distinguished-looking man, tall and powerfully-built,
with closely cropped iron-gray hair, and
a complexion that was bronzed and roughened by
years of exposure to a tropical sun. That worn,
haggard face of his, though, told a real tale. The
furrows there had been plowed by an enduring bitterness,
and though only in his forty-fifth year,
he looked considerably older.\par

Exchanging a few desultory remarks, they strolled
on down the sidewalk and, passing the station, drew
near to the last of the scattered houses. During
their progress Ellis had been aware of light footsteps
following them and, glancing back once or
twice, had noticed a woman approaching. Soon she
caught up to them and, thinking that she was about
to pass, he drew in close to Musgrave to give her
room to get by. Presently she came alongside and,
to his utter surprise, a sweet, girlish voice said, coaxingly:\par

“Why, hello, Church’; coming in?” And a
hand caught his that hung at his side and gave it a
gentle squeeze.\par

They were just within the glare of one of the
few street lamps that the ill-lighted little town
boasted, and opposite the gate of the end cottage.
He beheld a girl, whose age he might have computed
at anything between eighteen and twenty-five—tall,
and voluptuously formed, with thick masses
of dark hair that curled in little wavy tendrils around
a broad, low, white forehead with level brows. Her
complexion still retained the soft bloom of that of
a healthy country girl, and a pair of bewitching dark-brown
eyes flashed into his with a fluttering self-consciousness
that told him many things.\par

Musgrave took a step or two forward and, turning,
contemplated the scene with lazy curiosity, not
unmixed with amusement. Sheer astonishment tied
Benton’s tongue for an instant, then:\par

“Sorry, sister,” he said gravely. “Guess you’ve
got the wrong number. Better ring up again.”\par

The girl uttered a little gasping giggle of surprise.\par

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were the {\itshape{other}}
policeman.”\par

She fidgeted a little at his silent regard and
clicked the gate open, continuing:\par

“Well—you look a pretty nice boy!”\par

But the words, though light and brazen in themselves,
rang false, and betrayed the novice. She
began to flinch under the steady stare of those calm,
watchful, passionless eyes and, returning his look
with a slight air of defiance, twisted and untwisted
her gloves with a little nervous laugh.\par

Ellis hesitated. He was no Joseph—this was
Churchill’s district, and {\itshape{his}} look-out, was his first
impulsive reflection. But something—something
that was, perhaps, {\itshape{childish}}, in the girl’s great dark
eyes and winsome face, in which there still remained
a trace of her lost innocence and her self-conscious
voice and manner, held him awhile longer, motionless.\par

And, as the man continued to stand there with
bent head, curiously still, as if carved in stone, just
looking—and {\itshape{looking}}—in deep, thoughtful silence
at the wanton young beauty who sought to
tempt him, the filmy, transparent outlines of {\itshape{another}}
face, it seemed to him, rose up alongside hers.\par

The sweetly grave, spiritual face of a girl, long
since dead, whose love had once been his—the very
incarnation of womanly purity.\par

“Yes,” he mused, “that was it—that was it begad!
it was the {\itshape{eyes}} ... they were very, very like
poor Eileen’s.”\par

Presently he cleared his throat and began to speak.\par

“See here; look, Mandy,” he said soberly. “If
I was doing my duty properly I should just take you
down to the police station, lock you up, an’ put a
charge against you that a certain section of the
Criminal Code prescribes for your offense. D’you
get me?”\par

She shivered and paled a little, and her great eyes
opened wide as she searched his face beseechingly,
as if trying to discern whether he was in earnest.
There was no banter in his tones, so she came
closer and, catching his hand again, looked into his
face with a forlorn sort of smile that was at once
both roguish and pitiful.\par

“D’you mean that, or are you on’y just foolin’,
Policeman?” she implored. “You wouldn’t arrest
me, would you?”\par

The Sergeant contemplated her thoughtfully.
And a great pity arose in him, for the fingers that
clasped his own were deadly cold, and the cheap
finery that she was clad in was but a miserable protection
against the chilly wind that had sprung up.\par

“Now listen,” he said. “{\itshape{You}} haven’t been in
business long, my girl. You can’t fool me. Quit it,
kid, before you get in {\itshape{real}} wrong. Get back to th’
farm again.”\par

She stared at him with open-eyed astonishment.\par

“Why!” she gasped, “who told you I come from
a farm?”\par

He laughed quietly. “Just a sayin’ sister,” he
said. “Seems I wasn’t far out, eh? Where {\itshape{do}}
you come from, then?”\par

But her lips only trembled and closed tightly, as
she regarded him now steadfastly, in dogged silence.\par

“Now, see here; look,” Ellis went on slowly.
“If it’s because you’re up against it an’ want money,
why—” He drew out a five-dollar bill from his
pocket and closed her fingers gently over it.\par

The kind ring in his voice unnerved her. She
looked at him vaguely for a few seconds with heaving
bosom and glistening, tear-filled eyes, then suddenly
burst out into passionate sobbing.\par

“Oh!” she wailed between the convulsive spasms
of emotion that shook her. “Oh, my God! D’you
think I’d be doin’ this if we didn’t! No, no! Oh,
dear!”\par

The Sergeant’s brows contracted with a sudden,
sharp, lowering glance.\par

“Who’s {\itshape{we}}?” he inquired with significant interest.\par

With a few long-drawn, shuddering sobs, like a
child that has been scolded for crying, she quieted
down curiously at his question and, presently pulling
out a handkerchief, began to dry her eyes.\par

He reiterated his query, but she only stared back
at him with dumb, though not defiant, obstinacy, as
before.\par

“You stayin’ {\itshape{here}}?” He indicated the cottage.
She nodded. He turned on his heel and prepared
to depart.\par

“You go in then, kid; you’re cold,” he said.
“You be a good girl, now, an’ don’t get chippyin’
round no more or you’ll be gettin’ into trouble.
Good night.”\par

And, leaving her gazing after him wistfully, he
rejoined the waiting doctor, and they moved off
slowly back the way they had come.\par

“Moral reformer, eh! for a change?” Musgrave
remarked with a flippant, gibing laugh.
“Well, it isn’t worse than many of your vagaries.
We shall have you entering Holy Orders next, I
suppose?”\par

In his heart the savage old cynic approved; but,
for the life of him, he could not check the sneer.\par

Ellis made no reply. It was a habit of his very
often not to answer Charley, and the latter did not
mind it in the least.\par

“Now listen,” pursued Musgrave. “I’ll tell {\itshape{you}}
something now. I’ve been here for two days.
Langley, who owns the hotel here, is an old patient
of mine. He wired me to come down an’ see a
man who was ill in his place—chap asked him to
get a doctor. Rattray, the medico here, is in hospital
himself, undergoing an operation for appendicitis,
so I came along. Now, I’m a specialist. I
don’t undervalue {\itshape{my}} professional services in the
least, I can assure you. Quit that, years ago. I
have my fee. Those that don’t care to pay it are
welcome to get somebody else—that’s all there’s to
it. Now—coming back to this case in hand—naturally,
after having to come all the way down here,
one of the first things I did was to sound Langley
as to my prospective patient’s financial stability.
May sound mercenary, or merciless, whichever you
please—to {\itshape{you}}—but, as I said before—Well,
Langley said he was all right, as far as he knew.
Seemed to have plenty of money—has paid up
square enough during the week or so he’s been in
the hotel—was an absolute stranger to him—registered
as John Walters, from Toronto—said he’d
been sick for a couple of days. So I went upstairs
to have a look at him. He looks to me like a clerk,
counter-jumper—town-bred, anyway—might be
anything—I don’t know what his line in life is—never
asked him. He must have divined that I’d
been questioning Langley about him, for one of the
first things he said to me was: ‘Money’s all right,
Doctor. Oh, I’ve got plenty of “dough.”’ And
he fumbles under the bedclothes and shakes three or
four {\itshape{hundred}}-dollar bills at me. {\itshape{Hundred-dollar}}
ones, mind you! Afterwards, when I was examining
him, I found he was wearing a leather money-belt
next to his skin—you know—the kind we used
to have in South Africa, with pockets all round. I
don’t know, of course, how much he’s got in it; but
he hangs on to it mighty close, and seems very nervous
and suspicious. He’s a pretty sick man, anyway.
I may have to rush him into town to one
of the hospitals, and operate on him right away.
I’m just waiting for a certain symptom to show up.
Now, here’s one of the queerest parts about this
business. The morning after he’d put up at the
hotel—so Langley tells me—{\itshape{this girl}} came here,
along with some chap. Whether they’re man and
wife, or not, I couldn’t say; they’re living together
{\itshape{as}} such, at all events, and they’ve rented that cottage.
What the fellow’s name is I don’t know, or
what his business here is, either. He dresses fairly
well, and he’s got good looks—of a certain type.
But it sure is a d—d bad face, all the same. Typical
‘white-slaver’s.’ Well, yesterday afternoon I went
upstairs to see my patient. I’d just got to the landing
where his room is, when I heard somebody talking
to him—in precious loud, ugly tones, too. I
heard this: ‘Yer thought yer could “shake” me—hidin’
away in this burg, eh? Now, look a-here.
I’m nigh broke—you’re flush. If yer don’t come
across quick, I’m a-goin’ to start somethin’. I’ve
bin here close on a week now, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to
wait no longer!’\par

“I promptly opened the door and stepped in, and
here was my gentleman, standing by the side of Walters’
bed. The expression on his mug was anything
but sweet, and as for Walters—he was all in—collapsed,
absolutely. ‘What’s the trouble?’ I
said. ‘Oh, nothin’,’ says Mr. Man, kind of off-hand;
‘just a-talkin’ over a little business matter
with my friend, here.’ ‘Well, now look here,’ I
said; ‘I’m the doctor attending this man. He isn’t
in a fit condition to talk business to anybody, especially
{\itshape{your}} kind. Just {\itshape{look}} at him, man! Now,
you get straight out of here—right now. I’m not
going to have you worrying this man in the condition
that he’s in; and remember, you’re to stay out—for
good. You keep away from here altogether, or I’ll
d—d soon take steps to make you. D’you hear?’
He looked at me in a precious mean, ugly sort of
way, but he slunk out, and he hasn’t been near Walters
since. That’s {\itshape{why}} I wanted Churchill. Looks
now as if {\itshape{he}} might know something, eh?”\par

Ellis uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “That’s
what,” he answered succinctly.\par

They walked on in silence for awhile.\par

“It’s like this,” resumed Musgrave. “I’m
purely and simply in the position of a doctor called in
to see a patient. As long as I’m remunerated for
my professional services it’s none of my business to
go poking about, prying into other people’s affairs,
and I don’t intend to in this case. That’s up to {\itshape{you}}.
But, all the same, the whole thing seems a kind of
a rum go, and I thought I’d better mention it to one
of you. Whatever’s this fellow, Walters, going
around with all this money cached on him for? keeping
indoors always, religiously, at night—so Langley
says ... of no occupation—never speaking
to anybody if he can help it ... as mum as you
please.... Never letting on to Langley, or any
one, that he knew this other chap, either. Then
this talk I overheard in his bedroom ... proper
blackmail. The plot thickens—ahem! I think
we’d better temporarily assume the respective rôles
of Sherlock Holmes and his pal, Dr. Watson, to
clear up this dark mystery,” he concluded, with a
melodramatic chuckle.\par

The Sergeant nodded, with a thoughtful grin.\par

“M-m, yes! it sure does look kind of queer,” he
murmured. “Guess I’ll take a {\itshape{dekho}} at both these
ginks tomorrow, Charley, before I pull out to the
Creek. That girl, for instance. You can take your
oath she’s just travelin’ with that chap. Been enticed
away from some little country burg—you
know the ways and means these brutes have o’ working
these things? Once away from home they’re
done for, and scared to go back. He must be just
usin’ her as a decoy-duck for some rotten business
best known to himself, but you could see how green
she was. Churchill—what? the d—d fool—riskin’
his job—gossipy one-horse {\itshape{dorp}} like this!”\par

They had reached the door of the hotel.\par

“Well, I’m going to turn in,” said the doctor.
“Sure you won’t come in and have a drink?”\par

Ellis shook his head. “No, thanks, Charley,”
he said; “I’ll enjoy one better tomorrow. See you
then. Good night, old man.”\par

And he walked slowly on towards the detachment.
Half an hour later he threw aside the paper that he
had been reading and, yawning wearily, prepared
to go to bed. Suddenly, there came to him the remembrance
of some mail matter that he had brought
with him from the Post, and which he had neglected
to look at as yet. Mechanically he felt in his pockets.
No!—it wasn’t there—must have left it in
his red serge when he changed into his stable-jacket.
His surmise was correct, and presently he began to
tear the envelopes open, glancing carelessly through
their various contents. Well, well, the General
Orders for the current month, his shoeing account
returned with a small mistake in it, a peremptory
request—obviously dictated from the Quartermaster’s
Store—anent having his Monthly Returns
despatched at a somewhat earlier date than had
hitherto been his habit ... nothing very {\itshape{important}},
there. What did Dudley mean? Hello!
What was {\itshape{this}}? He had drawn from the last envelope
a typewritten copy of a circular. He stared
vaguely at the headlines of the notice, which ran:\par

\begin{container}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}

{\centering
WANTED FOR MURDER AND BURGLARY
\endgraf}
\par}
{\vl 
{\centering
\$500 REWARD
\endgraf}
\par}
\end{verse}
\end{container}

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The above amount will be paid to any one giving information
that will lead to the arrest of either of the
below-described men, who, on the night of August 28th,
190— in company with one—Joseph Lipinski, alias
George Winters—since arrested in Seattle—shot and
killed, John Hetherington, night-watchman of the Carter-Marchmont
Trust Building, who surprised them in
the act of robbing the safe in the Company’s offices, in
New Axminster, B. C.\par

Description. No. 1. Henry Shapiro (alias Harvey
Stone, alias Nathan Porter). Known to the Chicago
police as “Harry the Mack.” Age 37; 5 ft. 11 in.;
about 190 lbs.; black hair; has peculiar light gray eyes,
with slight cast in the left one; complexion, swarthy;
clean shaved; is of Jewish descent; nationality, American;—\par}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Followed details of dress and general habits. Concluding:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Lipinski, in a statement that he has made, alleges that
it was Shapiro who fired the shot which killed Hetherington.
Was a former prison mate of Shapiro’s in
Elmira Penitentiary, where the latter was serving a
term of five years for safe-blowing. This man has a
criminal record also, he says, in Chicago, and has served
a three-year term in Joliet, Ill., on a charge of white
slavery. We are endeavoring to obtain his photo, Bertillon
measurements, and finger-print classification from
one of these institutions.\par

No. 2. Herbert Wilks. Age 26; 5 ft. 8 or 9; about
165 lbs.; blue eyes; brown hair; complexion, fresh;
clean shaved; nationality, Canadian; dressed in a dark-blue
serge suit; gray Fedora hat, with black band round
it; brown boots. This man is a former employee of the
Trust Co., and was discharged by them two days previous
to the date on which these crimes were committed.
As far as is known, he has no record and has never been
in trouble before. Has the reputation of being quite a
sport. Possesses a jaunty air, drinks heavily, is a cigarette
fiend, carries a cane, and is said to be fond of
women. Comes from Hamilton, Ont., and is believed
to have relatives there. Lipinski states that Wilks must
have the bulk of the money (approximately \$2,000.00)
that was stolen, as he had quit them earlier, leaving the
safe open, in which they only found \$150.00. That
they were in the act of splitting this when they were
surprised by the watchman. That they separated and
ran different ways immediately after the murder, being
fired at by the patrolman on the beat, who had heard
the shot. Has not seen either of them since, and has
no idea which way they went. Had often seen Shapiro
in company with a woman, whom he did not know.
The greater part of the money stolen is in the shape of
Bank of Commerce bills of large denominations, which
they may have difficulty in changing.\par

Wire all information to\par

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\scshape{John Mason}},\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Chief Constable}}.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Below, ran the usual injunctions:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Members of Line, or other detachments are notified
to keep a sharp look-out for these men, who may have
come East.\par

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
({\itshape{Signed}}) {\scshape{R. B. Bargrave}}, {\itshape{Supt.}}\par}
{\vl {\itshape{Officer Commanding L. Divn.}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
For some few seconds the Sergeant sat perfectly
motionless, failing at first to grasp the full significance
of what he had just read, the typed characters
of the circular appearing but a mere indistinct blur
to his abstracted eyes. Then, slowly but surely, the
conviction grew in his mind that here—{\itshape{here}} in his
hand, he held, undoubtedly, the very key to the mystery
that Musgrave had confided to him that night.\par

“Well, I’ll be ——!” he ejaculated softly to
himself. He looked again at the date of the crime.
“Ten days ago. Holy Doodle! they must have
been a bloomin’ long time makin’ up their minds to
wire East, or I’d have got this long ago. S’pose
they figured they had ’em corralled all hunkadory in
the town somewhere ... couldn’t get away ...
or, when they nailed this Lipinski man in Seattle,
that they’d all beat it the same road. Ten days ... an’
this chap—Walters, as he calls himself—has
been here for a little over a week. That fits in
O. K.”\par

He sprang to his feet and buckled on his side-arms
beneath his stable-jacket; then, putting on
his hat, he extinguished the light and slipped
stealthily out of the detachment into the dark of
the night.\par

“Here goes for that five hundred ‘bucks,’” he
muttered grimly. “No use wastin’ time over Walters.
{\itshape{He}} can’t run away. Let’s have a {\itshape{dekho}} at
this Mr. Shapiro—if it {\itshape{is}} him. Why in thunder
should they choose {\itshape{this}} place of all places to get
playin’ hide-an’-seek in? Well, I guess we’ll know
later.”\par

Entering the lane that lay at the rear of the buildings
paralleling the main street, he strode swiftly
and silently back towards the cottage where the girl
had informed him she was staying. As he approached
it there came through the stillness a smothered
murmur of voices and, presently the low-pitched,
guarded tones of a man’s growling bass, mixed with
a woman’s sobbing, reached his ears.\par

Quickening his pace, he noiselessly drew near the
scene of the altercation, the thick carpet of dust
effectually deadening his footsteps. There, under
the light of the lamp, he beheld the figures of a man
and a woman, the latter unmistakably the young
would-be “Delilah” who had accosted him earlier
in the evening.\par

“How come you to make such a —— fool break
as that?” came the man’s voice, fierce and indistinct
with passion. “{\itshape{He}} ain’t th’ cop that’s here reg’lar.
He’s easy, {\itshape{that}} guy. This feller, he {\itshape{knows}} me—beat
me up one time—him. I—— By G—d! I
believe you were a-puttin’ him wise!”\par

The girl’s weeping response was inaudible to the
listening policeman, but it only seemed to add fresh
fuel to her persecutor’s rage for, with an inarticulate
snarl, he struck at her savagely and, with a
piteous, heart-broken cry, she reeled back from the
cruel blow.\par

The sight maddened Ellis and, with an angry
shout, he sprang forward. The man, who hitherto
had been standing with his back to the light, now
swung sharply around at the interruption. In a
flash the Sergeant recognized that face again. It
was “{\itshape{Harry}}”—the man who had robbed the
woman on the train, and whom he had thrashed so
severely some two months earlier.\par

Like lightning both men’s hands streaked to their
hips, but the yeggman was the quicker of the two.
The girl saw his action and, with a hasty movement,
flung herself between the combatants with raised,
protesting hands.\par

“No, no, no! Harry, {\itshape{don’t}}!” she screamed.\par

But, simultaneous with her cry, came the flash and
crack of his gun. Staggering with the shock of the
bullet, she clutched at her bosom in stupid bewilderment.\par

“Oh, God!” she gasped in her agony. “Oh,
bub-bub-bub!” And, swaying with a side-long
lurch, she fell heavily to the ground.\par

For a few seconds the two men remained motionless,
stupefied at the tragedy that had been enacted
before their eyes. Then the policeman’s gun spoke
and, with a groaning blasphemy, Harry reeled back,
dangling a shattered left wrist that he had flung up
instinctively to shield his head.\par

Again and again the Sergeant pressed the trigger,
but a succession of empty clicks were all that followed.
With dismay he then recollected expending
four fruitless long-range shots at a coyote that
evening whilst exercising Johnny, and neglecting to
reload.\par

He was at the other’s mercy. But that individual,
seemingly demoralized by the excruciating torture
of his wound, failed to profit by his advantage.
Still clutching his gun, he wheeled around and dashed
for the railroad track.\par

In feverish haste Ellis ejected the spent shells,
dragged forth three more cartridges and, thrusting
them into the cylinder of his weapon, with the practised
flip of the finished gun-fighter, flung two more
shots after the fugitive, who had recoiled from his
sudden contact with the barbed-wire fence that ran
alongside the track.\par

At the second report Harry pitched forward on
his face, but the next moment he had rolled under
the lower strand of the wire, arisen to his feet again
and limped away in the gloom, heading for the station.
Benton’s first fierce impulse was to follow in
immediate pursuit, but a low moan of intense half-conscious
agony from the stricken girl checked him.\par

“Can’t get far winged like that, anyway,” he
muttered. “I’ll get him later.”\par

Stooping down, he gently gathered up the inanimate
body in his powerful arms and strode towards
the cottage with his burden. The head, with
its soft mass of curly dark hair, lolling over helplessly
against his shoulder like a tired child’s, whilst
the bright arterial blood pumped in quick jets from
the bullet wound in her breast all down the front of
his stable-jacket.\par

With an impatient thrust of his knee, he burst
open the gate and, climbing the few steps, entered
through the open door into the front room, where
a lamp was burning. Here he deposited the girl
on a low couch.\par

Attracted by the shots, soon there came the sounds
of hurrying feet and the murmur of many voices
and, presently, a small concourse of excited and
curious people began to gather in front of the cottage
where the light was showing through the open
door. The Sergeant stepped forward hastily.\par

“Quick!” he said. “One of you run up to the
hotel and get Dr. Musgrave; he’s staying there.
Quick! By G—d! This girl’s been shot, and she’s
bleedin’ to death!”\par

And, in response to his appeal, two figures immediately
detached themselves from the gathering and
sped away. Turning back to the couch, he kneeled
down and, ripping open the girl’s flimsy blouse,
rolled his handkerchief into a pad and pressed it
tightly over the wound. She lay quite still, with
closed eyes, groaning occasionally with the deadly
pain that wracked her, a bloody foam bubbling up
from her lips at each gasping breath. Soon Musgrave
came bursting in.\par

“Why, what’s this?” he said breathlessly.\par

“That fellow—with her,” answered Ellis disjointedly.
“Wanted for murder—B.C.—went to
arrest him—shot at me—hit her—instead— Can’t
tell you now— Here, Charley!—look after
her—goin’ after him—not far away—hit bad.”\par

He was on his feet as he spoke, swiftly ramming
fresh shells into his gun; and, with one last look
at the unconscious face, he jumped down the steps
and started for the station via the direction that
Harry had taken. A few of the more adventurous
spirits attempted to follow him but he peremptorily
ordered them back. Catching sight, though, of a
face that he knew, he hastily beckoned its owner
aside.\par

“See here; look, Wardle!” he said, in a tense
undertone to the kindly-faced old man who officiated
as postmaster in the little town. “I’m glad you’re
here. There’s a girl in the house there, who’s been
shot up pretty bad, an’ I think it’s all up with her.”
He rapidly explained the situation to the other,
adding: “You’re a J.P.... Don’t attempt to
worry her if she’s too far gone, remember, but try
an’ get a deposition off her if the doctor will allow
it, an’ get him an’ somebody else to witness it....
Can’t stop now—got to get after this chap, quick!”
And he hurried away.\par

A man swinging a railroad lamp came forward
and accosted him, whom he recognized as the station
agent.\par

“Look, now, Carey,” he said significantly, in response
to the other’s excited offer of help. “Come,
if you want to. But I tell you flat—you’re takin’
a big chance of gettin’ hurt. Douse that cursed
light,” he added irritably, “or you’ll be makin’ a
proper mark of us.”\par

The other promptly obeyed, and presently they
reached the beginning of the platform. The Sergeant
produced a small electric torch.\par

“Should be some blood to trail him by,” he muttered.
“I got him twice. Hello! here it is!”\par

Pressing the button at intervals, they followed
the faint dribbles and spots along the ties. Clear
past the station offices and freight shed, it led them,
right to the shelving terminus of the platform, where
they brought up a dozen or so yards beyond when the
blood marks suddenly ceased.\par

“What place is that?” whispered the policeman,
indicating a small structure whose shadowy outlines
loomed up vaguely against the surrounding gloom.\par

“Section men’s hut,” the agent whispered back.
“There’s only some tools and a handcar in there.
It’s locked, though, and Petersen, the section boss,
has the key. He can’t get in there. Let’s go on a
piece—we may pick it up again.”\par

They crept cautiously on for a short distance, but
the sanguinary trail failed to reappear.\par

“No use goin’ any farther,” protested Ellis, in
a low tone. “P’r’aps he’s doubled back an’ cached
himself under the platform.”\par

They retraced their steps and soon picked up the
blood spots again. Benton, gun in hand, halted
irresolutely in front of the section hut.\par

“You {\itshape{sure}} it’s locked, Carey?” he said.\par

The other moved ahead impatiently. “Yes,
{\itshape{sure}}” he answered. “It’s no good lookin’ there,
Sergeant—let’s rout around the platform.”\par

A sudden impulse, though, moved Ellis to step
over to the shed. Grasping the door handle, he
pulled on it. To his surprise it swung open.\par

The next instant there came a rattle as of tools
being displaced as a dark form arose. Followed
a blinding spurt of flame and a deafening report
right, it seemed, in his very face. Instinctively, he
winced away, with a burning pain in his left ear and,
ducking down, with deadly calculation he fired upwards
twice as he did so.\par

The detonation in the galvanized-iron structure
was terrific. When the echoes gradually died away,
a curious scraping, threshing noise, monotonous in
its regularity, succeeded, coupled with a horrid,
long-drawn, liquid gurgle, as of water issuing from
the neck of an inverted bottle.\par

These ominous sounds, too, eventually ceased,
and the silence of the night settled over all once
more. Carey clutched Benton with a shiver, and
his teeth chattered like castanets.\par

“Is—is he—dead—d’you think?” he quavered.\par

“Don’t know,” returned Benton in a low voice.
“Sufferin’ Moses! my {\itshape{ear’s}} hurtin’ me somethin’
fierce. I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Keep you well
to the side, there, when I flash the light in. You
never know what’s goin’ to come off.”\par

Cautiously he pressed the spring of his torch and,
as the little halo of radiance penetrated the obscurity,
he gave a quick, searching look. With a satisfied
sigh, he released the button and turned in the darkness
to his companion.\par

“All right, Carey,” he said reassuringly. “You
can light up again now.”\par

With shaking fingers, the other produced a match
and, relighting his lamp, cast its rays into the opening.
He beheld a sight that was to remain in his
memory for many a day. With a cry of horror, he
tumbled back, the lantern falling from his nerveless
grasp.\par

“Oh, my God!” he cried. “Oh, Lord!”\par

Ellis stooped and picked up the smoking globe.\par

“Here, here!” he remonstrated callously.
“What’s wrong with you, Carey? Get a hold of
yourself, man. You’re a peach to want to come
man-hunting, you are. Have you never seen a stiff
before? Get in an’ have a good look at everythin’,
because you’ll most likely be an important witness
at the inquest.... O-oh!” he broke off, with a
sharp intake of his breath, “my ear’s givin’ me
h—l. Lend me your handkerchief.”\par

Thus urged, and trembling violently with horror
and repugnance, the agent nerved himself again to
the ordeal. Raising the lamp once more, he gazed
with morbid fascination at the ominous heap that
but a short while back had been a strong, hot-blooded
man.\par

With the handkerchief pressed to his wound, and
cursing softly with the pain, the Sergeant jerked his
gun back into its holster again. Stepping forward,
he inspected his handiwork critically. The two
heavy, smashing bullets of the Colt’s .45, fired at
close range, had done their deadly work effectively.
One, penetrating a little beneath the left eye, had
blown away a portion of the skull in its exit, whilst
the other, tearing its passage through the thick, bull
throat, had turned the place into a veritable shambles.\par

Still clutched in the stiffened right hand was a
huge, unfamiliar type of pistol, which weapon the
policeman examined with curious interest, coming—as
it nearly had—to ending {\itshape{his}} earthly existence.
The terrible simplicity of the creed that was his in
such matters forbade his evincing the slightest vestige
of pity or remorse for his dead enemy. The vision
of a pale, pinched-faced young mother, with a
little child, seemed to arise before his eyes, and the
heart-broken cry of a stricken girl still rang in his
ears and hardened his heart.\par

“Blast you!” he muttered savagely. “You only
got what was comin’ to you. It was me or you, this
trip, an’ no error. You had an even break, anyway.”\par

The agent turned aside, shaking in every limb.\par

“Let’s get!” he said, with an oath. “Ugh!
I can’t stand it no longer. I guess sights and happenings
like this ain’t nothing to you, Sergeant ...
you’re used to it in your line of business. Besides,
you’ve been through a war and must have killed
and seen lots of fellers killed before. It don’t turn
you up like it does me. Come away, for the love of
God. By Gosh! but I could have sworn that place
was locked. Petersen must have forgot to snap
the padlock. I’ve got a duplicate key here. Guess
I’d better lock everything up tight, eh? and give
you the key.”\par

“Yes,” said Ellis. “And give Petersen strict
orders not to open it up again till I say so. Nothing’s
got to be touched till the coroner gives the
word. Old Corbett acts in this district. Wonder
whether he’s at his place?”\par

“Oh, he’s there, all right,” said Carey. “But
he’s sick—all crippled up with rheumatism. His
daughter—you know, the one that rides—she was
in today and I was talking to her.”\par

“That settles it,” said Benton. “I’m goin’ to
wire the O.C. now, an’ I’ll get him to send a coroner
down by the mornin’ train. Let’s have that key
for a bit. I want the doctor to have a look at this
body.”\par

Some twenty minutes later he returned to the cottage.
Musgrave and old Wardle met him on the
threshold, and the former, with a significant gesture
enjoining silence, softly closed the door. With the
light of a strange exultation showing in his haggard
face and bloodshot eyes, he proceeded to acquaint
them with all that had happened. They listened
with eager curiosity.\par

“Whew!—some shave, all right,” remarked the
doctor. “Here, Ellis! Let’s fix up that ear of
yours. You’re bleeding like the deuce, and that
tunic of yours is soaked.” And, as Benton removed
the handkerchief. “Why, man, it’s clipped the lobe
clean away! Come on in, then, but be as quiet as
you can—I’ve put her on the bed in the other room.
I’ve given her a strong morphine injection to ease
the pain. It’ll keep her quiet for a time.”\par

He turned, with his hand on the doorknob, but
Ellis caught him by the arm.\par

“Charley,” he said, with a catch in his voice.
“That girl saved me. Is she—is there any—”\par

“No,” answered the doctor quietly. “That
slug’s gone slap through the right lung and out under
the shoulder. She’s done for, though she may
live for a few hours. Must have been an awful
high-pressure gun that he used.”\par

“It sure was,” said the Sergeant. “It was one
of those German ‘Lugers.’ You’ll see it still
clutched in his fist when you go down there.”\par

“Eh, laad!” said the kindly old postmaster, who
originally hailed from Yorkshire. “But she’s rare
an’ weak ... an’ th’ doctor don’t think as ’er’ll
last th’ night out. It’s nobbut o’ a deposition she
were able to gie us, th’ poor lass, for ’er could scarcelins
speak, an’ I had’na th’ heart to worrit ’er. She
says as ’ow ’er name’s Elsie Baxter, an’ that yon
man o’ ’ers as she calls ’Arry—shot at yo’ but ’it
’er, instead, accidental, when she got betune ye.
She wouldn’t tell me where ’er coom fra’, tho’, or
what {\itshape{’is}} other name be. Fair frightened, ’er is, ’bout
’im bein’ ketched, an’ ’er keeps on a-cryin’ out ’is
name real pitiful-like, an’ sayin’ as ’e did’na {\itshape{mean}}
to shoot ’er. I ’ad ’Arry Langley, from th’ ’otel, in
there, an’ ’im an’ th’ doctor’s witnessed it. Did
yo’ say yo’ gaffled ’un, laad?”\par

The Sergeant, with his brooding mind still obsessed
with the memory of his recent conflict, regarded
his questioner absently, with a livid, scowling
face.\par

“Eyah!” he snarled darkly, with an ugly oath,
and with grimly unconscious humor imitating the
other’s dialect: “A gaffled ’un, all right, Dad!—nobbled
’un proper. A knaws ’un’s name, too, an’
all ’bout ’un!”\par

Quickly and deftly, the doctor dressed the Sergeant’s
torn ear, bandaging the wound with an antiseptic
pad against it. Whilst this was in progress,
they conversed in low tones.\par

“Why, come to think of it,” said Musgrave, “I
remember now seeing an account of that business in
the paper, at the time. Lord! I was slow—not
to have tumbled before. I wouldn’t make much of
a sleuth, I’m afraid.” He carefully replaced his
surgical apparatus in his bag. “Didn’t you see
it?” he inquired.\par

Ellis shrugged indifferently. “Lord, no!” he
said. “Why, I go from a month on end and never
{\itshape{see}} a paper—out there at the ‘Creek.’ Besides,
we don’t go by the {\itshape{papers}}. I was officially notified
in this case. ’Course, I’m not forgettin’ if it hadn’t
been for you tellin’ me what you did, I’d never been
able to connect up.”\par

He was silent for a moment or two. “How
about the other chap, Charley? Walters—Wilks—or
whatever his name is,” he asked, a trifle anxiously.
“I suppose it’ll be safe enough to leave
{\itshape{him}} till tomorrow?”\par

“Oh, sure,” said the doctor reassuringly. “I
don’t think he’s exactly able to ‘take up his bed and
walk’ {\itshape{just}} yet. I’ll keep an eye on {\itshape{him}}. There!
that’ll do for the time. I’ll fix it up again tomorrow
for you.”\par

With a weary yawn, Benton arose from the chair
on which he had been sitting during the ear-dressing
process.\par

“Here’s the key of that section house, Charley,”
he said, handing the other over that article. “Take
a run on down there, will you? an’ have a look at
that body. I’ll stay an’ watch this poor kid. An’
say! I can’t very well wear {\itshape{this}}!”—he indicated
his ensanguined stable-jacket—“you might bring me
back my serge, old man! It’s lying on the bed in
the detachment.”\par

“All right. I’ll go now,” said Musgrave. “Remember,”
he added, “the kindest thing you can do
is to keep her as quiet as possible. I’ve done all
that I’m medically able to do, but it’s a parson {\itshape{she}}
needs—more than a doctor. Aren’t there any
here?”\par

“Yes,” said Ellis listlessly, “on Sundays.
There’s denominations galore represented {\itshape{then}}.
This is a sanctimonious little ‘{\itshape{dorp}}.’ The Church
of England man is the only one resident here, though.
He’s away in town—attending the Church Convention.
I was talking to him this morning when I
was going to court, an’ he said he didn’t expect to
come back till the day after tomorrow.”\par

“Well, she’s sleeping now,” said the doctor.
“I’ve stopped the external bleeding and given her
a strong morphine injection, as I think I told you.
Give her all the water she wants to drink, if she
wakes up, but beyond getting the necessary particulars
regarding her, I wouldn’t encourage her to talk.
Come on, Wardle! We’ll go on down to this
place.”\par

The two men tip-toed out softly and closed the
door, whilst the Sergeant, carefully stripping off his
blood-stained stable-jacket, entered the bedroom
noiselessly, and seated himself at the side of the
suffering girl. Still under the influence of the powerful
drug, she was dozing peacefully and, but for
an occasional gurgle of blood in her throat, her
breathing was considerably less labored.\par

Long and earnestly he gazed at the face of the
girl who had, undoubtedly, saved his life, though at
the forfeit of her own. The features were already
pinched and drawn, and the rich color of the cheeks
had faded to a dull, ashen gray, save where two
hectic spots indicated her rising temperature. For,
upon that countenance, the Angel of Death had set
his dread seal, and passed upon his way.\par

Oppressed by deep pity and many troubled
thoughts, Ellis sank into a gloomy reverie from
which he was aroused by Musgrave returning—alone.
Arising quietly, he obeyed the other’s silent
motion and followed him outside.\par

“Well,” he said listlessly, slipping on the red
serge which his companion handed to him, “did you
see him, Charley?”\par

Musgrave glanced curiously at the powerful, still
profile of the man before him.\par

“Yes,” he said slowly. And even {\itshape{his}} trained
nerves could not suppress a slight shudder at the
remembrance. “Poor old Wardle’s gone home
feeling pretty sick, I can tell you ... an’ I don’t
wonder. You’re some bad man with a gun, Ellis.”\par

The Sergeant, with mind sunk in a fit of abstraction,
eyed him absently.\par

“Eyah,” he said. “I guess I put the sign on him,
all right.”\par

The doctor scrutinized the drawn, blood-stained
face closely.\par

“Look here,” he said kindly. “You look a bit
strapped, old man. You go on home to bed now.
{\itshape{I’ll}} stop with the girl!”\par

The considerate words seemed to arouse the other
strangely.\par

“No, by ——!” he said vehemently, with a sobbing
oath. “I’m goin’ to stay till—till—”\par

His voice broke. Recovering himself, he continued,
with an effort:\par

“It’s the least I can do. You can sleep on that
couch in the front room. I’ll call you if she’s in bad
pain.”\par

“All right—all right!” answered Musgrave
gently and, gripping the Sergeant’s shoulder with a
sympathetic pressure, “we won’t fight over it, old
man. I understand. Call me if I’m needed. I
don’t think your ‘guard’ will be very long now,
though.”\par

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\hypertarget{chapter-xii}{}%
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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XII}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
On those poor frail sisters who’ve fallen low,\par}
{\vl And who suffer and die through the sins of men—\par}
{\vl More sinned against, than sinning, I trow—\par}
{\vl Shew Thy Mercy—Thy Pity—Lord Christ, Amen.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Court of Common Pleas}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Wearily, and with a throbbing pain in
his torn ear, Ellis resumed his vigil. An
hour slowly passed. Two hours. Suddenly
a restless movement from the bed aroused
him from the dreamy lethargy into which he had
sunk, and he gazed into the wide-open, bewildered
eyes of the awakened girl that were regarding him
wonderingly through their long lashes.\par

“How did I come here?” she articulated painfully.\par

“I carried you in,” he said. “You’ve been in
here for nearly three hours now.”\par

Her lips moved soundlessly, and she remained with
puckered forehead, as if striving to collect her
thoughts.\par

“Then who were those other men?” she said in
a hoarse whisper.\par

“Well, one was the postmaster, and there was
the man that owns the hotel. The other man was
the doctor. It was he who fixed you up.”\par

Then, for the first time, she seemed to notice his
bandaged head. With a little cry, she struggled
feebly to raise herself, eyeing him fearfully the while.\par

“Where’s Harry?” she gasped tensely.
“You’ve been hurt, like me. Did you an’ him get
shootin’ at each other again? Oh, tell me. Where
is he?”\par

He strove to soothe her and allay her agitation,
but without avail.\par

“Please! oh, please, Policeman!” she sobbed.
“Don’t arrest him. Let him go! He didn’t {\itshape{mean}}
to hurt me.”\par

Her continued piteous pleading moved him
greatly. Puzzled at this attitude towards the man
who had ruined and maltreated her, Ellis inquired
gently:\par

“Why?”\par

The great imploring dark eyes became like two
twin stars, seeming to search his very soul, as a
wave of ineffable forgiving pity and devotion glorified
the face of the dying girl.\par

“Because—I—I—” she faltered.\par

The simplicity of her implied admission struck
him dumb with surprise for a moment, and he stared
at her in stupefied amazement.\par

“What?” he almost shouted. “You still love
that chap after—after—”\par

Speech failed him and he could only continue to
look at her in awed wonder.\par

Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts
of the Great Master, this one, at least, most
women have practised easily and naturally for over
nineteen hundred years—“Forgive, until seventy
times seven.”\par

The acts of some of these—how they warred
with their husbands and paramours and were
worsted; how they provoked the presiding magistrate
and stultified the attesting policeman by obstinately
ignoring their injuries written legibly in red,
and black, and blue; how they interceded with many
sobs for the aggressor—are they not written in
the book of the chronicles of every police court in
the world?\par

This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true,
for our world in its wisdom will always take advantage
of such weaknesses. Perhaps the next will
make them some amends.\par

The bright, fever-lit eyes never left Benton’s face,
and two tears rolled down her sunken cheeks as she
nodded silently in answer to his incredulous query.
Such an expression, indeed, might the Covenanter’s
widow have worn, as she looked into the ruthless
countenance of Graham of Claverhouse and begged
for the life of her only son. And such it is, also,
that makes Guido’s famous picture of Beatrice Cenci
one of the saddest paintings on earth.\par

{\itshape{That}} look was almost more than the Sergeant
could endure, and he hastily turned his head away
to hide the hot, blinding tears that sprang to his
eyes. There seemed something very terrible, just
then, in the pathetic working of his stern face, as
the strong man strove to hide his emotion.\par

“Diamonds and pearls,” he whispered brokenly
to himself; “diamonds and pearls.”\par

And {\itshape{this}}—love such as {\itshape{this}}, had the dead man
gained, then spurned brutally from him, and cast
away.\par

The Soul—to the last, could still triumph over
the poor broken Body, and {\itshape{Love}}—glorious,
all-forgiving Love—arise, victorious and conquering;
through life—through death—aye—beyond the
grave itself—to the very Resurrection Morn.\par

The sands of the poor sufferer’s existence were
running out fast now. Benton shuddered when he
thought of the horror that would surely come into
those shining, steadfast eyes if she were told whose
blood was upon his hands. Why disturb the brief
space that was allotted to her by revealing the awful
truth? It would be a crime, he reflected. He lied,
bravely and whole-heartedly.\par

“No,” he said. “I haven’t arrested him, my girl.
I was chasin’ after him, an’ scratched one of my ears
pretty bad climbin’ through that barbed-wire fence
alongside the track. A way-freight goin’ East
pulled through just about five minutes after, an’ I
guess he must have made his get-away on that.”\par

She drank in his words with an eagerness that
tortured his conscience sorely, but a quick, joyful
light dawned on her face as his reward, and she
sank back on the pillows again with a little weary,
gratified sigh of relief. The strain had been too
much for her, however, and she began to choke pitifully,
as a fresh gush of blood bubbled up from her
lips and stained her white breast. He slipped an
arm under her head and, tenderly as a woman might
have done, he soothed and ministered to her paroxysm.\par

For some few minutes she lay in a sort of stupor,
and he watched her anxiously, undecided whether or
not to awaken Musgrave; but presently she revived
a little and her breathing became easier. The flow
of blood from her mouth had abated and, as she
looked up and saw him supporting her, the pale lips
relaxed into a faint semblance of their old roguish
smile; when her face and bosom had been gently
sponged, and she had drunk a glass of water, she
spoke—almost in a whisper, but quite calmly and
clearly:\par

“You ca-can’t—arrest me—now!”\par

The unutterable pathos of her pitiful little jest
nearly broke him down then but, with a struggle, he
raised his eyes and, with a twisted mouth, smiled
valiantly back at her.\par

“What did—that—doctor—say?” she asked
slowly. “Does he—think—I’ll—die? I feel
so—very—weak—and—tired ... and my—chest—hurts
me—terrible.... I think I—must
be—dying.... Am I?... Look—at me—Policeman!...
tell me.... Did he—say—I’m not—afraid....”\par

“Elsie, girl,” he said unsteadily. “Elsie,
you’re—” He stopped and, choking a little,
reached out a slightly shaking hand to smooth back
the dark curly hair from her white forehead.
“You’re going home, girl—you’re going home!”\par

She gazed at him searchingly for a few seconds,
then turned her head away listlessly, with a sharp
intake of her breath. There was a long silence
which was broken by Ellis.\par

“Elsie Baxter {\itshape{is}} your name, all right, isn’t it?”
he asked gently.\par

She nodded, watching his face closely meanwhile.\par

“How old are you?”\par

“Twenty-two,” she whispered.\par

“What nationality?”\par

“American.”\par

“What part of the States do you come from, my
girl?” he continued. “Where are your parents—if
you have any—or your friends?”\par

But his inquiries failed to elicit any response, and
all he got was the same passive look of mute entreaty
which she had exhibited to all his queries on
the occasion of their first meeting.\par

“Come,” he whispered coaxingly. “Why won’t
you tell me? You ought to.”\par

She sighed as if she were exhausted. “What’s
the—use?” she murmured. “My real mother—is—dead—an’—an’—my
father—an’ my step-mother—were
unkind—to me—so I ran—away....”\par

She met his perplexed look with a faint, weary
smile, and cuddled his hand beseechingly. “That’s
all,” she said. “There.... I can’t—tell you
any—more—now.... Best—thing—if they
never—hear.... I’m—going soon—where—I
don’t—know.” She ceased, panting for breath.\par

He desisted then, for the doctor’s final injunctions
came to his remembrance with a pang of regret. He
had encouraged her to talk too much already.\par

Aye—what {\itshape{was}} the use, he reflected. There
was a world of meaning in her answer—too great
to be misunderstood. Time, it is true, had wrought
curious changes in his wandering life and ways, and
both memory and conscience had, to a certain extent,
become oblivious to many things; but, in the former
faculty, assuredly one period in his history was not
included. With a bitter hatred which not even the
lapse of over twenty years could quench, he recalled
only too well, the pale, sneering face of the virago
who had usurped the place of his own gentle mother,
and whose animosity had eventually been the means
of driving {\itshape{him}} from home, also.\par

“Yes,” he mused. This poor dying waif and he
probably had much in common.\par

The girl lay quiet for a long while, and a cheap
American alarm clock ticked sharply in the stillness.
Presently she turned her face to him again and regarded
him earnestly.\par

“Will—you please—say a—prayer?” she articulated
painfully. And, as he hesitated and looked
at her in dumb misery: “Won’t you?... even—even—for—such
as me?”\par

A terrible revulsion of feeling shook his strong
frame. Who was he, that he should dare to presume
to pray for the dying? Fallen sinner though
she might be—what was {\itshape{he}}?... And a vision
of his own reckless and irresponsible past seemed to
rise up before him accusingly.\par

“Please,” the weak voice pleaded.\par

With bowed head and bursting heart he falteringly
repeated the only prayer that he remembered—“The
Lord’s”—and, with its “Amen,” a solemn,
awesome quiet descended upon the little room.\par

And then—the end came very quickly. She
turned her head and looked at him kindly. Her
eyes were alight with a great, dreamy happiness, and
in their depths he beheld the radiant glory that, passing
all human understanding, heralds the near approach
of death.\par

“Kiss me,” she whispered faintly.\par

All his manhood sorely shaken, he stooped to
bestow the caress. Only once in that last quiet minute
of life—for death-struggle there was none—the
white lips moved; and the Sergeant, bending down
his ear, caught what may have been an appeal to
the Father’s mercy, but Ellis always believed it was
a man’s name.\par

She sighed once or twice wearily, gasped a little
and, leaning her head back with a slight shiver, the
poor girl’s spirit went forth into the Night.\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
For a long time Benton never stirred. A sense
of utter desolation, he knew not why, seemed to
gather all around him. Inheriting from his mother
a strongly impressionable nature, he was always
chivalrously predisposed towards women and, somehow,
complete stranger to him though the unfortunate
waif was, the inexpressible pathos of her lonely,
tragic death stirred all his being with a great, compassionate
pity.\par

Suddenly he broke down and burst out sobbing,
with the deep, convulsive emotion terrible to witness
in a strong man; then, throwing his arms about the
dead girl, he fell to his knees and, gazing imploringly
into her quiet face, held her tightly, as if that
firm clasp would hold her back one step on the road
along which the messengers of God had beckoned
her.\par

Would those with whom he was a byword for hard
sternness of character have known him {\itshape{then}}?\par

The light of the lamp sank lower, flickered a little,
and was gone. Worn out, mentally and bodily, the
bowed head of the tired, kneeling watcher gradually
drooped forward until it rested upon the bosom of
the motionless form. The still face had settled into
the serene, peaceful grandeur of the death-calm.
Beautiful she had been in life, aye, but never so beautiful
as now.\par

Then, to the exhausted, sleeping man, there came
a wondrous dream, and in it, behold! she appeared
unto him again in all the glory of her youth, innocence,
and beauty, clad in white and glistening raiment,
with her arms outstretched to him from afar
on High.\par

And, in her great, dark eyes, he seemed to see
shining the love and pity of Mary Magdalene—she
whom He denied not, but said: “{\itshape{Her sins which
are many are forgiven, for she loved much; but to
whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.}}”\par

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{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XIII}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
So—peacefully, slept the un-shrouded dead,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Beyond caring whether they stoned or kissed her;\par}
}

{\vl Till a Ministering Angel came instead,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl In the guise of a Salvation Army Sister.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl {\scshape{Poor “Skagway Kate”}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Brightly, ah, so brightly, the rays of the
early morning sun flooded that sad room
with their golden radiance, lighting up with
a veritable halo of glory the still, peaceful face of
one for whom the weary troubles and pain of this
world had ceased.\par

The door opened softly and Musgrave, standing
in its aperture, surveyed a scene that awed and shook
even {\itshape{his}} cynical nature to its very depths. For some
minutes he remained with bowed head, perfectly motionless,
a picture of silent sympathy then, tip-toeing
noiselessly forward, he shook the still sleeping Benton
gently, and a haggard, drawn face was slowly
upturned to his.\par

“Come, old man,” he said quietly. “Rouse yourself.
You can do no more good here now.”\par

And, stiff and cold, the Sergeant arose and followed
him out like a child.\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
Wearily he returned to the detachment and, with
mechanical instinct, tidied up the place. Then, duly
attending scrupulously to his personal toilet, he went
down to the hotel, where he forced himself to swallow
a few mouthfuls of food and a cup of coffee.
Later he repaired to the room of Musgrave’s patient
and, after subjecting that unfortunate individual
to a somewhat lengthy examination, he formally
placed him under arrest. These duties despatched,
he departed with a heavy heart to the station to
await the incoming west-bound train, which was over
an hour late.\par

Gradually, under the influence of his surroundings
and the fresh morning air, mind and body, from
constant habit, returned, naturally, to their normal
state of soldierly alertness. To all outward appearance
he became once more the composed, practical
guardian of the Law, resourceful and ready for any
duty that claimed him. Presently he was joined by
the station agent, who greeted him with a sort of
miserable heartiness.\par

“Well, Sergeant,” he began, “and how are we
this morning? Some doings last night, eh? What
about that ear of yours? You look as if you’d sure
come through a rough house, with that bandage on.
What’s the other feller look like?”\par

Ellis did not answer for a moment, but a faint
grin overspread his haggard face as he regarded
the other’s tell-tale countenance attentively.\par

“{\itshape{We}}!” he echoed, with quiet derision. “I’m
afraid {\itshape{we}} doesn’t feel very well this nice mornin’,
Carey. Ear stings like the devil. As for the
other fellow—you know what {\itshape{he}} looks like, all
right. You look as if you were just doin’ a ‘walk-march’
to your {\itshape{own}} funeral. You’d better keep a
flask on your hip for emergencies, as you an’ me’ll
be the star witnesses when this inquest comes off.
I’m expectin’ the coroner an’ one of our inspectors
on this train.”\par

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll fall off the perch just yet,”
said the agent, with a sheepish smile. “I’ve got the
other key off Petersen,” he continued significantly.
“One or two of the curious ones came nosing around,
but I warned ’em off the course, quick. Hello! here
she comes. Well, I’ll see you later, Sergeant.”
And he hurried away about his duties.\par

Inspector Purvis, a dark, heavy-set, middle-aged
man, wearing the South African and Riel Rebellion
campaign ribbons, acknowledged Benton’s salute
punctiliously and, turning, introduced his companion.\par

“This is Dr. Sampson, the coroner, Sergeant Benton,”
he said.\par

And Ellis shook hands with a tall, gray-mustached,
pleasant-faced man, whom he knew very well by
sight. The latter glanced sharply at the policeman’s
bandaged head.\par

“Looks as if you’d been in the wars, Sergeant,”
he said. “What’s happened you?”\par

Ellis drew them on one side and briefly related his
story, to which they listened with lively interest.\par

“Well, well,” said the Inspector at its conclusion.
“We’ll wait till this train pulls out, and let
these people get away, and then we’ll go on down to
this section hut and view this body.”\par

Ten minutes later they stood in front of the shed,
and Ellis unlocked the door and flung it open. An
angry buzz greeted them, as their presence disturbed
a hideous swarm of blue-bottle flies. Sharp exclamations
of loathing and disgust escaped the two
newcomers who, after gazing for a few seconds at
the {\itshape{thing}} that had once been a man, proceeded to
note all details carefully, with the callous precision
of men hardened to such sights.\par

Once the Inspector’s glance traveled curiously,
from the shattered head of the corpse, to the stern,
bandaged face of the man beside him, who had caused
this terrible transformation.\par

“Some shootin’!” he observed, in a low voice,
to the coroner.\par

It seemed to be rather a doubtful compliment,
though, under the circumstances, so the latter only
nodded nonchalantly, and refrained from comment
himself.\par

“There’s absolutely no doubt about this being
Shapiro, the man that’s wanted, sir,” said Ellis. “I
saw the other man, Wilks, who’s lying sick up at
the hotel, this morning. He confirms this man’s
identity, and admits everything. I’ll take you up
to see him later.”\par

Presently the coroner straightened himself up.\par

“All right!” he said. “I guess I’m through
here, if you are, Inspector. Let’s go and view the
other body at the house the Sergeant speaks of.”\par

They turned to go, and Ellis locked the door
again.\par

“Oh, Benton!” said the Inspector, in a low tone,
beckoning him aside. “Just a minute.”\par

With a slightly uncomfortable presentiment of
what was coming, the former obeyed.\par

There was a moment’s silence, while the Inspector
eyed him keenly, but not unkindly.\par

“I understand this isn’t the first man you’ve shot
and killed in the execution of your duty, Sergeant,
since you’ve been in this Division,” he said.\par

Ellis bowed his head in assent.\par

“Well, in that case,” continued the Inspector
briskly, “your previous experience has no doubt
enlightened you, then, in regard to the customary
procedure in such cases. You are, of course, aware
that the finding of a coroner’s jury, while it may
acquit you of all blame in causing a person’s death,
doesn’t necessarily preclude any subsequent inquiry
that the {\itshape{Crown}} may see fit to institute later, although
it would naturally carry considerable weight with it
in such an eventuality....”\par

He paused for a moment, and then went on in the
slightly sententious tones of one who knows he has
an unpleasant duty to perform:\par

“I’ve the O.C.’s orders to place you under
‘open’ arrest, and take you back to the Post with
me. There will be a formal charge laid against
you, and you will have to face an inquiry in regard
to this man’s death. Of course, I shall remain here
until these inquests, etc., are over. That is all, Sergeant.
Now we’ll go on down to this other place.”\par

With a strange, indefinable feeling of reluctance,
he conducted them thither. Awed, and filled with
compassion at what they beheld, they halted irresolutely,
a moment, on the threshold, and bared their
heads reverently in the presence of the dead. Then,
entering the chamber, they made a brief examination
which, to Benton, standing idly there in his dumb
misery, seemed almost in the light of a sacrilege.\par

A whispered colloquy ensued between them for a
few minutes, and then they gently withdrew and
closed the door, Ellis following them out to receive
his instructions.\par

“Inspector,” began the coroner, “I would have
liked, if possible, to have had this double inquest
held here; but there’s not enough room, I’m afraid.
Could you—”\par

Ellis, with ready tact, broke in quietly: “I think
I can arrange that, all right, doctor. I know the
man who rents this cottage next door. He’s the
day operator at the station. His wife’s away just
now, so he’s staying with Mr. Carey, the station
agent. There wouldn’t be any difficulty about obtaining
the use of {\itshape{his}} premises to hold the inquiry in,
and I could have the other body removed down here,
so as to utilize this place as the morgue.”\par

“Ah, very well,” said the coroner, with evident
relief; “that will be entirely satisfactory. There’s
just one other thing I would like you to see to, Sergeant.
Kindly get some woman to attend to the
necessary arrangements in this last case—lay her
out decently, and so on—you understand?”\par

“And afterwards,” supplemented the Inspector,
“of course give Dr. Sampson all the assistance you
can in empanelling a jury. Why, hello, doctor!”
he exclaimed, turning to Musgrave, who had just
joined them. “{\itshape{You}} seem to have been getting yourself
mixed up in stirring events around here, according
to what Sergeant Benton tells me. Whatever
brings you so far away from home? I guess we’ll
need your evidence at these inquests.”\par

The three men chatted awhile, then presently, the
coroner and the Inspector departed for the hotel,
leaving Musgrave and Benton together.\par

An indefinable constraint seemed to have fallen
upon them, for the gloomy memory of the past night
was still vivid in their minds and oppressed them
greatly. The doctor was the first to break the
silence.\par

“By gum!” he said; “I’d clean forgotten about
your ear, Ellis. My bag’s still here. Let’s dress
it again for you. Come inside again for a bit.”\par

With deft hands he soon performed the operation
and Benton, studiously avoiding the elder man’s
eyes, thanked him and, with a slightly overdone
yawn, prepared to leave and carry out the orders
that he had previously received. Throughout Musgrave
had talked incessantly on irrelevant subjects.
It seemed as if he were maundering with design,
beating about the bush of some communication he
feared to make, and just talking against time.\par

“Well! have you seen that patient of mine up at
the hotel yet?” he inquired.\par

The Sergeant, with a curious, apprehensive glance
at the closed bedroom door, beckoned the other outside.
As if, almost, he feared that the dead might
hear.\par

“Yes,” he said. “Saw him when I went up for
breakfast He’s the man, all right—Herbert
Wilks—admits everything. Seemed glad to get it
off his chest. Told me the whole business. Sounds
just like a dime novel yarn. Well, truth’s stranger
than fiction, so they say. Appears he’s been a dissipated
young beggar, and he got fired from the Trust
Company for inattention to his work. The very
day he got let out he happened to pick up a paper
in the manager’s private office, which turned out
to be nothing more or less than the combination of
the safe. Suppose the manager—or whoever {\itshape{had}}
the combination—was scared to commit it to memory
alone. Well, being, as I said before, a dissipated
young scamp, he’d somehow got mixed up
with this Shapiro chap in one or two dirty deals—women,
I guess—an’ what not. Of course, he was
pretty sore about gettin’ the push—went on a bust
that night, an’ while he was ‘lit’ told Shapiro all
about this paper he’d found. You just bet Mister
‘Harry the Mack’ wasn’t goin’ to let a chance like
that go by, an’ soon got Wilks goin’ ... telling
him what a good opportunity it was to get back at
them, an’ all that. Well, they fixed everything up
for two nights after, and brought in Lipinski along
with them. Shapiro’d got a set of burglar’s tools
and soon effected an entrance. He an’ Wilks
crawled in, leaving Lipinski as a ‘look-out.’ Wilks
messed with the combination for a bit an’ tried to
open her up, but couldn’t work it. Might have been
an old one that’d been changed two or three times
since the scale’d been written on this paper. Anyway,
there seemed nothing doin’ an’ ‘Harry,’ being
a yegg, got tired, an’ suggested blowin’ it. He went
out to get the ‘soup’ ... from a pal of his who
lived a short distance away, leaving Wilks still there.
While he was waiting, our friend had {\itshape{another}} go at
it, an’ this {\itshape{time}} managed, somehow, to turn the trick.\par

“He cleaned up everything, as {\itshape{he}} thought, and
beat it in a hurry, leaving the safe open. Told
Lipinski he’d be back in a minute—an’ skinned out.
‘Honor among thieves’—what? Well, naturally,
the first idea that came into his head was to
go back to his home town—Hamilton—and swank
around there for a bit with this money, thinking, of
course, though, that suspicion might fall on him
right away, bein’ fired two days before, and the
safe, not blown, but opened by the combination, he
was cute enough not to attempt to get aboard the
East-bound {\itshape{there}}. Mr. Man gets some crooked pal
of his—a chauffeur—to drive him in his automobile
as far as Garstang. He laid up there till the
ten-fifteen came along next morning. Then he got a
bloomin’ fright. He was sitting in the first-class
coach, all tickled up the back at makin’ his get-away
so easy when, who should come an’ plank himself
down on the seat alongside him but Mister ‘{\itshape{Harry
the Mack}}.’ This chauffeur pal of his had double-crossed
him after he’d driven back—told Shapiro
everything who, you bet, wasn’t goin’ to get left like
that.\par

“All this is, of course, what Harry told him.
He’d managed to get on the train all right, without
bein’ spotted—taking—” He lowered his voice,
and indicated the drawn blinds with a significant gesture—“with
him. Partly to divert suspicion, I
suppose ... look like respectable couple—man
an’ wife. Well, naturally, Harry talked pretty
ugly ... what he’d do to him, an’ all that, if he
didn’t whack up; but Wilks wouldn’t ’come across’—kept
bluffin’ that he’d divvy up later on, an’ so
on—knowing that he was safe enough as long as
he was amongst a crowd of people. Of course
Harry never breathed a word about shootin’ the
night-watchman. The first intimation Wilks had
about {\itshape{that}} was in a paper at the hotel, here. It
appears about ten minutes after he’d vamoosed with
the money Harry came back with the ‘soup,’ to do
the blowin’ act. Lipinski told him that Wilks would
be back in a few minutes, so they waited a bit. As
he showed no signs of returning, they decided to go
ahead without him—Lipinski goin’ in with Harry
this time, to give him a hand. It didn’t take ’em
long to see what’d happened, you bet. Everything
all strewn around and turned upside down. They
found a hundred an’ fifty in a small drawer I guess
he’d overlooked in his hurry an’, according to Lipinski’s
statement, they’d just split this up when the
poor, bloomin’ watchman happened along an’ Shapiro
fixed him. Then they bolted an’ the patrolman
on the beat shot at them an’ one skinned one
way an’ one the other. Lipinski didn’t see Harry
again after that—beat it on his own to Seattle later,
an’ got nailed.\par

“Well, it seems they kept up this chewin’ the rag
an’ watching each other till the train got down as
far as here. It was gettin’ dark, then. Harry’d
got a bottle of whiskey in his grip when he’d come
on the train. He started in to get primed up on this,
an’ Wilks got scared, for Harry began to raise his
voice an’ look at him pretty nasty, with his hand in
his hip-pocket. They managed to kick up such a
row between ’em that the con’ came along—gave
’em a callin’ down an’ threatened to chuck ’em off
the train if they didn’t shut up. Harry started to
give the con’ a whole lot of lip, an’ while these two
were squabblin’ together, Mister Wilks slipped off—{\itshape{here}}—just
as the train was on the move.\par

“Of course Harry, as soon as he missed him,
promptly got off at the next stop—Glenmore—fifteen
miles east of here—an’ caught the West-bound
back again in the morning. Went straight
to the hotel an’ soon located his man. Didn’t speak
to him, though. Didn’t register at the place, either—but
that may have been because of the expense—hadn’t
any too much ‘dough’ left, an’ p’r’aps figured
he’d most likely have a long wait. He rented this
furnished cottage instead, for a few days. It belongs
to a chap named George Ricks, over at Beaver
Dam. He comes into town an’ lives in it himself
all the winter, but leaves it in charge of some chap
here to rent to anybody who comes along during
the summer. I guess Harry felt pretty safe, knowing
that Wilks wasn’t exactly in the position to give
him away. There’s absolutely no doubt what his
intention was—”\par

The Sergeant paused a moment and eyed his listener
grimly. The latter, with an equally grim comprehensive
gesture, nodded silently.\par

“Well,” he went on, “here they camped, watchin’
each other’s every little movement. Shapiro never
got much of a show to do anything, though, for
Wilks took darned good care to keep inside the
hotel most of the time. He admits he was scared to
death, especially after reading about Harry shootin’
the watchman. Just dawdled around—couldn’t
make up his mind {\itshape{what}} to do, knowing that he
couldn’t shake Harry a {\itshape{second}} time. He was feeling
pretty sick, too.... I guess this thing’s been
comin’ on him some time, hasn’t it, Charley?”\par

The doctor, nodding again, replied: “Yes, about
a month, most probably.”\par

“An’ that’s how the case stands,” concluded Ellis
wearily. “If you hadn’t gone into his room that
time when you did, Harry’d most likely put the kibosh
on him right there. Choked him, p’r’aps. I
got the money off him, O. K. About a hundred
short—what he’d paid for his ticket through to
Hamilton, a bribe to that chauffeur, Kelly, his hotel
bill here, an’ odds an’ ends. The New Axminster
men’ll get their hooks on that chauffeur quick, I’ll
bet, when the O.C. forwards them my crime report.
Don’t know whether they’ll be able to make a charge
stick or not—may do. I turned the money into
the bank for safe keeping. Inspector Purvis’ll take
it down with him when we go back to the Post.”\par

There was a long pause. “Well, what’ll happen
to this fellow now?” inquired Musgrave.\par

“Guess Churchill’ll have to keep an eye on him,”
said Ellis indifferently. “Take him in to the Post
soon as he’s able to travel. He’ll be held there till
a New Axminster man comes for him. Feel sorry,
in a way, for the poor sick devil, but that’s all that
can be done with {\itshape{him}}, now. Well, I must be getting—lots
o’ work to do. See you later, Charley.”\par

The elder man laid a detaining hand on the Sergeant’s
shoulder, and his voice shook ever so little
as he said slowly:\par

“Wait a bit. There’s something I want to tell
you before you go.” He swallowed and hesitated
slightly in his agitation. “It’s about that—that—that
poor girl,” he continued, in strained, unnatural
tones. “Ellis, old man, you don’t know
how sorry I am that I sneered at you last night....
About being a moral reformer, and all that.... I
hardly meant it at the time. And I’ve been feeling
pretty bad since—since—”\par

His voice broke, and he left the sentence unfinished.
This was a great concession from Musgrave,
and his hearer thought so, as he grasped the other’s
arm with a sympathetic pressure.\par

“Charley,” he said gently, “Charley.... Don’t
think of that again.... See here; look! I don’t
take you in earnest, every time. You’re the best
friend I’ve got ... an’ the very first man I’d think
of comin’ to, if I was in trouble. Maybe you don’t
know it, but I tell you that same sarcastic tongue o’
yours has cured me of lots o’ dam’-fool notions—time
an’ again.”\par

They remained silent awhile, after this, then Musgrave
went on, in a stronger voice:\par

“This is what I wanted to say. Seems very apparent,
they—this—unfortunate couple, have little
or no money—”\par

The Sergeant nodded, and cleared his throat.
“Very little,” he said. “Man’s got a few dollars
left—seven-fifty, or something like that.”\par

“Well, now; look!” said the doctor. “These
two will have a decent burial in the cemetery here,
at my expense. It’s my wish.” And, as Ellis raised
a protesting hand, “No, no, my boy—let be!
{\itshape{You’re}} not immaculate, God knows, but, by the Lord
Harry! you’re a better man than I am, and I respect
you for many things.... ‘As ye sow, so shall ye
reap.’... It’s thirty years since I heard that text;
I forgot it the same day, and never thought of it
again till now. There may be truth in it. I say,
for the peace of my soul, let me do this thing; and
little though it is—may the Recording Angel—if
there is one—remember it as something in my
favor when my time comes.”\par

Ellis never forgot those words, nor the weary,
bitter, hopeless look that accompanied them; and,
long years afterwards, their remembrance rushed
back to his mind with vivid distinctness, as he held
poor Musgrave’s dying head.\par

Drearily he wended his way up the main street,
his mind preoccupied with the problem of fulfilling
the coroner’s final request. He knew comparatively
few of the male—let alone, the female, community,
of the little town and, somehow, he instinctively
shrank at the thought of having to approach strange
women anent such a delicate duty. In his perplexity
he went to Carey, and besought the latter’s
advice.\par

The agent mused a space. “Let’s see,” he said.
“There’s Mrs. Steele—she’s head of the Women’s
Church Guild here, and there’s Mrs. Parsons, and
Mrs. Macleod. You go and see them. They ought
to be able to help you out. I’ll tell you where they
live.”\par

With a vague feeling of uneasiness, Ellis departed,
and presently found himself at Mrs. Steele’s
abode. A gray-haired, elderly woman, with a high-featured,
severe face, answered his summons and,
with some trepidation, he broached the subject of his
visit. She listened impatiently, her hard eyes narrowing
and her thin lips compressing themselves
into a straight line.\par

“No!” she snapped coldly, as he ended. “I
{\itshape{don’t}}—an’ what’s more ... I wouldn’t think of
asking—or expecting—any decent woman to go
getting herself mixed up in such a scandalous business
as this.”\par

And she began to slowly thrust the door to.
“Such shockin’ goin’s on in a decent, God-fearing
neighborhood!” she shrilled. “Wicked hussies
walkin’ the street, an’—an’ men being shot—an’
all, an’ all.... God help the town that has to depend
on the likes of you policemen to keep such bad
characters away!”\par

The virulence with which she uttered this last
somewhat unjust, remark, stung him sharply.\par

“Aye, madam,” he echoed bitterly. “An’ God
help all poor, unfortunate souls that are dependent
upon the likes of you for Christian mercy, too!”\par

But his words only greeted empty air, for the door
was slammed violently to in his face.\par

Feeling sick at heart, he wandered away, only
meeting with more or less indifference at the other
addresses that Carey had given him. By this time
a strange nervousness, entirely foreign to his nature,
began to assail him. Men he understood and could
deal with. But women—ah, that was a very different
matter.\par

He was just on the point of abandoning his quest
in despair when he beheld a woman coming out of
a store opposite to where he stood. The light of a
great relief immediately lit up his troubled eyes for,
in the plain, homely, blue-serge uniform that she
wore, with its red-barred bonnet, he recognized at
a glance the all-familiar badge of the Salvation
Army—that long-suffering and too frequently disparaged
organization which, nevertheless, spreads
its gospel of humility and help to the ends of the
earth; whose followers, whilst always remaining
nobly indifferent to the shafts of misguided ridicule
leveled against them from time to time by members
of many far less charitable sects, never shrink from
entering the lowly dwellings of the poorest of the
poor—aye—and the foulest dens of iniquity—in
the {\itshape{practical}} fulfilment of their creed of genuine
Christian mercy and succor.\par

Ellis looked eagerly at the slight figure for a
moment. Why not try her? he reflected. Surely
she wouldn’t turn him down, like the rest? Didn’t
the Salvationists always hold a service for the prisoners
in the guardroom every Sunday morning?
And didn’t they help out all the poor devils who
were down and out when their sentences were expired—giving
them shelter, food, and clothes, and
finding them jobs? Yes, he would ask {\itshape{her}}!\par

He crossed over and, with a few quick strides,
overtook the little woman, who stopped at his salutation
and turned a worn, patient face to his, regarding
him with astonishment meanwhile, out of a pair
of kindly brown eyes.\par

Why did he stammer and hesitate like that? she
wondered. Surely he could not be afraid of {\itshape{her}}?
For the Sergeant’s voice and manner betrayed a
curious timidity just then, that was strangely out of
keeping with his bronzed, hard-bitten face and athletic
figure. His recent experiences had rendered
him decidedly nervous in approaching women. She
listened to his request with passive interest, and
nodded her acquiescence, gazing intently, all the time,
at his bandaged head.\par

“I’m afraid you must have got hurt bad,” she
said sympathetically. “It was all in this morning’s
paper, an’ everybody’s full of it. I came up on
the early train to nurse a sick woman here. I remember
seeing you once before, a long time ago, at
the Barracks. I was in the Female Gaol, talking
to Mrs. Stratford, the matron, an’ you came over
from the guardroom.”\par

“Would to God you’d been here last night!” he
blurted out passionately.\par

“Aye, would to God I had!” she echoed, with
a wistful sadness. “Give me the key, then, Sergeant.
I’ll go right on down there now.”\par

Silently he handed it over, and tried to thank her,
but somehow—the words would not come. He
only looked at her, with a dumb gratitude showing
in his tired eyes, swallowed a little, and turned
quickly away.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xiv}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xiv}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XIV}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Mother and daughter, father and son,\par}
{\vl Come to my solitude one by one;\par}
{\vl But come they stranger, or come they kin,\par}
{\vl I gather—gather—I gather them in.”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Old Sexton}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Two days later the little funeral cortège
slowly wound its way up to the diminutive
cemetery, situated on a rising plateau at
the back of the little town.\par

It was a still, fine afternoon, and the bright sunshine
flooded everything around that peaceful spot
with its sleepy, golden haze. Far away in the distance
arose the purple peaks of the Rockies, white-capped
with their eternal snows against the pure,
turquoise-blue sky. It was a day to gladden the
hearts of all living creatures, but somehow its tranquillity
awoke no response in the breasts of the two
men who followed the dead to their last resting
place.\par

Arriving at the grave-side they reverently bared
their heads, and the clergyman, a kindly, earnest-faced
young man with a deep, resonant voice, began
the service.\par

Ellis felt unaccountably oppressed with many conflicting
emotions. Though never a downright unbeliever,
religion was to him more or less of a sealed
book, and the reckless, irresponsible wandering life
that had been his since boyhood had not been conducive
to much serious thought on that sacred subject.
The solemn, beautiful, tremendous words that
stand at the head of the burial service, with their
glorious, all-powerful promise of Eternal Life affected
him strangely now, with their awe-inspiring
significance.\par

{\itshape{“I am the Resurrection and the Life,” saith the
Lord: “He that believeth in me, though he were
dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me shall never die.”}}\par

Often—ah, how often—with the callous indifference
bred of active service and its cruel, sordid
realities, had he listened to them before, out there
on the far-away South African veldt, blaspheming,
as like as not, under his breath at the heat, and the
dust, and the maddening flies as, “Resting upon
Arms Reversed,” he stood beside the freshly dug
grave of some dead comrade.\par

“{\itshape{The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.}}”\par

And the vision of his dream rose up in his brooding
mind once more; and again he seemed to behold
that poor girl before him, arisen from the dead,
and the glory in her eyes as, with bowed head and
outstretched arms like the Angel of Pity, she gazed
sweetly, but sadly, down upon him from amidst that
great, shining, billowy cloud of light.\par

And then—his brain sank into a deep oblivion
of dreamy, chaotic thought, through which the curate’s
sonorous intonation, sounding far off and indistinct,
penetrated at intervals.\par

“{\itshape{We therefore commit her body to the ground;
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.}}”\par

At the well-remembered words mechanically, from
long practise, he stooped and cast a handful of earth
into the grave. And, the dull thud of its fall upon
her coffin, was on his very heart.\par

The service ended, but still the scarlet-coated
figure remained there motionless, with bowed head,
as of one in a dream. He was aroused from his
reverie by Musgrave touching him on the arm.\par

“Come, old man!” said the doctor gently, “it’s
all over now; let’s go. Are you going to wait for
the—other?...”\par

“Yes,” responded Ellis in a strained, unnatural
voice, without raising his eyes.\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
Drearily, without another word being uttered on
either side the whole way back, they returned to the
detachment and, sitting down in the little office, filled
their pipes and smoked moodily awhile, amidst an
embarrassing silence, which was finally broken by
Musgrave.\par

“Well, Ellis, old man,” he said quietly, “seems
we’ve come through rather a sad passage.”\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
Benton raised his troubled eyes and, for the first
time that day, looked the other squarely in the face,
with a certain sense of relief as he did so.\par

“Yes,” he answered listlessly. “I know I have.
Charley,” he continued, “I don’t know exactly why
it is, but that girl’s death’s shaken me up rather bad ... kid
was an utter stranger to me, but somehow—somehow—it
seems as if I’d known her always.
Must have been her eyes.” His voice shook
a little, and trailed off into a murmur. “Yes ...
they were very like poor Eileen Regan’s—way
back there in Jo’burg—very like hers, weren’t
they?”\par

He paused, and the doctor nodded sympathetically.
Before the war he had known the Sergeant’s
dead love well—had attended her in her last illness.
There was a long silence.\par

“Don’t worry, Ellis,” said Musgrave softly.
“She’s in a better place now, I think, for she was
more sinned against than sinning, poor girl.”\par

Benton got up and, leaning out of the open window,
looked dreamily away over the sun-scorched
prairie.\par

“Aye,” he muttered slowly, half to himself; “I
don’t think—I know. I saw the look on her face
the night she died ... an’ I saw her again—afterwards.
That should stop me from worrying.
See here; look, Charley,” he went on, in a steadier
voice, turning to his companion: “You must have
seen many deaths in your time—lots more than I
have, I guess ... an’ God knows I’ve seen enough,
one way an’ another. I tell you—people in their
last stages see something that {\itshape{we}} can’t. It’s beyond
{\itshape{our}} ken—but it’s there. Probably you as a doctor,
with all your scientific medical theories, analyze it
differently, but you know what I mean, for all that.”\par

Musgrave did not answer at once, but smoked
thoughtfully on for a space.\par

“Yes,” he agreed, with a curious, dry intonation
in his voice, “I know what you mean, all right. No
doubt they {\itshape{do}} possess some strange prescience ...
but I don’t think we’ll start a discussion on that, old
man. Circumstances have reduced both of us to a
certain frame of mind just now, wherein we might
be persuaded into believing anything.”\par

Ellis cogitated awhile over this last utterance.\par

“M’m—yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “Only
temporarily at that, too. Begad!... I’m the one
that knows it.... Guess I’m the most impulsive,
changeable beggar that ever was.... Always
have been more or less of an impressionable fool—where
women are concerned, anyway. S’pose it’s
my nature. Here are we two—we’ve both had our
troubles at various periods of our sinful lives. Some
were of our own making—some were not. Mind!
I’m not meanin’ this lightly, remember ... far
from it at such a time as this ... but just the plain,
absolute facts—coming from a man who knows
himself too well to trust his passing emotions.” He
struck a match and lit his pipe again, continuing with
some irritation in his voice. “All that bunkum that
religious extremists and temperance cranks would
have you believe ... about sudden conversions an’
all that.... Fellows {\itshape{can}} alter their ways a bit—chuck
a brace, an’ climb out of the pit they’ve dug
for themselves, no doubt. But it’s a {\itshape{gradual}} process,
an’ doesn’t come quick by any means, like these
fanatics try to make out. There’s one of ’em, in
particular, who makes a specialty of writing—what
he, in his limited knowledge of actual facts—conceives
to be true Western yarns. Most of ’em, I
guess, pass as such with the general public who read
’em. Oh, he’s great on this conversion business.
One was a fool book about {\itshape{our}} Force, I remember,
where he makes the bucks go pallin’ around arm in
arm with their superior officers—doin’ the ‘Percy,
old chap,’ stunt, ‘When we were at college together,
you know!’ Sounds all hunkadory—like a happy
family, an’ all that but, unfortunately, it ain’t true.
Can’t imagine it happening with any of the powers
that be in {\itshape{our}} Division, anyway. Take ‘Father,’
for instance—what? Then, again—all that stuff—what
‘Tork abaht Tompkins’ our regimental
teamster calls ‘’Igh falutin’ Bull-Durham,’ and
‘Father’—‘Poppycock’ that’s written about the
Force. An’ oh—{\itshape{always}} in a bloomin’ red serge,
of course, no matter what dirty job they’re on ... never
a stable-jacket—they don’t wear such
things. All the pictures you see of Mounted Policemen,
too, chasin’ cattle rustlers, arresting bootleggers,
an’ nitchies, in which we’re depicted as
such ’eroes’—red serge, again—so’s the noble
Mounted cop can be seen comin’ a long ways off.
That reminds me, though—I’ll have to ride back
to the Creek in one myself,” he added ruefully.
“My stable-jacket’s ruined with all that blood on it.”\par

He paused, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.\par

“No, {\itshape{sir}},” he continued emphatically. “{\itshape{I}} know
what becomes of the large percentage of your sudden
converts. Most of ’em land up as hopeless
booze artists in the last stages of D.T.—or else go
{\itshape{completely}} bug-house. Lord knows, we get all kinds
of ’em in that guardroom at the Post. Many’s the
screechin’, prayin’ strait-jacketed nuisance I’ve had
to escort up to Ponoka. After all’s said an’ done,
the only philosophy a man can practise to make life
worth living at all, is just to peg along quietly, doing
the best he can under the circumstances in which he
finds himself placed day by day. I know it is for a
Mounted man, anyway for, begad! he get’s everybody
else’s bloomin’ troubles dinned into his ears
in addition to his own.\par

“As you said just now, we’ve both come through
a sad passage. We have. But this feeling won’t
stay with us. We’ll be genuinely an’ sincerely sorry
an’ repentant for the time being, but by degrees
we’ll fall back into our old ways again. It may be
smug, complacent reasoning, but it’s a fact. Now,
isn’t that right, Charley?”\par

The elder man smiled wearily. “Guess you’re
pretty near it,” he admitted. “Don’t know
whether you’re able to put all {\itshape{your}} troubles behind
you as effectively as you intimate. I know I can’t
lots of mine. There’s some I can’t forget—even
after all these years. They’re with me night and
day. Remember me telling you ... that day
when we were up at Cecil Rhodes’ tomb, ’way back
there up in the Matoppos?”\par

He gazed at Benton anxiously, almost timidly.
Ellis bowed his head in assent, but he could not find
words to answer just then. For there was something
in the haggard, deeply lined face of his old
friend that forbade conventional condolence.\par

A long silence ensued, and presently Musgrave
rose to go.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“The Devil was sick—\par}
{\vl The Devil a monk would be;”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
he quoted, with a wry, whimsical smile. “I guess
I’ll go on over to the hotel and see ‘Wilks,’ as you
call him. He was much better this morning. Believe
he’ll pull through without an operation now.
Churchill should be able to take him down in three
or four days’ time if he keeps improving like this.
By the way! Churchill’s making a pretty long stay
at the Post, isn’t he?”\par

“Oh, I don’t know,” yawned the Sergeant.
“P’r’aps he’s not through with that case of his yet.
It was right at the end of the docket. Maybe he’s
got mighty good reason for not hurrying back, too,”
he added ominously.\par

“I never noticed till the other day he’d got the
South African ribbon up—whatever outfit was {\itshape{he}}
in?” inquired the doctor.\par

“Search me,” said Ellis contemptuously. “The
‘Can I Venture,’ ‘Jam Wallahs,’—‘Sacca Bona’s
Horse,’ or some irresponsible bunch o’ Bashi-Bazouks,
I guess. I’ve never asked him. I think I
told you before, Charley, there’s five hundred dollars’
reward for Wilks. If it comes through, so
much the better for both of us. I’ll see you sure
get your fee an’ expenses in full. In all fairness
you’re entitled to half of it, anyway, in consideration
of the whisper you gave me in the beginning.”\par

“Didn’t think you fellows were allowed to accept
rewards,” said the doctor.\par

“Well, we’re not, as a rule,” Ellis admitted.
“But now an’ again they make exceptions when the
crime has been committed outside our usual jurisdiction.
Take that hold-up of the C.P.R. passenger
train near Ducks in B.C. that time, by those three
chaps—Bill Miner, Shorty Dunn, an’ Lewis Colquhoun.
Five of our men got rewarded for nailing
{\itshape{them}}. Let’s see! there was Wilson, Shoebotham,
Peters, Stewart, an’ Browning. They got thirteen
hundred an’ fifty apiece for that job. But we never
receive it direct. It has to come through the Commissioner.
Generally it’s turned into the Fine Fund
at Headquarters, an’ the grant is made from there.”\par

“All right,” said Musgrave indifferently, as he
opened the door. “If it does come through—why,
all well and good, though I’m sorry, in a way,
for the poor devil.”\par

With his hand on the knob, he turned, the ghost
of a smile flitting across his strong intellectual face.\par

“Guess you weren’t far out in your remarks just
now,” he said. “Seems the transformation’s begun
already. Afraid we’ve come down to Mother Earth
again with a vengeance. Remember Sir Noel Paton’s
great picture—‘The Man with the Muckrake,’ Ellis?
So long!”\par

“So long,” the other answered mechanically,
without turning his head.\par

And the door closed softly.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xv}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xv}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XV}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
O Memory, ope thy mystic door!\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl O dream of youth, return!\par}
}

{\vl And let the lights that gleamed of yore\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Beside this altar burn!\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
}

{\vl —{\scshape{Gray}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The subtle irony conveyed in the doctor’s
last words had not been lost on their
hearer.\par

“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.”\par

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.\par

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 {\itshape{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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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. {\itshape{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.\par

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.\par

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 {\itshape{Braemar Castle}} the night she made
Table Bay.\par

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.\par

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.”\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
It is his will that he look forth\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Across the world he won—\par}
}

{\vl The granite of the ancient North—\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Great spaces washed with sun.\par}
}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Aye—Kipling’s immortal lines were a fitting
requiem to the memory of the great dead. Cecil
Rhodes was gone, but—\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Living he was the land, and dead,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl His soul shall be her soul!\par}
}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
How well he recalled that memorable pilgrimage
thither, as if to a shrine, that he and Musgrave had
made together after the war.\par

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
{\itshape{krantzes}}.\par

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 {\itshape{Uitlander’s}} lot unbearable.\par

Yes, but old Oom got {\itshape{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:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Oom Paul Kruger” seems every one’s pal\par}
{\vl In this wide world, wide world.\par}
{\vl For he is such a cleanly, sweet-smelling old chap;\par}
{\vl Handkerchiefs, he disdains—gives his fingers a snap;\par}
{\vl Oh! ain’t it a shame that he’s wiped off the map\par}
{\vl Of this awfully wide, wide world?\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
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 {\itshape{trek}}, where
your horse kept coming down with you amongst the
{\itshape{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 “{\itshape{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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

He’d done {\itshape{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 {\itshape{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.\par

Yes, without being unduly “stuck on himself,”
he {\itshape{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 {\itshape{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.\par

If only it wasn’t such a cursed {\itshape{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 {\itshape{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 {\itshape{that}}, surely—even if his hair {\itshape{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.\par

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 {\itshape{them}}, and could talk freely in
their company without having to be continually on
his guard.\par

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.\par

“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.”\par

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.\par

“Hello, Ben,” greeted that individual, with an
assumption of geniality. “You still here?”\par

Ellis turned and, straightening himself up, regarded
the other with languid interest.\par

“Hello,” he returned. “Train in? Was beginning
to think you’d deserted.”\par

Churchill did not answer immediately but, divesting
himself of his side-arms and serge, sat down
and proceeded to smoke.\par

“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 {\itshape{him}}
properly, before we got there.”\par

“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?”\par

“Nine months,” answered Churchill laconically.\par

A long silence ensued, during which Ellis continued
his polishing, Churchill eyeing him furtively
meanwhile.\par

“Must have got a bad smash?” he ventured, indicating
the other’s bandaged head. “Heard all
about it at th’ Post.”\par

“Oh,” replied Ellis indifferently, “did you?”\par

His tone was anything but encouraging. Churchill
licked his lips and essayed another attempt.\par

“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.”\par

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

“Eh?” he returned irritably.\par

Churchill, avoiding the other’s eyes and fumbling
with his pipe, repeated the question.\par

Benton reached for a memorandum form that
lay on the desk, and tossed it over unceremoniously.\par

“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....”\par

He finished his cleaning operations and proceeded
to pull on his serge. Churchill fidgeted uneasily.\par

“Was there—what kind of evidence was adduced?”
he began. “Did—?”\par

“Here!” interrupted Ellis harshly. “What the
devil are {\itshape{you}} beating ’round the bush for? Why
don’t you come across with it plain? What d’you
want to know?”\par

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.\par

“Oh—nothing,” he mumbled thickly. “I
thought p’r’aps—”\par

“Yes,” broke in Benton savagely. “I know what
you {\itshape{thought}}, and I’ll tell you this much, Mr. ‘B——’
Churchill.... If I hadn’t given my evidence
mighty darned careful, {\itshape{you’d}} have been on the flypaper,
properly, both feet. {\itshape{Your}} name cropped up
during the inquests—one of the jury-men gently
inquiring ‘why {\itshape{you}} weren’t present, as p’r’aps {\itshape{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 {\itshape{my}}
goat is you thinkin’ you were smart enough to cover
up your trail in a little, one-horse ‘{\itshape{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’ {\itshape{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 {\itshape{did}} know, but I
can make a pretty good guess. There was a lot you
couldn’t {\itshape{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.”\par

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

“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 {\itshape{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
{\itshape{something}} about this business I can’t forget ...
an’ you know d—n well what that {\itshape{something}} is!”\par

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

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

But, what dumbfounded them more than anything
else, was the strange apparition of a great, brutal
{\itshape{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?\par

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 {\itshape{theirs}}? even
if the Government did not pay inordinately high
salaries to members of the Force.\par

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”?\par

{\itshape{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 {\itshape{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—{\itshape{watch}}.\par

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?\par

No—so long as {\itshape{he}} was around, it was not worth
the while risking “a stretch in the ‘Pen,’” even if
owners {\itshape{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. {\itshape{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.\par

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.\par

\begin{container}
{\centering
{\LARGE\strut{PART II}}
\endgraf}
\par
\end{container}


\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xvi}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xvi}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
{\noindent}
CHAPTER XVI}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{St. Matt}}. XXV, 35\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
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.\par

“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!”\par

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.\par

Suddenly she pulled up short for, through a lull
in the brisk night breeze—like an Æolian 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.\par

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 {\itshape{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:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
If I were hanged on the highest hill,\par}
{\vl Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!\par}
{\vl I know whose love would follow me still,\par}
{\vl Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
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:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
If I were damned of body and soul,\par}
{\vl I know whose prayers would make me whole,\par}
{\vl Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
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:\par

“Good night, madam. Is anything the matter?
Did you wish to see me?”\par

“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.\par

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?”\par

“Oh, yes,” she said plaintively. “But all the
{\itshape{decent}} horses are away on the spring round-up, and
the only one I could get was old Sam, and he’s {\itshape{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.”\par

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.”\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

“Well, well,” said the Sergeant. “This sure is
a pleasure. Why, I might have known you again
if only from your voice.”\par

She laughed with a deep, musical, mischievous
chuckle, like a boy whose voice is breaking.\par

“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.”\par

“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.”\par

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.\par

“My Good Samaritan,” she said simply. “I’m
very glad to know you and, since introductions are
going, suffice it to say {\itshape{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.”\par

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.”\par

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 {\itshape{my}} kitchen. Oh, I’m quite a
competent cook, I can assure you.”\par

She gave a little comical grimace of despair.
“Oh, very well, then,” she said. “I’ll just stay here
and sulk instead.”\par

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”:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Thin—Pat Malone forgot that he wot dead—\par}
{\vl He raised his head and shouldthers from th’ bed;\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Which ditty tickled her host beyond measure as he
continued his cooking operations.\par

Presently, tiring of the piano, she got up and, leaning
in the doorway, regarded him with serious, appraising
eyes.\par

“Man,” she said solemnly, “’tis th’ grand voice
that ye have—singin’ away all on your lonesome.”\par

And, dropping the brogue, she quoted, to his intense
amusement and surprise, a well-worn verse
from “Omar Khayyám.”\par

“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.”\par

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.\par

“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.\par

“Sorry I forgot to ask whether you’d have tea
or coffee,” he said apologetically. “I’ve made you
coffee.”\par

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said carelessly. “I
much prefer coffee. Thanks. My! but I’m hungry!”\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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 {\itshape{but}}
that, was only inviting disaster of the most ignominious
and humiliating kind.\par

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.\par

“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.”\par

“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 {\itshape{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.”\par

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

“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.”\par

“Oh, no; don’t you worry,” she said reassuringly.
“I told them I {\itshape{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.\par

“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 {\itshape{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.”\par

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!\par

“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 {\itshape{was}} so tipsy—singing away like
anything.\par

“Well, as soon as he caught sight of me, he raised
his bottle and shouted ‘’{\itshape{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.”\par

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?”\par

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.\par

“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 {\itshape{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 {\itshape{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
‘{\itshape{intombi}}.’ What’s that mean?”\par

“It’s Zulu,” said Ellis. “It means ‘young
woman.’ I guess he was swearing in Kaffir or the
{\itshape{Taal}}. He’s an old Cockney, but he’s lived the best
part of his life in South Africa.”\par

“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 {\itshape{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 {\itshape{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 {\itshape{trek}} next week. ’Urroo! ’Urroo! ’ere
goes nuthin’!’”\par

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.\par

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?”\par

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.”\par

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 {\itshape{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.\par

She glanced at him in mute inquiry, and back to
the photograph again, instinctively guessing {\itshape{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.\par

“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.”\par

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

“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 {\itshape{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.”\par

She thanked him prettily and gratefully for the
hospitable entertainment accorded her and his kind
offer of guidance.\par

“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.”\par

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.\par

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.\par

“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?”\par

“Sure thing,” said Ellis, laughing. “I’m thinking
of charging her with ‘vagrancy’—found her
wandering around the prairie ‘riding the grub line.’”\par

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.\par

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.\par

“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?”\par

“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.”\par

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.\par

“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.”\par

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\label{chapter-xvii}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xvii}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XVII}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Of lovers she had a full score,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Or more,\par}
}}

{\vl And fortunes they all had galore,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl In store;\par}
}

{\vl From the minister down\par}
{\vl To the clerk of the Crown,\par}
}

{\vl All were courting the Widow Malone,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Ohone!\par}
}}

{\vl All were courting the Widow Malone.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Charles Lever}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
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.\par

“Yes, begad! there {\itshape{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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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:\par

“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,
{\itshape{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.\par

“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, {\itshape{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.”\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xviii}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xviii}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XVIII}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
She’d come again, and with a greedy ear\par}
{\vl Devour up my discourse:\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Othello: Act}} I, {\scshape{Sc}}. 3\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
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.\par

“Well, well,” she said, looking up at him with
playful amusement. “And where, {\itshape{sir}}, have {\itshape{you}}
been hiding yourself lately? We’d begun to think
you must have fallen down a gopher hole or something.”\par

He walked through into the kitchen and drank a
dipperful of water thirstily, before he answered.
Returning, he grinned significantly at his hostess.\par

“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?”\par

“Shan’t tell you!” came the mutinous giggle.\par

“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—?”\par

“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.\par

“Is she? Well, you go and tell her I want her,”
he whispered back. “Run like anything.”\par

“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 {\itshape{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!”\par

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.\par

“No, no, Bert! You mustn’t bring them in
here!” cried his mother sharply. “Take them outside
and give them to Tom and Jerry!”\par

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.\par

“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.”\par

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:\par

“Hello, ‘Mancatcher’! What brings you here
this late along? We’d begun to think something
had happened to you.”\par

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.\par

But his well-trained visage and voice evinced nothing
of his feelings as he returned her pleasantry with,
an answering careless:\par

“Why, hello, ‘Mousetrap’! Comin’ for a
ride?”\par

Mrs. Trainor exploded with bubbling mirth.\par

“Why, why! whatever new nicknames are these?
You two’ll be forgetting what your real names are altogether
soon. I never heard such nonsense.”\par

“It isn’t, Mrs. Trainor,” said Ellis aggrievedly.
“It’s just {\itshape{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.”\par

“Huh!” said the girl contemptuously. “That’s
nothing! I’m not afraid of mice. Poor little
things. Besides, I had gauntlets on.”\par

“No,” said Ellis slowly, with a mocking chuckle,
“it’d take more than a mouse to scare {\itshape{you}}—we
know that! Come! I’ll trade you aliases. {\itshape{I}}
haven’t caught a man for over two months now.”\par

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.\par

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:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Vor if yeou conzents vor tu marry I now,\par}
{\vl Whoy—Vather ’e’ll gie uns ’is old vat zow!\par}
{\vl With a rum dum—dum dum—dubble dum day!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Boo-o-oo! La, la, la!” shrilled poor Mary,
covering her ears. “Oh, {\itshape{please}}, Mrs. Trainor, {\itshape{do}}
make him stop!”\par

“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.”\par

While Trainor slapped his thigh and guffawed
uproariously.\par

“Oh, oh!” screamed the girl, stamping and pirouetting
about the room, “he’s starting {\itshape{another}}
verse! Oh, quit, quit, quit! or {\itshape{I’ll}} start in opposition!
I’ll make such a noise they won’t be able to
hear you!”\par

And at the top of her voice she started to declaim
lustily:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Arrah, go on! You’re only tazin!\par}
{\vl Arrah, go on! You’re somethin’ awful!\par}
{\vl Arrah, go on! You’re mighty plazin!\par}
{\vl Oh, arrah go way! go wid yer! go way! go on!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“That settles it,” shouted Ellis, jumping up.
“I’ll sure give in to {\itshape{that}}. Peccavi! I’ll chuck up
the sponge. But you be good after this now, or
I’ll sing you some {\itshape{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.”\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
“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.\par

“Well, whither away?” he inquired. “Where
shall we go? Gosh, but it’s hot!”\par

“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 {\itshape{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.”\par

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.\par

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.\par

The Sergeant, with his chin resting in his hands,
looked long and lovingly at the peaceful beauty of
the scene.\par

“Begad, just look at {\itshape{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—{\itshape{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. {\itshape{That’s}} what hits us who live {\itshape{in}} such
backgrounds. They not only make you {\itshape{see}} it on,
canvas, they positively make you {\itshape{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!”\par

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.\par

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.\par

“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 {\itshape{nasty}} thing!”\par

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.\par

“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!”\par

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.\par

“‘Hamlet’!” he echoed, with an amused chuckle.
“And pray what have {\itshape{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!’—à la ‘Baron Munchausen.’”\par

“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 {\itshape{just}} now. Confine yourself strictly to the
truth on this occasion. Just tell me {\itshape{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!”\par

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.”\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

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.\par

“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.”\par

“Will you go on?” Mary said, leaning towards
him with dancing eyes.\par

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.\par

“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.’\par

“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 {\itshape{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.\par

“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 {\itshape{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—{\itshape{The Pulpit}}, {\itshape{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 {\itshape{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.’\par

“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.’ {\itshape{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.\par

“‘Sh-shay, Mister!’ he says, as solemn as an owl.
‘{\itshape{I}} don’t believe in Heaven!’\par

“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 {\itshape{me}}, that drunk’d have got a back
hander across the mouth and kicked off the train
by the Con’ at the next station.\par

“Beggar got tickled with the fun he was causing,
and he kept on repeating this conviction of his over
and over again like a parrot; but, as the parson took
not a bit of notice, he shut up for a bit and dozed off
to sleep—much to our relief. We were getting a
bit fed up with him. Then it was ‘Mister’ Parson
made a darned bad break. He began fumbling in
his pockets for something—a penknife, if I remember—to
cut the leaves of a magazine. Well, his
gloves seemed to hamper him, so he took them off
and I got a good look at his hands. They—like
his mug—didn’t fit in with his dress at all. Pretty
rough-looking mitts, that it was very evident had
recently done heavy manual work—all grimed up,
with black broken nails and hard callosities on the
palms.\par

“Still I hung fire—for {\itshape{his}} cloth always demands
a certain amount of respect. He {\itshape{might}} have been
working in his garden, I argued to myself. I didn’t
want to make any fool break by humiliating a, p’r’aps,
perfectly innocent man and a gentleman on mere
suspicion, and without any positive proof. While
I was twisting things over in my mind, the brakeman
came through, calling: ‘Baker’s Lake! Baker’s
Lake!’ And presently the train began to
slow down. Parson began to gather all his belongings
together as if he was going to get off there. I
was ‘between the devil and the deep sea’—properly.
For it was a case of ‘Going! going!’ and the
next minute it’d be ‘Gone!’ with me, p’r’aps, for
the goat instead of him.\par

“But just then Providence, in the shape of the
drunk, settled all my doubts for me at the eleventh
hour. The brakeman calling out the name of the
station, and the parson rustling around with his
traps, had combined to wake this beggar up, and he
started in to sing again. He quite brightened up at
the sound of his own music—takes another swig at
his bottle and, squinting at our reverend friend,
starts in again with his old parrot squawk:\par

“‘{\itshape{I}} don’t believe in Heaven, mister! {\itshape{I}} don’t
believe in Heaven!’\par

“Parson stands up and reaches for his bag off
the rack.\par

“‘Don’t you?’ he says, showing his teeth in a
nasty sort of grin. ‘Don’t you? Well, then—you
can go to H—l!’\par

“That fixed it—absolutely. I jumped up and
followed my ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ down the aisle
and out onto the platform.\par

“‘Just a minute, please,’ I said. ‘I’m a sergeant
of the Mounted Police. I don’t think there’s
any doubt about {\itshape{you}}.’ And I collared him.\par

“For answer, he dropped his bag on the instant
and closed with me—desperate—tried to trip me
up. Oh, I tell you, he sure {\itshape{was}} some handful.
Well, he wouldn’t give in, quiet, and I began to get
mad at the way he was scuffling with me, so I let
go of him and broke away for a second. Then I
came in on him quick and flopped him out with an
uppercut and a back-heel—and as he keeled over
his hat flew off and I saw the scar on the top of his
bald block. Regular entertainment for the people
on the train and the platform. They were wondering
what the deuce was up when they saw us scrapping
and rolling around there. I shoved the steels
on him and took him back next train.”\par

Mary laughed heartily at the conclusion of this
episode.\par

“Wherever had he got the parson’s clothes
from?” she queried.\par

“Oh,” said Ellis, with a grin, “when I landed
back to the Post with him I heard the city police’d
received a report from the Reverend Seccombe—the
Baptist minister—to the effect that his house
had been broken into the night before and some of
his clothes pinched. We got him to come down to
the guardroom right away, and he immediately identified
the clothes the prisoner was wearing as his—and
the bag, too. He and the other gink were just
about the same build and height. Oh, his understudy
pleaded guilty to burgling this house then and
there, when he saw a bluff wouldn’t go. Made a
statement and told us the whole business.\par

“It appears he’d broken into a shack when he first
made his get-away from the ‘pen,’ and stolen some
workman’s clothes. He was kind enough to leave
these behind him when he exchanged with Seccombe.
Oh, he sure was some ‘Holy Roller,’ this Mr. Arthur
Forbes. {\itshape{Just}} such another flim-flammer as that
Jabez Balfour, who put that smooth ‘Liberator
gold brick come-on’ over a lot of the smug Nonconformist
fraternity in the Old Country many years
back, and then skipped out to Buenos Ayres. This
beauty was doing eight years for a somewhat similar
fake—a big oil well ‘salting’ swindle. He’d
defrauded the public out of something like four
hundred thousand dollars.”\par

He rolled and lit a cigarette and, after carefully
extinguishing the match, gazed dreamily awhile
across at the mountains, behind which the sun was
gradually disappearing. Presently, looking up at
his companion with a faint, whimsical smile playing
over his stern features, he said quietly:\par

“Now it’s {\itshape{your}} turn to be Scherazerade. So far,
I’ve been in the rôle of Sinbad—completely
monopolizing this ‘Arabian Nights’ entertainment in
a very one-sided manner. Won’t you tell me something
of {\itshape{your}} life—in return?”\par

She shrugged her broad, gracefully rounded shoulders
with a queer little hopeless gesture, all the life
seeming to have gone suddenly out of her mobile
face as she regarded him now with grave introspection.\par

“I’ll tell you a little,” she said slowly. “But I’m
afraid you won’t find it very interesting.”\par

What she related was a very fair corroboration
of the facts previously told him by Trainor; and
though in their narration she strove to appear indifferent
to the changing fortunes of her family, and
to gloss over her father’s improvidence and selfishness,
reading between the lines it was very apparent
to Ellis what sacrifices she had made willingly for
those same young brothers of whom she spoke with
such loving solicitude.\par

“So ye see, me frind,” she wound up with a kind
of forced gaiety:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Fwat ups an’ down an’ changes there be\par}
{\vl E’en in the lives av th’ loikes av me.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Four years ago the fortunes av the House of O’Malley
were in the ascendant; today they are shtrictly on
th’ wane.”\par

She threw up her head and smiled gamely in a
forlorn sort of way; but the quivering lips belied the
careless, inconsequent tones, and he, guessing that
the tears were not far from the surface, dimly sensed
something of the bitter struggle that that brave heart
must have been forced to make at times to keep up
appearances in past periods of adversity. With this
in his mind, he impulsively held up his hand to the
girl, and she, choking back a little sob in her throat,
reached out and clasped it warmly in hers.\par

“Eyah!” he said; “I guess we’ve both had our
ups and downs, all right, but there’s one consolation
about our respective lots—they might have fallen
in worse places, though there’s little {\itshape{real}} peace in
the lives of us who are comparatively poor and have
to earn our own livings forever dependent on the
whims and fancies of the powers that be, set in authority
above us.\par

“Take the life of the average non-com, or ‘buck,’
in this Force, for instance. It may seem rot to get
harping on grievances at such a time and place as
this, I know,” (he made a sweeping gesture to the
landscape with outflung arm) “but there’s no lasting
peace of mind or future in it. People see us
patrolling around in a smart uniform, and riding the
pick of the country in horseflesh, thinking, I suppose,
what a fine time we have of it. They little guess
it’s one continual round of worry and trouble. All
the way from murder and robbery to settling neighbors’
trivial squabbles over dogging each other’s
cattle, paying the cost of divisional fences, and all
those kind of petty disturbances. Either that, or
being chased around from one detachment to another,
though in that respect I must say this Division
isn’t as bad as some of ’em. Couldn’t have a
better O.C. or Inspectors’n we’ve got in L. As long
as you’re onto your job and do your work right, they
let you pretty well alone. But it’s the confounded
office work that we have to do in addition to our
ordinary police duty that {\itshape{we}} get fed up on. Talk
about red tape! This outfit’s sure the home of it!
Every report, every little voucher for p’r’aps fifty
cents’ expenditure—four, and sometimes five, copies
of each. Statistics for this, and statistics for that;
monthly returns, mileage reports, and the copy of
your daily diary. Oh, Lord! you should just see
what we have to get through. Most of us use typewriters,
of course, or we’d {\itshape{never}} make the grade at
all. It’s much easier and handier. Guess you saw
that one of mine in the detachment.\par

“Office work or not, though, this job’s away ahead
of being stuck in the Post. The daily round of a
‘straight duty buck’ doing prisoners’ escort about
Barracks is, without doubt, {\itshape{the}} most demoralizing
existence goin’. The monotony’s something fierce.
And a non-com’s isn’t much better, either. Sent
out on every little rotten job that turns up, hanging
around stables and the orderly-room, always expected
to be on hand and within call. Taking charge
of grousing fatigue parties, etc. Thank goodness!
I never had much of it to do. I was only in the
Post a month when I first took on. Been on detachment
ever since, barring six weeks I once put
in as Acting Provo’ in charge of the guardroom,
while Hopgood was sick.”\par

He rolled another cigarette and, inhaling and expelling
a whiff of smoke, continued reflectively:
“This is a good outfit—this Force—no doubt
about it. I guess as regards its system, discipline,
and results, it’s out and away the best Military
Police Force in the world—with the exception,
p’r’aps, of the Royal Irish Constabulary. Good
men take on and serve their time. Some reengage,
and some quit. But just as good men take their
place and the work goes on. But, as I said before,
there’s no rest, or future in it for the average non-com,
or buck. You never know when your day’s
work’s done.\par

“No, it’s just one continual round of listening to,
and settling other people’s troubles. Seems nonsense,
I know, to get talking like this for, after all,
it’s only what we’re paid for. Somebody’s got to
do it. But there it is—trouble, trouble, trouble,
the whole time. All my life, with the exception of
the time I deliberately struck into the fighting game,
I’ve wanted to live peaceably; but it seems to have
been my luck, somehow, to always get the reverse.
Especially on this job. No matter how quiet and
easy-going you try to rub along there are always
some nasty, bullying, ignorant, cunning beggars who,
just because you’re a bit decent to them, take it for
granted you’re easy and try to impose on you. Anyway,
that was {\itshape{my}} experience on the first two or three
detachments I struck. Not on {\itshape{this}} one, though!
Didn’t give ’em a chance. Fellow that was before
me, corporal named Williamson—decent head, all
right—but he tried that ‘live, and let live’ stunt
and it didn’t work a bit. No, {\itshape{sir}}! They just took
advantage of him every turn and corner. Oh, I
tell you, Miss O’Malley, it sure was some tough
district—this—when I took it over.”\par

His brows contracted loweringly, and a menacing
light gleamed in his deep-set eyes.\par

“I soaked it to ’em, though, the dirty dogs!” he
muttered, with a savage snap of his strong white
teeth. “They wanted to be {\itshape{shown}}.... I’ve sure
{\itshape{shown}} some of ’em, all right. The inside of a
‘Pen’,’ at that. Kept ’em on the high jump ever
since. It’s the only way {\itshape{to}} deal with that class.
Treat ’em like the scum they are, and they’ll be
good then and eat out of your hand. They’re too
ignorant and cunning to appreciate any civility or
kindness.”\par

He smoked thoughtfully on awhile after this
slight outburst of bitterness, amidst a silence that
was presently broken by Mary.\par

“You’re fond of reading, aren’t you?” she inquired.
“And music?”\par

His moody face cleared instantly, like the sun
coming from behind a cloud.\par

“Aye! you just bet I am!” he said fervently.
“I’ve read, and played, and sung every chance I’ve
got—wherever I’ve been. Fond!—well, I should
say I am. I fancy if it hadn’t been for {\itshape{that}}, I’d
have gone to the devil long ago.”\par

He was sitting up on the grass, with his elbows
on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
Neither of them spoke for a time and he, still gazing
across at the distant “Rockies,” muttered, half unconsciously,
to himself:\par

“No, just {\itshape{peace}}—that’s all I feel I want now.
To have some steady job to work at, with a future,
and a home ahead of it. Neither molesting, or being
molested by any one.”\par

The girl leaned forward, listening wonderingly,
as she watched the hard, clean-cut profile of his faraway,
moody face, surprised to hear him ramble on
so. He appeared to be entirely oblivious of her
presence. He made a very long pause and then,
when she thought he was thinking of something
quite different, he suddenly said:\par

“I’m getting older now, and I’ve got more patience
than I used to have but, all the same—I’ll
take no abuse, back-lip, or stand for being imposed
upon by any man. It’s been a word and a blow
with me all my life, and I guess that’s the reason
why I’m only a poor man today. For many’s the
jackpot it’s landed me into. Aye! and many’s the
good job I’ve had to quit through the same thing.\par

“Just {\itshape{peace}}!” he repeated again, dreamily.
“You realize it in some of George Eliot’s tales of
old-fashioned English country life, in Gray’s ‘Elegy,’
in Marie Corelli’s song of ‘The Lotus Lily.’ Ah,
yes! she felt it when she wrote that beautiful thing
in her Egyptian tale of ‘Ziska’:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“‘Oh, for the passionless peace of the Lotus-Lily!\par}
{\vl It floats in a waking dream on the waters chilly,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl With its leaves unfurled\par}
{\vl To the wondering world,\par}
}

{\vl Knowing naught of the sorrow and restless pain\par}
{\vl That burns and tortures the human brain;\par}
{\vl Oh, for the passionless peace of the Lotus-Lily!’”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
He ceased, and sunk his face in his hands again.
The breeze stirred the grizzled-brown hair on his
temples, and he remained still for so long that she
thought he had fallen asleep; but presently he
seemed to rouse himself a little, and said idly, in a
low voice:\par

“Men like me don’t {\itshape{have}} to care what people
say, or think, about us. Ever since Mother died,
I’ve been practically alone in the world, and steered
my course as I saw fit—just gone ahead and done
what I thought was right. Am I the worse man
for being poor, I wonder? I’ve never crawled to
hold a job—or for money, anyway! Badly though
I’ve always wanted it. For it makes all the difference
in the world—money. I’ve kept my self-respect
as far as {\itshape{that}} goes—poor consolation
though it may be now—just when I need it most.”\par

The girl flicked him with her quirt.\par

“Don’t you think we’d better be going?” she said
gently. “It’s getting late. The sun’s gone down
a long time now.”\par

At the touch, and the sound of her voice, he
roused himself with a start and regarded her absently.\par

“By George!” he muttered. “I must have been
dreaming. Sorry, Miss O’Malley.” He pulled out
his watch. “Sure {\itshape{is}} late,” he said. “Why didn’t
you give me a good slap and wake me up before?
Letting me go to sleep like that. Well, I guess we’ll
toddle on down to the horses.”\par

“You {\itshape{haven’t}} been asleep,” she said, with a faint
smile. “But you’ve been sitting there talking away
to yourself like a man in a dream.”\par

He flushed, and laughed a little, shamefacedly.\par

“Have I?” he answered. “I sure must be getting
as ‘nutty’ as a sheep herder! What was I
talking about?”\par

“Oh, all sorts of things,” she said evasively.
“I’ll tell you sometime.”\par

He laughed again and, after eyeing her incredulously
for an instant, turned and strode down the
declivity to where the patient horses still waited.
The girl gazed wistfully for a moment or two after
his retreating form, with its slim waist and square,
splendidly-drilled shoulders; then, with a little weary
sigh, she arose and, mechanically putting on her hat
and dusting her dress, followed him.\par

Catching up Johnny, who nickered at her approach
and picked up his forefoot for sugar, she mounted
with the lithe agility of the expert horsewoman.
Ellis swung up on Billy, and in silence they set out
at a brisk lope for home.\par

\penalty-300%
\label{chapter-xix}%
\hypertarget{chapter-xix}{}%
\vspace*{50pt}\thispagestyle{empty}
{\noindent\interlinepenalty \@M\normalfont\Huge\bfseries%
CHAPTER XIX}

\unskip\vskip 40pt\nobreak

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
For, immune from scoff of bachelor chum,\par}
{\vl Into his kingdom he had come;\par}
{\vl A rose-strewn path he would henceforth tread\par}
{\vl Through the generous will of the kindly dead.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{The Legatee}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Go on! you’re only fooling! Is that straight
now, Hop? What pipe-dream’s all
this?”\par

Dr. Musgrave’s incredulous remarks were addressed
to Provost-Sergeant Hopgood, the non-com.
in charge of the guardroom, who, reclining in an
easy chair in the former’s combined study and consulting-room
on this September evening, was regarding
his host somewhat lugubriously through a blue
haze of cigar smoke.\par

“No pipe-dream at all ... kind of wish it was,”
he answered, with a slight trace of bitterness in his
tones. “’Twas Churchill wised {\itshape{me}} up. He was in
from Sabbano today. Appears Ben’s been rushing
this girl—or woman, I should say—she’s near
thirty, I understand—for quite a time, now.”\par

Musgrave’s air of surprise was slowly succeeded
by one of unwilling conviction.\par

“Well, I’ll be——!” he muttered. “I might
have tumbled, too!”\par

“Why, what’s up?” said Hopgood eagerly, staring
at him now with wide-eyed wonder. “You
knew about it all the time, eh? Did Ben tell you?
Have you seen her? What’s she like?”\par

Musgrave knocked the ash off his cigar and gazed
reflectively out of the open window.\par

“Think I have,” he said. “I was walking down
Eighth Avenue with him—day he was in town, last
month. ‘Hello!’ he says, pulling up suddenly.
‘Here’s somebody I know from my district!’ And,
in that happy, casual, easy way he’s got, he introduced
me to a female acquaintance of his, who’d just
come out of Black’s jewelry store. She was a great
big tall dark girl—finest figure of a woman I think
I’ve ever seen. Regular whopper—not fat with it,
either. Made you think of Boadicea, or Brittania,
somehow, to look at her. She didn’t strike me as
being a beauty, exactly, but she’d got a nice kind face.
Lots of fun in her, too, and a lady, unmistakably. I
rather liked her. We stood there chatting a few
minutes, and I remember she told me she was in
town for a day or two, shopping. Never a peep
from that old fox, Ben, though. You’d never have
dreamt there was anything doing from the way he
acted then. Everything was as casual as you please.
Begad! I’ll soak it to him for putting it over on me
like this! That’s if it {\itshape{is}} right,” he added, with a
dubious smile. “Somehow, I can’t credit it, though.
Why, he’s the very last man I’d have expected to
go dangling after a woman!”\par

“Bet he don’t do much dangling,” remarked the
Provost sagely. “Not if I know him. He ain’t
that kind. More’n likely it’s the other way round.
I’ve known quite a few women get struck on him.
Queer beggar! he’s never aloof, rude, or cold, but
somehow—he just doesn’t seem to {\itshape{notice}} ’em at
all. P’r’aps that’s what gets ’em. Besides, he’s a
proper man to look at, and when he’s penned in a
corner with a woman with no chance of escape, he
talks in that kind, simple way of his—you know his
way, Charley.”\par

Musgrave nodded.\par

There was a long silence, the two men puffing
thoughtfully at their cigars and gazing with owlish
abstraction at each other.\par

“Didn’t you tell me once that he was engaged to
some girl in Jo’burg? When he was with the Chartered
Company?” pursued Hopgood.\par

“Yes,” answered Musgrave moodily, “he was.”
He paused, and an unfathomable, far-away look
crept into his eyes as he gazed absently across at
a window in the opposite block that the last rays
of the dying sun transformed into a flaming shield
of fire. “Beautiful Irish girl named Eileen Regan.
She’d a face like a Madonna, I remember. She
was a Roman Catholic, and a very devout one at
that. They {\itshape{might}} have been happy together....
I don’t know. It’s hard to predict how these mixed
religions’ll turn out. Poor things never got the
chance to see, anyway. For she died—died of
enteric, just before the war started.”\par

Hopgood eyed the other tentatively for a second
or two. “{\itshape{This}} one’s Irish, too, I understand?”
he remarked. “Irish-American, anyway.... He
seems mighty partial to the Irish. Her name’s
O’Malley. They’ll be able to keep a pig and ‘live
pretty,’ what?”\par

And, overcome by the thought, he made a comical
grimace of despair and sank back into the depths of
his luxurious chair, while the roar of the busy street
below floated up to their ears.\par

Musgrave cleared his throat. “Mother was an
Irishwoman,” he said presently. “Probably that accounts
for it. She was a Miss Fitzgerald, of Dublin—sister
of that brave, splendid chap, Captain
Fitzgerald, who was killed along with poor Fred
Burnaby and many others of Stewart’s column, when
the square was broken in the fight near the wells
at Abou Klea, in the Soudan War of ’eighty-four
and five.”\par

He smoked on silently for a space. “Oh, h—l!”
he burst out, with a sudden incredulous bitterness
that startled even the cynical Hopgood. “Why,
that beggar’s {\itshape{always}} come to me before with his
troubles. Guess I’m the only one he ever {\itshape{does}} confide
in. Many’s the time I’ve acted as Father-confessor
and mentor to him. Surely he’d never have
passed me up in such a momentous business as this?
What saith the poet:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“You may carve it on his tombstone,\par}
{\vl You may cut it on his card\par}
{\vl That a young man married is a young man marred.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The Provost emitted a noisy, snorting laugh.\par

“Yes,” he remarked, with the jeering familiarity
of old acquaintance, “and I must say you’re a nice
blooming old Gamaliel to act as mentor to anybody,
Charley, especially if you expect him to embrace
{\itshape{your}} self-constituted creed of morality and philosophy.
Oh, you’re some Father-confessor, all right,
what? Besides, he {\itshape{ain’t}} young. That is, unless you
call thirty-nine unsophisticated youth. ’Bout time he
{\itshape{was}} making the break. There’s no fun in getting
married when you’re old, all same Pope’s ‘January
and May.’ He happened to mention it was his
birthday to a bunch of us down town when he came
in last month. I remember him saying it was his
thirty-ninth, because I and Berkley, Mac, and Port
stuck him for the drinks on the strength of it. We
rushed him into the Alberta bar right away and—”\par

“How about the way he used to hand it out about
non-coms and bucks getting married in your Force,
too?” interrupted Musgrave, grinning. “‘Look
at Beckstall,’ he would say. ‘Look at Corbett,’ and
lots of others. ‘Big families—always broke—dragging
out their miserable lives in rotten little
line detachments—can never afford to send their
poor wives away for a change anywhere—they
don’t {\itshape{live}}—they just {\itshape{exist}}, from one year’s end to
another. That’s all there’s to it! D’you think I’d
let myself in for a purgatory like {\itshape{that}}?’ and so on.
You’ve heard him, Hop, too—lots of times, what?”\par

Hopgood held up his hands appealingly.\par

“Don’t shoot, Colonel!” he said. “I’ll come
down! {\itshape{I’m}} not holding any particular brief for
him. Guess he’s pretty well able to conduct his own
defense. {\itshape{Ish ga bibble!}}—it ain’t {\itshape{our}} funeral.”\par

It was worse than useless to argue with Musgrave.
All his opponent’s best hits were turned
aside by the target of his cynicism and unbelief, while
his repartee and sarcasms often came home.\par

“Funny chap!” he resumed musingly. “I think
he is just about {\itshape{the}} most interesting and complex
character I’ve ever come across. He’s very much
of a man, but at the same time—he’s as simple as
a kid in some things. Beggar reads a lot, and he’s
as rum in his tastes in that as he is in everything
else. Fond of all this old-fashioned stuff. The
heighth of his imagination in humor he finds in Balzac’s
and Rabelais’ yarns, or Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’
and his ideals of pathos in George Eliot’s or
Dickens’s tales. Whatever can you do with a man
like that?”\par

“Oh, what’s the use of talking?” broke out Hopgood
testily:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“A fool there was, and he made his prayer—”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
he quoted, with a low, bitter laugh. “And by gum!
it’s me that knows it.”\par

The doctor silently eyed him in cynical abstraction
awhile after this outburst, then his grim mouth
relaxed into a faint sympathetic grin, and he held
out his hand.\par

“Aye!... ‘Even as you and I,’” he finished
softly. “Shake!... Is {\itshape{that}} why you chucked up
your commission in India?... I and Ben always
thought so,” he continued, as the Provost nodded
wearily to his query. “None of our business to get
making inquisitions, though.... Well! this sad
news has been quite a shock to our nervous systems.
Kind of breaks up us ‘Three Musketeers,’ eh?...
Looks very much as if we’re going to lose our D’Artagnan.
The old chum of your bachelor days is,
somehow, never the same again to you after he gets
married. S’pose an all-wise Providence has ordained
things so for some unfathomable reason. Think
we need a little drink to console us.”\par

And he got up with a dreary sighing yawn and,
unlocking a small mahogany liquor cellaret, produced
a splendid silver and cut-glass “Tantalus.”\par

“What’s yours, Hop?” he inquired. “Brandy,
or ‘Scotch’?”\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
Leaving these two well-meaning, if cynical, worthies
to console each other with the bitter philosophy
which retrospection of past irremedial misfortunes
has caused many better, and worse, men than them
to revert to, let us return to the detachment at
Cherry Creek, where at this particular moment the
object of their commiseration is leaning back in his
favorite chair, with his head resting in its customary
position against the leopard-skin kaross. Tired
out by a long and uneventful four days’ patrol, Ellis
lit a pipe and gazed wearily out through the open
door into the gathering dusk. Gradually, his mind,
still obsessed with the vague memories of brands of
missing cattle and horses and the usual round of more
or less petty complaints, strayed back to the Trainors’
establishment.\par

He found himself wondering how Mary was, and
what had caused her to be so strangely silent and
abstracted during that last homeward ride together
from Lone Butte. At supper time, too, he mused,
she had been in the same mood ... had hardly
spoken to him at all? Could it be that—?\par

And, not unmixed with an unfamiliar, slightly self-conscious,
feeling of shame, came the sudden thought
that she {\itshape{might}} have grown to regard his attentions
in a more serious light than mere frank camaraderie.
And, if that was so—well—she sure {\itshape{must}} be
thinking him a proper “laggard in love.” Not
much of the “Young Lochinvar” about him, he
reflected bitterly. Anyway, it certainly didn’t seem
very gentlemanly behavior on his part, or the right
thing, exactly, to run around after a girl—like he
undoubtedly had, to a certain extent—with Mary,
and then keep her “hanging on the fence” indefinitely,
as it were, like that. Surely the Trainors must
be wondering not a little, too. How the deuce was
it that he had never thought of his conduct in that
light before? What a simple fool he had been not
to have “tumbled” to all this earlier? Should he
chance it? She could but “turn him down” like
she had the rest—some of whose very palpable discomfiture
he had been a casual and not altogether
disinterested witness on more than one occasion.\par

And then, on the other hand, was he {\itshape{justified}} in
asking {\itshape{any}} woman to share the lot that he had so
often bitterly inveighed against as being utterly insufficient,
unsuitable, and contrary to all his ideals of
conjugal happiness?\par

His somewhat gloomy reflections were suddenly
disturbed by the sounds of an approaching rider,
who presently drew up outside the open door.\par

“Oh, Sargint!” came the gruff bark of Gallagher;
“yu’re back, eh? Bin down for me mail, so I brung
yores along.”\par

“Good man! much obliged. Come on in, Barney!”
Ellis called out.\par

And the rancher, swinging down from the saddle,
dropped his lines and slouched in with a packet of
letters in his hand.\par

“Nothin’ doin’, an’ nobody around for yu’ while
yu’ was away,” he remarked, dropping into a chair
and lighting his pipe. “Gosh, but it’s a warm night
for this time o’ year!”\par

The Sergeant reached out for, and began leisurely
to open up his mail. Most of it bore the regimental
stamp of L Division. Returned crime reports, with
caustic, blue-pencilled marginal comments in the
O.C.’s caligraphy, requesting certain omitted particulars
therein. Circulars respecting stolen stock,
descriptions of persons “wanted” for various
crimes, drastic orders emanating, primarily, from
Headquarters at Regina, regarding new innovations
to be observed in certain phases of detachment duty,
etc., the monthly “General Orders,” and so on. But
presently a somewhat large envelope, addressed in a
clerk’s hand and bearing an English stamp and the
London postmark, attracted his attention. Whoever
could be writing {\itshape{him}} from the Old Country?
he wondered. The only letters he ever received
from {\itshape{there}} were mostly from Major Carlton, and
this wasn’t {\itshape{his}} handwriting.\par

With a vague feeling of uneasiness, he turned it
over in his hand irresolutely for a moment, then
opened it. It contained a closed envelope and a
letter which bore the heading of a London legal firm.
Mechanically he smoothed this latter communication
out and began to read the epoch-making document
that was destined later to create for him a new
world and to transform his desert into a paradise.\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{Dear Sir}},—We are charged with the melancholy duty of
breaking to you the news of the death of your old friend,
Major Gilbert Carlton, on the 20th ult. Our late respected
client, although possessing all the outward appearances of
being a hale, robust old soldier, had for many years suffered
from what physicians term an “aortic aneurism,” the origin of
which was probably the result of the privations and exposure
endured by him in the various campaigns that he had gone
through. The final bursting of this “aneurism” was the
cause of his sudden death.\par

Suffering from such an ailment, it is therefore not surprising
that he apparently realized of late that his end might
come upon him unexpectedly at any moment of his advanced
age. This presentiment he recently confided to us, during
one of his last business visits. The enclosed letter he left in
our care, charging us—in case of his decease—to forward
it immediately to you.\par

For many years he frequently spoke of you to us with great
regard and feeling; referring to you always, as “The boy,
Ellis,” or “{\itshape{His}} boy,” in tones which moved us not a little,
evincing as he did, such a kindly love and esteem for you.
He was seventy-five years of age, and, as you are of course
aware, a bachelor all his life, possessing only distant relatives.
Although not by any means a recluse, and enjoying life to
its full in his old-fashioned, cheery way at his estate—Biddlecombe
Hall, in Devonshire, surrounded by many of
his old soldier friends—he was not an extravagant man and
the revenues of the said estate have been steadily accumulating
for many years. This magnificent property, with all
revenues thereof had been left to him under the will of his
cousin, the late Lord Baring, his nearest relative.\par

We enclose a copy of the testament, by which you will see
that (with the exception of the estate, which, re a stipulated
clause in Lord Baring’s will, has reverted at the death of
the last incumbent to the Morley Institute, to be used as a
sanatorium for tuberculosis patients, and a few bequests to
old servants) he has bequeathed to you the great bulk of his
money. We hold at your disposal, a sum (discounting probate
dues) approximately nearly ninety thousand pounds.\par

We beg to congratulate you on the acquisition of this
considerable fortune. Thinking that you might desire to relinquish
your present occupation at once, and not knowing
how you are financially situated, we enclose a credit for five
hundred pounds, for which please sign the accompanying receipt.
Kindly communicate with us at your earliest convenience.\par

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
We are, dear sir, yours truly,\par}
{\vl {\scshape{Eaton and Smith}}.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Dazedly Ellis glanced through the attached copy
of the will and reread the letter through. Gallagher,
who had been intently watching his face
throughout, vaguely aware from the Sergeant’s unconcealed
agitation that some tidings of an unusual
character had been received, inquired casually:\par

“Why, what’s up, Sargint? Hope yu’ ain’t bin
a-gettin’ bad news?”\par

Ellis regarded his interlocutor absently a moment
or two, and then his preoccupied gaze flickered away
again through the open door into the darkness of
the night.\par

“It’s both good {\itshape{and}} bad, Barney,” he answered
slowly. “I’ll tell yu’—later.”\par

Choking back many conflicting emotions, he now
picked up the previously mentioned closed letter
which, he perceived, was addressed to him in his old
friend’s handwriting. With a feeling almost of
awed reverence, he broke the heavy wax seal,
stamped with the Major’s own signet ring and,
drawing out the letter, began to read a communication
that was to remain indelibly in his memory forever:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\itshape{My Dear Lad}},—I take up my pen to write this—the last
letter you will ever receive from me—while I am still of
clear mind, and in possession of all my faculties. Life is very
uncertain at all times, and especially so in the case of an old
fellow like me. I have got what the doctors call an
“aneurism,” Ellis, and have had it for many years now. A
man cannot expect to come through the hardships of such
campaigns as the Afghan and Soudan, unscathed. I was at
Charasiah, Kabul, Maiwand, and Tel-el-Kebir, my boy,
and I tell you I have worked, bled, starved and suffered
above a bit in my time. My incubus has been troubling me
greatly of late and I cannot mistake its meaning. Dr. Forsyth
has warned me that it may burst at any time now.
Many thanks for granting my wish in sending me that
photograph of yourself in your Mounted Police uniform. I
look at it often. For though externally it depicts one whom
I believe to be a soldier, and a man in word, deed, and appearance,
in it I seem to see again the face of a boy that I
once loved, because—he had his mother’s dear, dear eyes.\par

Yes, Ellis, my lad!... Now that I know my end is not
far off, I feel that I cannot die peaceably without telling you
what has been to me a sacred secret since I was in my thirties.\par

It must have been in ’sixty-two, or thereabouts, when I first
met your mother, in Dublin. The regiment that I and your
father were in lay at Athlone, then. I grew to love her.
Loved her with a passion that I fancy comes to few men,
and my supreme desire was to be able to call her my wife.
I suppose the Almighty willed it otherwise, though, and it
was not to be.... For John Benton, your father, came
along, my boy, and he was a big man, and a strong man, and
a handsome man, with a bold masterful, loving way with him
that took her by storm, as it were, and I—I faded into insignificance
beside such a splendid personality as his. He
won her from me, but that fact could not kill my love; all
outward exhibition of which, though, I have guarded well. My Dear Lad
I have worn the willow decently, I hope, as an honest English
gentleman should, and have borne my cross patiently
through the long, weary years that have passed since then.\par

With the recollection of {\itshape{such}} a woman as your mother
lingering still in my remembrance,—whose dear face—God
grant, I may behold again, shortly—can you wonder that
none other has come into my life to take her place, and that
I have been true to the memory of my first, and only love.
You alone of your family have {\itshape{her}} eyes, and impulsive, loving
ways, and for those reasons were always my favorite—headstrong
lad, though you were.\par

On the subject of your estrangement from your family, I
have nothing to say, beyond that I consider that it is a matter
which lies entirely between your own conscience—and God.
You were sorely tried, I know.\par

I am leaving to you the greater portion of my money.
It is my desire, as through it, I hope, your future path in
life will be smoothed considerably. May it ultimately bring
you the happiness of enabling you to marry a good, true, loving
woman, and of living henceforth, in that station of life
to which you properly belong.\par

Do not grieve for me my lad!... Best think of me just
as a kindly old soldier, at the end of his service, who was
ready and willing to go to his rest—only awaiting “The
Last Post” to be sounded. I have not lived altogether unhappily.
I have drunk deeply of the joys of life in my time,
and I possess many good and true friends. My days, thank
God, have been, for the most part, passed cleanly as a {\itshape{man}}—in
the open, breathing His fresh air. Through it I have
had ever your dear mother’s memory to keep my conscience
clear, and have striven steadfastly to adhere and live up to,
most all, I trust, of the precepts that are embodied in the
formula, “An officer, and a gentleman.” As in the sunset
of my life I sit alone in my chair in the twilight, dreaming of
bygone days, it seems to me that I can see the shining welcome
of many long-lost and well-remembered faces. They
come and go, and I love them well enough, but {\itshape{one}}—especially
beloved above the rest is with me always.\par

But why speak of {\itshape{her}}?... Now that she is again so
near to me—now that I go, I hope, where {\itshape{she}} has
gone!... The guiding-light of the soul of her true womanhood
is shining brighter and brighter in the gloom ahead of
me still, and of {\itshape{her}} will my last thoughts be on this side of
Eternity.\par

And now! ... Ellis, my boy! my boy! ... One last
“Good-by!” ... God bless you, and may your life be a
long and happy one.\par

I am, believe me, to the last.\par

\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
{\itshape{Your old friend}},\par}
{\vl {\scshape{Gilbert Carlton}}.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
A smothered sob burst from Ellis, and the letter
fluttered from his grasp to the floor. Gallagher,
still watching him curiously, repeated his former
query:\par

“What’s up, Sargint? Hope nothin’s—”\par

Ellis interrupted him huskily, but not unkindly.\par

“Get out, Barney!” he said. “Don’t talk to
me just now! I’ll tell yu’—sometime! Beat it!
there’s a good chap. I just wanta be alone.”\par

And, with one last lingering look of silent, wondering
sympathy, the rancher arose and departed
slowly into the night.\par

Overcome with his thoughts, Ellis sat for a long
time motionless; then, mechanically groping for the
letter again, he reread it. Its simple pathos touched
him strangely as the awe-inspiring significance of the
long, patient struggle of that faithful old heart—stilled
now, alas, forever—began to creep into his
dazed brain. He raised his swimming eyes to the
portrait of the gentle woman, the memory of whose
beauty and kind, sweet personality had been the
good angel alike to poor old Major Carlton and
himself throughout both their strenuous and sin-tempted
lives.\par

Not in vain had been her early teachings and loving,
self-sacrificing patience and forbearance, while
he was yet a wilful, headstrong youngster. As,
gently, and with a mother’s tact, she strove to curb
his faults and instil into him—through love, and
love alone—truth, honesty, and the main principles
of right and wrong.\par

Not in vain had she entered into her rest and, as
an angel in the stead of a beautiful, pure, true-hearted
woman, interceded for the souls of both men
in their tempestuous journey through life.\par

Long and wistfully the Sergeant gazed into the
grave, sweet eyes and proud, clean-cut features—so
like his own—and his stern bronzed face became
softened and glorified with a wave of ineffable
filial devotion too sacred for words.\par

“Mother!” he whispered brokenly. “Mother!
Oh, Mother!” and dropped his head upon his outstretched
arms across the table.\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
But grief—no matter however sincere and true—to
the average healthy man is but a transient emotion.
Ellis was no dissembler, and sadly though he
mourned the loss of his old friend, as the first transports
of his sorrow subsided and he became calmer,
a slow, dim realization of the tremendous possibilities
of his good fortune began to flood his mind.\par

For to him it meant—freedom, at last, from all
the unavoidable, petty, sordid worries connected
with the calling that he followed. No more gloomy
outlooks upon life in general, or pessimistic forebodings
arising from the consciousness of straightened
means. Free at last to wander around the
earth at will and visit all its beauty spots that he
had read or heard about. Free to enjoy all the
pleasures of the world that money can command.
He was still only a comparatively young man, strong
and active far beyond the average.\par

And, above all, it meant—and the very thought
of his presumption stirred him strangely and caused
a mighty wave of long-pent-up love to surge through
his heart—perhaps also it meant—Mary.\par

So the joy of life filled him and transfigured his
scarred, somber face with a dreamy expression of
happiness that lies beyond the power of mere words
to adequately describe. No more was the ideal life
that he had so often—ah! how often?—pictured
longingly to himself in his fits of morbid, spiritless
depression, only a monotonous repetition of hopeless
empty dreams. It actually lay now within his
power to gratify his heart’s desires to their fullest
extent.\par

And then—to the weary man in that humble
abode, which was, nevertheless, all that he could call
“Home,” there appeared a wondrous fantasy which,
in its awe-inspiring, majestic grandeur, might have
been likened, almost, unto some allegory, or a scene
in the Revelation. With mind absolutely, utterly
detached from all things material, he sat there motionless,
as if in a dream, and it began to float before
his far-away eyes like a filmy roseate mirage.\par

For, in his exalted imagination, it seemed to him
that he was standing upon the shores of a great
sparkling crystal sea, as it were, in the first faint
flush of a radiant dawn. Purple, crimson, saffron-yellow
and turquoise, the morning lights stole in
succession across the sleeping world, and slowly—slowly,
in the mystic East—the flashing rays of a
magnificent sunrise began to creep over the rim of
the horizon, transforming the gleaming waste of
waters into a vast expanse of golden flame.\par

And, as he gazed entranced at this gorgeous spectacle,
suddenly he grew conscious that he was not
alone. Turning, he became aware of the figure of
a woman kneeling on the ground hard by, with her
head bowed in an attitude suggestive of sorrowful
abandon. Her form, though the face was turned
from him and partly shrouded by her huge masses
of dark, disordered hair, seemed vaguely familiar;
and he found himself engaged in idle speculation as
to her identity. Something in her posture of dejection
instinctively stirred in him a fleeting memory
of Thomas Moore’s beautiful poem. “Paradise and
the Peri,” the poor Peri humbly, yet vainly, craving
admission into Paradise. Vaguely and disconnectedly,
some of the lines wandered into his mind:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
One morn a Peri at the gate\par}
{\vl Of Eden stood, disconsolate;\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl The glorious Angel who was keeping\par}
{\vl The Gates of Light beheld her weeping;\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Awhile he contemplated the woman with a great
pity in his heart, and was about to draw nigh and
comfort her when all at once his impulse was checked
and he remained spellbound in mute amazement.\par

For, seemingly from {\itshape{nowhere}}, a transcendentally
glorious voice—{\itshape{that sounded not of this earth}}—suddenly
arose in the stillness around them. Pure,
peaceful, unutterably sweet, far beyond this world
and its works, the golden notes floated forth into
the hush of the opal dawn, uplifting the hearts of
the listeners on the wings of sound—verily to
Heaven’s gate:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“O Rest in the Lord! wait patiently for Him!\par}
{\vl And He shall give thee—He shall give thee—\par}
{\vl O He shall give thee thy heart’s desire!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
The eternal solace of the weary and heavy-laden,
the Divine appeal to all poor struggling souls rose
and fell, finally melting away into nothingness, save
where the deep, cloister-like silence flung back a faint
far echo. Beside the bowed female figure there
became visible a vague shimmering {\itshape{something}} which,
almost imperceptibly, began to assume the outlines
of a human form. Disturbed strangely at what he
knew not, the wayward, reckless soul of Ellis Benton
became filled with a great and reverential awe.\par

He sank to his knees and bowed his head. When,
fearfully, he dared to raise it again, his eyes beheld
{\itshape{one}} clad in shining raiment, about whom there clung
a halo of radiance. Slowly the glistening form
turned and a cry of wonderment and adoration burst
from his lips. For, lo!—it seemed to him that
{\itshape{once more}} he looked upon the face of his long-dead
love—Eileen Regan.\par

Motionless, she gazed down upon him long and
earnestly, with gravely sweet, kind eyes; then, stooping
low, she embraced the sorrowing woman tenderly,
and kissed her on the brow, bidding her be
of good cheer and calling her “Sister.” Presently,
drawing herself erect, she uplifted her heavenly
voice again, and there rang forth—as he well remembered
her singing it in {\itshape{life}}, one never-to-be-forgotten
Christmas morn, in that little Catholic
Church in far-off Johannesburg—“In Excelsis
Gloria”:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Glory to God in the Highest!\par}
{\vl And on earth peace, goodwill towards men!”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
She bent and kissed the woman a last farewell.
Then, raising her arms in holy benediction, she
slowly became a {\itshape{shade}}, as before, unfolding her
wings and floating away diaphonously into the silvery
mists of the early morn.\par

The kneeling woman then arose and, turning,
came towards him swiftly. A tall, stately figure
of a woman, with a kind, strong, sweet face; the
tumbled masses of her glossy, raven-hued hair all
floating and rippling about her regal shoulders and
white columnar throat.\par

Near she drew to him—nearer. She stretched
out her bare rounded arms to him with a little happy
loving cry as she smiled into his eyes, and he saw
the splendor and glory of the world in hers.\par

While, far away in his ears, rang the echo of his
own voice calling upon a woman’s name—wonderingly,
passionately—“Mary!... Mary!... Mary!...”\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,\par}
{\vl The deer to the wholesome wold,\par}
{\vl And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid\par}
{\vl As it was in the days of old.\par}
{\vl The heart of a man to the heart of a maid—\par}
{\vl Light of my tents, be fleet!\par}
{\vl Morning waits at the end of the world;\par}
{\vl And the world is all at our feet.\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl —{\scshape{Kipling}}\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
“Wake up, Johnny, yu’ old fool!... don’t
yu’ start in to lazy on me or I’ll—”\par

Here Ellis shrewdly pinched his
mount’s withers, causing that animal to flatten his
ears and nip playfully at his rider’s knee.\par

“Look out, doggone it! If {\itshape{I}} happen to get a
bit absent-minded at times, yu’ needn’t follow suit!”
he exclaimed sharply, as he jerked his horse away
from the edge of a small, but wicked muskeg, around
which the trail that led to the Trainors’ ranch circled.
“I sure don’t want to be getting in the soup
like Jim McCloud did that time, on {\itshape{this}} day of all
days. I’ll hand yu’ over to Mary, begad!...
she’ll teach yu’ to ‘soldier,’ yu’ old sucker!”\par

It was a glorious sunshiny afternoon, and the
light cool breeze sent the occasional little tufts of
fleecy-white clouds scudding across the turquoise-blue
sky, and waved and brushed the surface of the long
prairie grass as if with an invisible hand. To the
gait of his horse Ellis whistled to himself—happily—half
dreamily, as if he voiced some inner
thought—an old, long-forgotten air, presently
breaking into its words:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“Sae kind, kind and gentle it she,\par}
{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}{\vl Kind is my Mary;\par}
}

{\vl The tender blossom on the tree,\par}
{\vl Cannot compare wi’ Mary.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Duly arriving at the ranch, he dropped his lines,
and leisurely sauntering up to the familiar dwelling
where he perceived the owner and his wife sitting
in the shade of the veranda, he hailed them cheerily.\par

Trainor looked up at the other’s approach and,
lowering the paper that he was reading, nodded to
him nonchalantly; his spouse gave no salutation
whatever, and appeared engrossed in her sewing.\par

Ellis halted irresolutely, sensing something strange
and apathetic in the manner in which he was received—something
{\itshape{distant}}, as it were—and he
became slowly conscious of a presentiment that his
forebodings had not been without reason, and that
all was not well as heretofore, when their usual welcome
had been so genuine and unrestrained. With
a feeling of vague uneasiness at his heart, he regarded
them blankly a moment or two, glancing
from one to the other inquiringly; then he said:\par

“Is anything the matter? What’s wrong?”\par

Trainor fidgeted nervously in his chair awhile,
and then raising his self-conscious eyes to the level
of his questioner’s breast, blurted out:\par

“Well, you see, Benton, it’s like this ... er—”\par

But words seemed to fail him, and he left the
sentence unfinished, relapsing into silence and gazing
miserably at his wife, as if seeking her assistance
in his explanation. The latter, now for the first
time, raised her head and, gravely contemplating
the troubled, anxious face of the Sergeant, addressed
her husband.\par

“Best tell him, Dave,” she said, with an inflection
of slightly frigid hostility in her tones. “If you
won’t, {\itshape{I will}}!”\par

Thus adjured, Trainor coughed awkwardly and
began afresh:\par

“Well, now, see here; look! I’ll tell you, Sergeant.
It’s about that girl, Mary—Miss O’Malley,
I mean. You know how I and Mrs. Trainor
love and regard that girl? ... known her since she
was a little kiddie, and think as much of her as we
do of our own children—”\par

He stopped, and Ellis nodded silently.\par

“For over a week now,” continued the rancher,
“that girl’s been acting queerly—seems worried—won’t
talk, and she’s not looking at all well. This
afternoon we simply couldn’t stand it any longer—she
was looking miserable, and it made {\itshape{us}} miserable,
too, seeing her like that. We were right here on
the veranda, and she came out of the door to go
riding. I caught hold of her by the shoulders—half
joshingly—‘Mary, my dear!’ I said; ‘what’s
wrong? You’re not looking yourself. There’s
something the matter—won’t you tell us? You’re
not afraid to tell {\itshape{us}}, are you, my girl?’ She struggled
a bit when I had her cornered like that, and
tried to get away from me—then she raised those
beautiful honest eyes of hers and looked me squarely
in the face. She tried to speak, but somehow the
words wouldn’t seem to come, and—”\par

“And {\itshape{then}},” broke in Mrs. Trainor, taking up
the tale, “she flung away from him and threw her
arms around my neck and hid her face against my
shoulder. You know, Mr. Benton, she’s the very
soul of honesty ... candid and unafraid to a degree—she
doesn’t know what evasion or subterfuge
means—she’s like a brave, simple child in that respect.
She clung to me for a bit, and then she breaks
out into that quaint Irish brogue of hers—like she
often does when she’s agitated or excited:\par

“‘Och! ’tis waithin I am for a man to speak!’ she
wails out. ‘And, oh, my dear! ... weary waithin
’tis, ochone!’ And then she burst out crying, with
great shaking sobs—oh! {\itshape{how}} that girl {\itshape{did}} cry—as
if her heart was breaking. I talked to her and
soothed her the best I could, and by and by she became
quieter, dried her eyes, kissed me, and went
away to her horse. She didn’t say any more than
that and I didn’t ask her—didn’t need to ... for
there! ... isn’t that admission enough? D’you
think {\itshape{we}} looking on at this play all this time don’t
know {\itshape{who}} she meant?” Mrs. Trainor continued,
eyeing Benton severely. “Haven’t you been coming
here regularly, paying her marked attention, taking
her out for rides, and all that? D’you think it’s
possible to deceive {\itshape{us}}. If you’ve only been amusing
yourself at her expense all these months with no serious
intentions, I tell you plainly, Mr. Benton ...
I don’t think you’re acting in a proper manner at all.
That girl is one in a thousand. Besides—she has
refused many good offers of marriage—and all for
your sake, too—from men who were in the position
to give her a downright good home and all the comforts
of life. You may think it’s not our business,
but I tell you it {\itshape{is}}!” she ended, with sparkling eyes.
“And we’ve made up our minds this sort of thing
shan’t go on any longer—that is, unless you can
give us your positive assurance that your intentions
are really sincere.... No! you needn’t look at me
in that idiotic way!” she cried, arising and stamping
her foot angrily. “I mean what I say, and I—”\par

Benton, with a flash of white teeth, and a broad
and rather foolish grin on his—now happy—face,
suddenly stepped forward and gripped the indignant
lady gently by the shoulders.\par

“{\itshape{Mrs.}} Trainor!” he said, with a daring earnestness
that almost took the breath away from that scandalized
dame as she struggled to free herself. “If
you open your mouth to say one word more, I’ll—as
sure as you’re the wife of your husband—I’ll
kiss you bang in front of him!” And, releasing her,
he continued: “What you’ve just told me’s made
me the happiest man alive.... I know where I get
off at, now ... and I’ll proceed to tell {\itshape{you}} something!”\par

And rapidly he acquainted the astonished pair with
the news of his unexpected good fortune, apologizing
for his seemingly callous conduct with a deep, sincere
contrition that impressed them in no little degree
and dispelled all their lingering doubts.\par

Trainor reached out a massive hand. “Sergeant,”
he said, with great feeling. “Shake! I’m
in wrong! I take it all back how I’ve misjudged
you! I might have known you weren’t {\itshape{that}} kind!”\par

Ellis, swallowing a little, grasped the offered hand
warmly.\par

“Dave!” he blurted out, “it’s {\itshape{me}} that’s to blame,
all right. It’s mighty good of you and Mrs.
Trainor to condone that sure questionable simplicity
of mine in the way you have. I should have put
myself right with both of you at the start.”\par

But Mrs. Trainor outdid her husband in impulsive
warmth.\par

“You threatened to kiss me,” she began archly.
“Now, I’m going to do more than threaten. There,
sir!”\par

And, suiting the action to the word, she kissed him
heartily. Then, womanlike, as the reaction to her
happiness—she began to cry. At which Trainor
guffawed and caught hold of her teasingly. But,
dragging herself away from him, she pushed Ellis
towards the path.\par

“Now you go!” she sobbed, “after her—straightway.
And don’t you dare bring her back
here until you’ve kissed her tears away and she’s her
own happy self again. That is, if you can find her,”
she added, with wet, smiling eyes. “I don’t know
exactly which way she went.”\par

“Oh, I’ll find her, all right,” said Ellis cheerfully.
“I think I know where she’ll be.”\par

And, turning, he strode off to the waiting Johnny,
mounted, and set off at a brisk lope towards “Lone
Butte,” that reared its head in the hazy distance.
For it was {\itshape{there}} that he guessed instinctively she had
betaken herself.\par

Purposely making a wide detour to escape her possible
observation, thirty minutes’ brisk riding brought
him into a small coulee, dotted with a young growth
of Balm o’ Gilead trees and alder bushes, which lay
to the rear of the butte and exactly opposite to the
side where the regular path to the summit began.
Here he dismounted and, leading Johnny, to save a
later descent for that animal, commenced to slowly
make the ascent.\par

Pausing to take breath within a few yards of the
top, the breeze brought to his ears the unmistakable
sounds of somebody whistling carelessly to herself.
Yes, that was her whistle, all right, he reflected;
so she couldn’t be so {\itshape{very}} unhappy. Intending
to steal up to her unobserved, and calculating
from his memory of the position of the big
stone, that she would have her back turned towards
him, he crept warily to the summit.\par

Soon, not thirty feet distant on the small plateau,
he beheld her seated on the stone and, as he had
surmised, facing the West. But her attitude of dejected
abandon sobered him somewhat, and the low,
monotonous whistle sounded doleful in the extreme.
Noiselessly the Sergeant decreased the distance between
them, and when within a few feet halted, not
wishing to startle her too badly. On account of her
wide-brimmed Stetson hat tipped back on the nape of
her neck, and the breeze blowing in her ears, she
had not thus far been aware of his close approach,
the thick, “old-bottom” prairie grass effectually
deadening the ring of Johnny’s steel-shod hoofs.\par

Long and earnestly, with a great love not unmixed
with a pang of remorse in his heart, Ellis gazed on
the still unconscious girl. Then all at once he gave
a violent start, which almost betrayed his presence
to her.\par

For, suddenly, and with the clarity that the great
king saw the writing on the wall, again he seemed
to behold, and comprehend fully now, the significance
of the strange fantasy which had appeared to him
in the detachment the previous night.\par

The dreary whistle ceased, and with her chin resting
in her hands she began to idly croon to herself
an old-fashioned time-worn ballad, which he vaguely
recognized as Whittier’s “Maud Muller.” Lord!
what a time it seemed since he’d heard {\itshape{that!}} he reflected.
It took him right back to the scenes of his
boyhood again at Shrewsbury—peaceful, gray-spired
old-world Shrewsbury. Verse by verse, came
the monotonous refrain of the antiquated poem to
his ears—just as a little girl will sometimes drone
to herself as she sits plaiting her hair in the sun:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Maud Muller looked and sighed. “Ah me!\par}
{\vl That I the Judge’s bride might be!\par}
{\vl He would dress me up in silks so fine,\par}
{\vl And praise and toast me at his wine.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
How the air of a long-forgotten song, a chance
phrase in a book, the scent of new-mown hay and of
certain flowers, the splendor of a tropical sunrise, the
glory of a flaming crimson and gold sunset, or the
calm beauty of a moonlight night will ofttimes
awaken in us strange old longing memories of other—and,
perchance—happier days. Harking back
now through all the years came to him, dimly, the
recollection that the {\itshape{very last}} time he had heard {\itshape{that}}
was at a gathering of young hearts held in his old
school town, when he was a bright-eyed young sinner
of thirteen or thereabouts—“soirees,” as they were
called then. Yes, it was at Dr. Pennington’s, and
saucy, yet tender-eyed, little Darthea Pennington had
recited it. She had cried, too, at its conclusion, he
remembered; which spectacle of girlish emotion had
prompted him to start in tormenting her with some
youthful nonsense, in a well-meant effort to revive
her natural gaiety. True, she’d slapped his face
as the reward for his impudence, but didn’t she
relent later to the extent of allowing him to kiss
“friends,” and afterwards take her in to supper?\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor,\par}
{\vl And all should bless me who left our door.”\par}
\vs{1}
{\noindent}
{\vl The Judge looked back at he climbed the hill,\par}
{\vl And saw Maud Muller standing still.\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
With bowed head the listener stood there motionless,
whilst a wave of emotion surged through his
heart, awakening all the sentiment which, through
long years of iron self-repression, had lain dormant
in his deep nature.\par

Whatever had possessed her to hark back to this
memory of her girlhood? he mused. Under ordinary
circumstances he would no doubt have resorted
as heretofore, to his customary badinage—chaffed
her about “grinding out Whittier by the yard,” or
mimicked her in a mincing falsetto. But now—as
he heard it {\itshape{now}}—the element of absurdity was distinctly
lacking ... nay! it was pitiful—almost
tragic ... how like a simple child again she
seemed, in her unhappiness?\par

With pathetic, monotonous regularity—as if she
were seeking to distract her thoughts from her trouble
by repeating some orison—the interminable
stanzas rose and fell, with a quavering cadence:\par

{\advance\leftskip\parindentamount{}\advance\rightskip\parindentamount{}
\vs{1}
\begin{verse}
{\vl {\noindent}
Then she took up her burden of life again,\par}
{\vl Saying only. “It might have been.”\par}
\end{verse}
}

\vs{1}
{\noindent}
Choking back a lump in his throat, Ellis now
dropped his horse’s lines and stepped forward.\par

“Mary!” he called softly.\par

And, at the sound of his voice the girl, with a
slight start and exclamation, turned and looked up
at him. With a feeling of deep contrition he remarked
her pale, tear-stained face, and the dark
shadows under her splendid eyes, denoting mental
worry and sleepless nights. Her first surprise over,
she settled listlessly back again to her old dejected
attitude, but never taking her great weary eyes off
his face. Never a word had she uttered yet, but
continued to gaze silently on the man before her
with a forlorn, wistful expression that cut him to the
very heart. Suddenly she began to speak, but her
voice seemed to ring strangely lifeless and far away
in his ears.\par

“Oh! ... and are you back again?” came the
toneless accents, “to mock me with that handsome,
cold face of yours? I was happy enough till {\itshape{you}}
came into my life ... you who’ve laid yourself out
to make me love you—for nothing, p’r’aps, except
your own amusement ... ’tis through I am with
happiness now, I guess ... would to God we’d
never known each other.... Oh, go! ... go
away, please!... I—I just can’t bear it....”\par

Before the infinite pathos of her hopeless look and
bitter words the strong man shook with his emotion
until speech seemed beyond him. For, remorse-stricken
though he was, beneath her reproach he
glimpsed the evidence of so great a love that he
could only stand and regard her with awed amazement.
Aye!—well he knew now, that come what
would or could, all that love was his, and would be
his forever. Suddenly he leaned forward with outstretched
arms and struggling, heart-wrung words
burst from his lips; a golden gleam from the sinking
sun, just then, lighting up and intensifying the manly
beauty of his strong, clean-cut features.\par

“Mary!” he cried hoarsely. “Oh, Mary, my
girl. I’ve been thoughtless—I didn’t know!...
forget—forgive!...”\par

Dazedly the girl stared for a moment at the imploring
face of the man she loved, her misery-benumbed
brain failing at first to grasp the significance
of his impassioned appeal. Then a quick, joyful
light of comprehension dilated her great weary
eyes, and with an unsteady movement she arose from
her seat on the stone and swayed towards him, sobbing
in her throat. The next minute her round
arms were about his neck, her eager lips sought his—and
they were quite alone.\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
Long he held the overstrung girl in his arms,
kissing and soothing her with every endearment that
a man’s love can command in such ecstasies; smoothing
her glorious hair and pressing his cheek to hers
with whispered, broken words of affection until she
became calmer, and her happy tears ceased.\par

Then, gently, he told her the news of his changed
fortunes and, drawing forth the lawyer’s letter, bade
the astonished girl read its contents.\par

“And now, my dear, I want you to read this,
too,” he said. “You have the right to.”\par

And reverently he handed her the letter of his
old dead benefactor, silently watching her face as
she perused its contents. He saw the light gradually
fade from her eyes, which commenced to fill
with tears. Her lips quivered and she began to
sob again softly, as she read on, rocking herself to
and fro and making no attempt to hide her emotion.
Presently she ended the missive and looked across
at her lover with glistening eyes.\par

“Oh! ... the poor old fellow ... that poor
old soldier ... oh! this is {\itshape{too}} pitiful for anything!...
How he must have suffered when he lost her—waiting
patiently all those years!...”\par

She continued to gaze silently at him awhile.
Then suddenly, with her wet eyes blazing with her
great love, she leaned forward and flung her arms
around his neck again with passionate abandon, still
clutching the letters.\par

“Fwas ut for money ye waithed, ye foolish man?”
she cried, relapsing into her soft Hibernian brogue
as she patted his shoulder caressingly. “Och, glory
be! but ’tis glad I am ye didn’t tell me—or show
me thim letthers till—till afther!... ’Tis little
ye must know av th’ heart av a woman loike me!...
Och, me bhoy! me bhoy! ... a pauper I’d
have married ye ... an’ loved ye still ... for
yersilf alane!”\par

For answer, Ellis tipped her head back on his
arm and kissed her fondly.\par

“Aye!... I guess you would!” he returned,
with a grim chuckle. “And then p’r’aps both of us
’ud have been sorry forever after!... No, my
dear! ... when Poverty knocks on the door, Love
‘beats it’ out of the window!... I’ve seen too
many of these ‘Love in a shack’ businesses ...
everything’s all hunkadory at first ... but it don’t
last.... You and I’ve worked long enough for
the powers that be.... Now that’s all changed....
You shall never know sorrow or worry again—if
I can help it, Mary, my girl!”\par

Cheek to cheek, they were silent awhile, gazing
dreamily across at the distant “Rockies.” Then he
continued quietly. “First thing I must get my discharge
from the Force. I’ll forward an application
to ‘purchase’ tomorrow! Special case ... under
the circumstances, I think the O.C.’ll recommend it
all right, though as a rule he’s dead against this
‘purchasing’ business ... don’t know but what he
isn’t about right, too ... anyway, ‘Isch ga bibble!’...
I’ll work it somehow within a month.
Then we’ll hit for Europe, Mary. A downright
good long easy-going trip ... taking our time and
lazying around in all the beautiful old places we’ve
read or heard about, and never seen.... Rome,
Venice, and some of those old Moorish places in
Spain. Then when we’re tired of them and want
some amusement and change of scene we’ll go to
Paris, or London—see all the best plays and hear
all the best singers. Later we’ll go on down through
the Mediterranean to the north coast of Africa, and
see Tunis and Algiers and Cairo. By and by, when
we’re tired of running around, we’ll ‘beat it’ for
this country again and settle down on a place of our
own. It won’t be a ‘rawnch,’ like the Honorable
Percy’s, either.... Guess I know how to run one
as it {\itshape{should}} be run. I know of a peach of a place—sou’west
of here—right on the Elbow ... pretty
place, too—bush all round it and all kinds of good
feed range and shelter. It’s an ideal place for
either horses or cattle—horses especially. Belongs
to old J. G. Robinson. He’s getting on in
years now and wants to quit the game. I know he’d
sell out to me—I know him well. It’s the open
range and the foothills of ‘Sunny Alberta’ for me
and you, Mary dear—somewhere in the West, anyway ... where
we can look across at the ‘Rockies’—like
we’re doing now. We’d never be happy
anywhere else. Of course ... you won’t be
cooped up on this precious ranch-in-perspective {\itshape{all}}
the year round ... neither of us, for that matter.
It won’t be necessary, for I’m going to try and get
Barney Gallagher to come to me as my manager.
I fancy I can fix things with him.”\par

The girl, smiling at his enthusiasm with a little
happy ejaculation, shook him impulsively.\par

“Oh, let’s wake up!” she cried. “Are we only
dreaming? ... are you {\itshape{sure}} this isn’t only just a
beautiful dream, from which we’ll wake up presently?
I can’t realize it’s all true, yet!”\par

He tilted her chin up and gazed into the glorious
hazel eyes lovingly.\par

“No, my dear,” he murmured, the hard lines of
his somber face softened into an expression of
dreamy, quiet peace. “It’s no dream this time.
I’m done with my hopeless, empty dreams now!
I’m a poor man no longer! Oh, Mary, my girl!
My great big splendid-looking wife-to-be! ... how
I surely do love you! Promise me you’re going to
be very, very happy now, and give me another kiss!
We’ll have to be getting back. I don’t want to be
getting into Mrs. T’s bad books again,” he added,
grinning. “She gave me orders ... very peremptory
orders ... but I think I can report that
I’ve carried ’em out! Now give that kiss!”\par

What a wonderful change—spiritually and physically—a
little love can effect! Gone were all poor
Mary’s dark shadows, pallor, and weary despondency.
Once again her laughing long-lashed hazel
eyes shone with the happy lights of yore. Locked
in each other’s arms, for the time being, in a rose-tinted
world of their own and completely oblivious
to their surroundings, they happened to sway up
against Johnny who, turning his head, with a mildly
inquiring eye, tucked up his nigh fetlock and nibbled
at them for sugar, nickering softly the while.\par

And Mary’s horse, down on the flat below, whinnied
back a responsive “All’s Well.”\par


\vs{2}
{\noindent}
{\addfontfeature{Scale=1.2}{Footnote:}}\par

\clearpage


\begin{container}
\begin{plainpage_env}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\addfontfeature{Scale=1.2}{GLOSSARY}}
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Aasvogel}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) A species of South African vulture. ({\itshape{Carrion.}})
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Allemachtig}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Almighty!
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Adios}}—({\itshape{Spanish}}) Good-by!
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Dekho}}—({\itshape{Hindustani}}) Look.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Disselboom}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Wagon-tongue.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Dopper}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) A term generally applied to the Boers in S. A.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Doed}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Dead.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Dorp}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) A small town.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Drink hael}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Signifying “Drink hearty!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Dronk}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Drunk.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ke!}}—({\itshape{Kaffir expressions, urging on horse, oxen, or mule}}) Literally—“Get up there! Go on!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Inspanning}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Harnessing up horse, oxen, or mule teams.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Indaba}}—({\itshape{Zulu}}) Talk, language.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{I Korner}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) An expression of incredulity, “understand!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Intombi}}—({\itshape{Zulu}}) Young woman.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Isch Ga Bibble!}}—({\itshape{Yiddish}}) “I should worry!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Ja}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Yes!
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Kinders}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Children.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Kopje}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Small hill, or butte.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Krantzes}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Rocky precipices.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Laager}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Camp, abode.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Leugenaar}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Liar.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Meerkat}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) A species of animal like a gigantic gopher which burrows on the veldt.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Myjnheer}}—({\itshape{Dutch}}) Mr.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{N’dipe Manzi}}—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) “Give me some water!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Nee-moyee}}—({\itshape{Cree}}) “No!” (Pronounced “Naz-mo-yer.”)
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Outspan}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Unharnessing horse, oxen, or mule teams.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Paseur}}—({\itshape{Spanish}}) Walk.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Pronto!}}—({\itshape{Spanish}}) “Quick! Look sharp!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Salue!}}—({\itshape{Signifying}}) “Here’s luck!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Saku Bona N’kos!}}—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) “Good day, Chief.”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Saku Bona, Umlungu}}—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) “Good day, White Man!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Sjambok}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Rawhide whip.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
“{\scshape{Skiet die Verdoe Schepsel!}}”—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) “Shoot the damned rascal!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Soor}}—({\itshape{Hindustani}}) Swine.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Taal}}—South African Dutch language.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Trek}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) March, travel.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Tronk}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Gaol.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Uitlander}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Outlander. Unfranchised by the S. A. Republic.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
“{\scshape{Umbagi!}}”—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) Signifying “Move on there!” “Get along!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Umfundusi}}—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) Preacher.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Umlungu}}—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) “White man!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Vierkleur}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) The flag of the late South African Republics.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
“{\scshape{Voertsek, Du Verdomde Schelm!}}”—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) “Get out, you damned rascal!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
{\scshape{Vrouw}}—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) Wife.
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
“{\scshape{Wacht-een-bietje!}}”—({\itshape{Dutch Taal}}) “Wait a bit!”
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
“{\scshape{Wana!}}”—({\itshape{Kaffir}}) “Stop!” “Halt there!”
\endgraf}
\par
\end{plainpage_env}
\end{container}

\clearpage


\begin{container}
\begin{plainpage_env}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
RALPH CONNOR’S STORIES OF THE NORTHWEST
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset \& Dunlap’s list
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE SKY PILOT IN NO MAN’S LAND}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
The clean-hearted, strong-limbed man of the West leaves
his hills and forests to fight the battle for freedom in the
old world.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{BLACK ROCK}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A story of strong men in the mountains of the West.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE SKY PILOT}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A story of cowboy life, abounding in the freshest humor,
the truest tenderness and the finest courage.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE PROSPECTOR}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A tale of the foothills and of the man who came to them
to lend a hand to the lonely men and women who needed a
protector.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
This narrative brings us into contact with elemental and
volcanic human nature and with a hero whose power breathes
from every word.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
In this rough country of Glengarry, Ralph Connor has
found human nature in the rough.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE DOCTOR}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
The story of a “preacher-doctor” whom big men and
reckless men loved for his unselfish life among them.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE FOREIGNER}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A tale of the Saskatchewan and of a “foreigner” who
made a brave and winning fight for manhood and love.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{CORPORAL CAMERON}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
This splendid type of the upright, out-of-door man about
which Ralph Connor builds all his stories, appears again in
this book.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
Grosset \& Dunlap, Publishers, New York
\endgraf}
\par
\end{plainpage_env}
\end{container}

\clearpage


\begin{container}
\begin{plainpage_env}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY
\endgraf}
\par

\noindent
{\raggedright
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset \& Dunlap’s list.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{MAVERICKS}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A tale of the western frontier, where the “rustler” abounds. One of the sweetest
love stories ever told.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{A TEXAS RANGER}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
How a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man, followed a
fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{WYOMING}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
In this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its
engaging dash and vigor.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{RIDGWAY OF MONTANA}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining industries
are the religion of the country.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{BUCKY O’CONNOR}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing
spirit of the border.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between
cattle-men and sheep-herders.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{BRAND BLOTTERS}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A story of the turbid life of the frontier with a charming love interest running
through its pages.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{STEVE YEAGER}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A story brimful of excitement, with enough gun-play and adventure to suit anyone.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A Western story of romance and adventure, comprising a vivacious and stirring
tale.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE HIGHGRADER}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A breezy, pleasant and amusing love Story of Western mining life.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE PIRATE OF PANAMA}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE YUKON TRAIL}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
A crisply entertaining love story in the land where might makes right.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE VISION SPLENDID}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
In which two cousins are contestants for the same prizes; political honors and the
hand of a girl.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
{\itshape{THE SHERIFF’S SON}}
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
The hero finally conquers both himself and his enemies and wins the love of a
wonderful girl.
\endgraf}
\par


\vs{1}
{\noindent}
\noindent
{\raggedright
Grosset \& Dunlap, Publishers, New York
\endgraf}
\par
\end{plainpage_env}
\end{container}


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