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