He took a deep breath.
Lescheneaux, seeing himself already engaged in hounding the rebels, slipped jubilantly away with his command that night and Hector was left alone.
IV
The uprising, as everybody knew, was the product of the campaign which had been continued throughout the winter, among the ignorant and inflammable half-breeds and Indians.
That winter had been a busy one for Hector. In co-operation with Lescheneaux, he had kept Bear Tooth's reserve under constant observation. Indian and half-breed scouts helped the Police in watching the camps, attending the meetings and patrolling. Hector did his best to allay the mischievous talk. The Indians knew they were being closely observed but they did not know that no man went to or from the reserve or spoke a single word of sedition without Hector's knowledge. Night and day, week after week, in thaw or blinding blizzard or bitter cold snap, Hector and his men were in the saddle—silent, inconspicuous but never-resting guardians of the Queen's peace on the great frontier.
Meanwhile, the shadow of revolt grew darker and darker over the land.
And now—the shadow had become substance. Broncho lay at Bear Tooth's mercy—unless Hector could hold his warriors in check.
It was a terrible position.
Fortunately he had two staunch allies: Bear Tooth himself and Father Duval.
Hector had kept in touch with Father Duval, whom he knew to be using all his tremendous influence to divert disaster. He had also sounded and consulted Bear Tooth. The chief, he felt, was reliable and loyal.
Between them, Hector felt, the situation might just possibly be kept in hand.
For the fortnight following Lescheneaux's departure, he was constantly on his feet and in constant communication with Father Duval and Bear Tooth.
His first move was to consult and advise Father Duval.
They met secretly.
"Whatever we do, Father," said Hector, "we must use tact, logic and persuasion. Threats? Useless!"
Father Duval smiled.
"Eh-h-, but you are a man af-taire my own 'art, Inspecteur. Desepauvres sauvages—dey are joost children—bébés. Show a beeg, beeg stick—dey be'ave!Vraiment! But show a leetle stick—poof! Dey knock you down! Ef you 'ad all de Police be'ind you—ah! All right—shake de fist! But as you 'ave only ten men—ah! Talk quiet—ver', ver' firm but always no t'reat!Mais, attendez! Dese fellows are no fool. We give dem logic, as you 'ave said an' I bet you all stay quiet."
"My sentiments exactly, Father," Hector agreed. "Now, you are a man of peace; and they know it. There's not an Indian from here to the Arctic Circle that doesn't trust you, Father. Whereas—well, they know the Force is in arms against this revolt and they might think I was just talking to bluff them ifIsee them first. What I suggest, Father, is this: go to them, get them together, point out how we have helped them and treated them fairly always. Show them the treacherous side of this uprising. Tell them the mistakes the rebels have made. Then go on to point out the power of the Great White Mother—how we've already avenged the Goose River affair—how an army is already on its way to crush the enemy—how the flow of troops will continue, thousands and thousands of Shagalasha, until the war is ended at any cost and the leaders of the rebels hanged. Don't forget the rope, Father. Then—"
"Den—pour fini,—tell' dem 'ow much wiser to stay on reserve, till de ground, sell to de Government an' be true to de Queen. Eh,mon enfant, I know! 'Ow you say? Count on me, count on me!Mes pauvres petits!Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!"
"Then that's settled.Iwill stay away—it will be more diplomatic. Afterwards—well, we'll see how you get along first."
"Bon, bon, bon! I go. Pray for me!"
And Father Duval departed on his great mission.
After forty-eight hours of—for Hector—intense anxiety, Father Duval returned, victorious.
"I saw every-one, Bear Tooth an' all," the priest told Hector. "I talk joost as we agree, you an' me. We are not yet escap' from de wood,vous-comprenez: mais, le bon Dieu, 'e as bless our effort,oui! You go yourself now to Bear Tooth! You see."
"Father," said Hector, "the country owes you a great debt—"
"Could I leavemes enfantsto go stray at de word of fools an' demons?"
In the meantime, things were marching steadily to a climax in the field. The number of rebels had increased. The Mounted Police had been driven out of their northerly posts. Troops were moving steadily Westward, from all Canada, to reinforce the little bands of settlers and Police in whose hands the safety of the country rested.
Would they be in time? Heaven alone knew.
In Broncho, Colonel Stern was organizing a column to co-operate with the soldiers when they arrived. Hector longed to be with him, so that he might bear an active part in the operations. But he could not leave the reserve without orders. To leave it at that moment, in any case, would have been madness. The cauldron, despite Bear Tooth's pledge, was still bubbling. The dashing, brilliant role was not for Hector; his was the harder, less attractive part of mounting guard. Fate was cheating him out of the glorious opportunity of a lifetime. But he was too good a soldier to complain.
Suddenly came splendid news—a letter from Colonel Stern, 'through the usual channels,' offering Hector command of the body of scouts then in process of formation for work in the Broncho column.
This was the Colonel's way of showing his long-established affection for and confidence in Hector. The temptation was immense. Hector decided to see Father Duval and abide by his decision. He had been fretting out his soul for action; but without a clear conscience, it was—of course—impossible to leave.
"Father Duval, can you control Bear Tooth without me? Is it safe for me to go to Broncho?"
"Mon enfant," the priest smiled, "you 'ave don' your share. Today, Bear Tooth an' me—we 'old de 'ole tribe in our two fists—so! Go—and de Lord go wit' you!"
There was no doubt of it. Between them, they actually had kept the most dangerous tribe in the North-West in check for good and all.
"If you feel, as I do, that Father Duval is capable of dealing with the situation henceforward," Hector wrote to his chief, "I would recommend that Colonel Stern's request be granted."
This answer placed his fate in jeopardy. But he was honest to the last.
Came, after torturous suspense, the following:
"In view of Father Duval's opinion and yours, you will withdraw to Broncho with your detachment forthwith."
Conscience was satisfied and the Road to Glory laid open! When Hector told the men, they cheered like mad.
"Tak' good care yourself,mon petit ami!" said Father Duval. "An' don' worry about us no more!"
That night they marched to Broncho.
V
Broncho was in a turmoil. Already overcrowded with settlers, cow-punchers, loyal half-breeds and their several families from the surrounding district, it was daily becoming a richer prey for the bloodthirsty rebels. Appalling rumours kept it on the rack. Special trains, loaded to capacity with women, children and faint-hearted men, pulled out for the East and safety in an unending stream. The streets were full of galloping horsemen, raw bands of eleventh-hour recruits and long-faced citizens hastily organizing themselves for defence. Saloons, eating-houses, stores and stables talked War, War, War.
Through this turmoil, hailed as a troop of angels descended from Heaven to the rescue, Hector and his scarlet-coated policemen rode to Colonel Stern's headquarters. The Colonel, wearing a gunner's uniform of incredible age and an expression of the utmost calm, met them at the door.
He was obviously delighted to be back in harness.
"Well done, well done, Adair!" he exclaimed, returning Hector's salute. "You're the best thing I've clapped eyes on since I got here. Just the man I need—chose you myself! Come inside! Glad to see you—at last!"
In the office, the Colonel explained the plan of campaign—a push northwards of three columns, of which the Broncho crowd was one, as soon as the Commander-in-Chief was ready, to converge on So-and-So. The Colonel's lot was to consist of a squadron, under Hector, two battalions of militia from the East—'all the way from the lower Provinces, Adair—there's your united Canada!'—and a detachment of artillery—'Yes, they've given me a pop-gun!' The advance would take place very soon, as speed was essential if the northern settlements and Western Canada were to be saved from a general conflagration. The Colonel was having some difficulty in arming his men, with whom fire-arms had become unnecessary of late years, owing to the protection afforded the country by the Mounted Police; but that difficulty was in the course of solution.
"And I've an ideal Sergeant-Major for you; an old friend."
"An old friend?" Hector was puzzled. "Who—let me see—"
The Colonel's eyes twinkled under their deep thatch of eyebrow.
"Sergeant-Major Whittaker! You couldn't have a better man!"
"Whittaker! Well, I'm—; Jove, that's splendid! Is he here, sir?"
A short time later, these two, who had last met as Sergeant and senior N.C.O., were shaking hands as officer and civilian.
"Yes, sir, I came down right away," said Whittaker, smiling all over his bronzed hatchet face. "Fact is, I heard Colonel Stern was here organizing a column and—well, anyway, I'm like that old warhorse in the Bible, saying 'Ha! Ha!' among the Capt'ins. I smell the battle afar off an' there's no holding me. Once a soldier always a soldier, Mr. Adair!"
Things were looking up! With Sergeant-Major Whittaker and his little troop of constables to stiffen it, Hector could make such a corps out of the splendid raw material at hand as would write a new chapter in the history of frontier cavalry.
It was at this time that Hector was introduced to the machinations of the political press, with which he was to have a close acquaintance later on.
Newspapers from the East came in regularly, full of prophecy, criticism and advice, each more hysterical than the last. Issue after issue, blatantly headlined and editorialed by know-nothing party reporters fifteen hundred miles distant from the scene of action, reached the hands of Hector and his constables, uttering such things as these:
ARE THE MOUNTED POLICE ASLEEP?IS THE COMMISSIONER AFRAID?SOME DRIVING POWER NEEDED.KOW-TOWING TO THE REBELS.
One day he saw his trumpeter tearing one of these papers to shreds, crying:
"Damn them! Damn them!"
"Never mind them, Mason," Hector said. "All servants of the Government have to put up with such attacks. We'll just show we're too big to pay attention to them."
But when he realized that these papers were believed infallible by the militia regiments and half the people of Canada, he found it hard to preserve that equanimity.
In a week of desperate work, Hector produced a body of over a hundred scouts drawn from the world's best sources, of no uniformity but fully supplied and able, with its string of pack-mules and extra horses, to move independently of the main body, go anywhere, do anything and fight anyone on earth.
In ten days' time, they received orders to advance. At the head of the column, cheered frantically by hysterical citizens, they swept out of Broncho.
VI
From the naked woods on the rolling brown ridge beyond the valley came the echo of the last lingering shots of the enemy. In the deserted rifle-pits which pocked the hillside lay many motionless forms, dark, dwarfed by distance. Two or three white-faced corpses sprawled on the open ground in front of the pits. One of them wore a red coat, which, in the afternoon sunshine, stood out startlingly, like a blot of blood, the one bit of colour in the entire picture. Near by was a dead horse, legs in air, repulsively grotesque.
Colonel Stern's column had attacked and completely defeated the rebel right wing that morning in a position several hundred miles beyond Broncho. Covered by a weak rearguard, the enemy were now rapidly retiring.
In the distance, out of range, the transport—heavy farm-wagons, light carts and pack-mules—were clustered. With them were Hector's cavalry.
Colonel Stern stood with his staff close behind the firing-line, studying the enemy's country.
Utterly unflustered, he began to talk rapidly to his senior officers. They were all agreed. The time had come for a vigorous pursuit.
"Boy," said the Colonel to an orderly, "give Mr. Adair my compliments and tell him to come up here at once."
In five minutes, Hector joined his commander.
"Adair," the Colonel said shortly, "it's evident we've shaken 'em badly. A hard, merciless pursuit now may end everything. Are you ready to start?"
"At once, sir."
"And, oh—Adair. I didn't mention it before; but I had a despatch from the C. in C. this morning and it appears—" he whispered a smiling sentence.
"The man himself?"
Hector for once was shaken out of his calm.
"The man himself—the cause, the leader, the keystone of the revolt! Joined 'em three days ago, the General says. Chase 'em night and day; give 'em no rest; harry 'em; smash 'em; capture that bird and you'll be the hero of the whole campaign. It's the chance of a lifetime, Adair; but I'm glad you've got it."
For a moment Hector paused, his eyes far away. He thought of that night in Regina when he had seen in this uprising a marvellous opportunity. But he had never dreamed of it developing such an opportunity as this! For a moment he felt as if everything were already his—Frances—success—the world—
"I'll follow you, Adair."
"All right, sir."
To get back to his men was a matter of a few minutes. Rapidly he gave his orders:
"Trumpeter, the 'Fall In'—look sharp. Quartermaster, follow up with the pack-mules. Sergeant-Major, detail an escort. 'Tion! Number—"
The trumpeter rattled out the call. The men fell in, their horses plunging. The scouts swept off in front. Then, in single file, their scarlet-coated leader at their head, Hector's dashing frontier cavalry circled the camp at full gallop, tore through the ranks of yelling infantry, waved a hand in farewell and thundered down the slope and away.
VII
In a wide and desolate expanse of open country patched with sloughs, Hector's men, after twenty hours of unceasing pursuit, were suddenly and definitely checked. They had lost the trail.
Gaining touch with the enemy soon after the start, they had maintained it all through the night, through the grey hours of the morning and so on till nearly noon. The night's pursuit had been fierce, wild work, like some mad vision of a disordered brain, fierce, wild work at a furious pace, over ridge and hill, round lake and wood, through brawling river, down broad valley and deep ravine and full of fearful, unforgettable sights and sounds: scouts on their knees, like ape-men in the gloom, feeling the ground for telltale tracks left by the rebels; the rattle of sliding stones as the cavalry plunged along the steep face of a gully; distant shouts of the scattered enemy, trying to keep touch; loud shouts, near at hand, of warning—fear—command; strings of horsemen, glimpsed for an instant, gigantic and pitch black against the lighter blackness of sky; the faraway drum of many galloping hoofs, sensed rather than heard; the flash of rifles, darting from rock to rock; the swift glare of light on the face of a rebel scout, firing his last round home; horse and man dashed for a breathless moment in a sudden blaze, like a man and horse of living flame, as the nearest cowboy answered surprising shot with shot; and now and then, cleaving the darkness from some unknown source, the unearthly scream of a wounded animal, expressive of the hate and terror of it all.
Daylight found the pursuit still hanging on, though reduced in numbers and still pressing the rebels hotly, though splashed and drenched from head to heel, parched with thirst, racked with hunger, worn out and running short of ammunition. By that time the battlefield of yesterday and Colonel Stern's column were alike far behind and they were alone on the verge of the great lake district to the north. But Hector drove his men tirelessly forward, with a merciless 'Push on!'—'Push on!'
And now the trail had been utterly lost for over an hour and they were checked, willynilly, for good and all.
With a little party to cover the operation, the scouts were working on a cast, in a wide circle, like questing hounds. Hector had with him some of the best scouts in the North-West and he was among the best of them himself; but they could not find the trail and all hands were near despair.
In this crisis, he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to have old Martin with him. But Martin Brent had been in his grave for years.
He had no-one like him to rely on.
The situation was agonizing to Hector. This was his first great experience as an officer and he knew that not only his own men but every man in the Police would judge his capacity as an officer by his present success or failure. Besides, Frances—his dreams of progress—everything he most desired was dependent on this one issue. He had built up a thousand visions with victory in this trial as their foundation. To fail now—after pushing his men and himself to exhaustion, after hounding the enemy on and on for twenty desperate hours—would mean the end.
Then, above even these things, there was the country. Its eyes were on him. Colonel Stern looked to him. He had it in his power to save a welter of bloodshed, to smash the revolt, to bring its leader to the scaffold—if he could only find the trail.
But the trail was lost.
He remembered, too, the newspapers, in his mind's eye saw headlines like these:
REBELS TOO SMART FOR POLICE.INSPECTOR ADAIR'S FAILURE.RESULTANT LOSS OF LIFE.LET HIM RESIGN.
He heard, too, in imagination, the sneaking, mocking whispers of malice and jealousy condemning him on every side.
He went on searching relentlessly; but in his heart the spectre of defeat had already risen.
Till, all at once, the light came—sent, once more, by Destiny. With Mason, his trumpeter, he had moved off to a flank, on the slope of a hill, covered with small bushes, the crest just above them. Suddenly the bushes on the crest parted and an Indian appeared. Mason threw his carbine to his shoulder.
"Don't shoot!" Hector roared.
He saw that the Indian was a squaw and unarmed.
But it was too late. The boy's jumpy nerves had pulled the trigger.
"Oh,—!"
Hector ripped out an oath that none had heard him use before and ran up the hill.
He found the woman lying in the bushes. The bullet had gone straight through her chest. She was done for.
Hector, seeing that the damage was done, had now only one thought—to question her about the rebels.
He lifted her—she was small and light—kneeling and holding her in his arms. He did not yet recognize her.
Speaking her own tongue, he began.
"Where have you come from?"
She opened her eyes with a great effort and looked at him woodenly. A vague perplexity crept into her haggard, deathly face; a faint smile; then all her perplexity vanished and, smiling almost rapturously, she put out a trembling hand—touched his cheek—whispered—
In a flash, he knew her—in spite of her thinness, suffering, faded beauty. His mind went back through the mists of three—four—five years and more, back to Milk River, Fort Walsh and Sleeping Thunder's teepee—
It was Moon.
He uttered a strange, inarticulate cry—struggled to speak—could not—
She touched his cheek a second time. Agony was in her smile, making it terrible.
"Oh,—they've killed—me," she said.
"Moon!" Hector burst out, "What are you doing here?"
She still smiled—the old sweetness always in her face—through tears of pain that dimmed her beautiful, soft eyes. Every word was an intense effort.
"So—you have—come," she whispered. "I stayed—behind—to meet you. I was—so tired—so tired—and Loud Gun—he beat me. I knew—you were—following us—everybody knew it, for—everybody—knows you. You will—not beat—me. You have always—been kind—to me. I thought, 'I can—go no—further. I will stay—behind—and go to him. And he—will protect me.' So I—stayed. That is why—I am here. I was waiting—till you came—near. I—thought I—would jump out at you—as children—do. I—thought 'How pleased and surprised he—will be.' But, oh—they shot me!"
Hector held her closer. A thin trail of blood trickled pitifully from the corner of her trembling, childish mouth. The sight pierced him. He took her shaking hand.
"Where is Loud Gun?" he asked, his voice like flint.
By this time the trumpeter and some of the men were standing near, a silent group, puzzled, unable to understand what the woman said but able to see that their leader had been deeply stirred. Hector barely realized that they were there.
"Loud Gun?—He is with—the rest of them—the rebels. He is—chief of the band—now. My father—is gone. He rides the ghost-trail. Had he—been—living, his people, my people—they would not—have been—led away—into this—cruel—madness. But—" she repeated, "he rides the ghost-trail. And I—will soon—O, I am happy!—I will soon be with him!"
"You say Loud Gun has been unkind to you?"
Hector's voice was trembling, though he tried hard to control it.
"At first—he loved me. But then—he—tired—of me. But now—all that is over; and I do—not—care."
The words came heavily, painfully, from her lips, like cripples, one by one. The blood from her mouth still trickled down. Hector tried to stop the thickly welling flow from the hole in her chest with his handkerchief but could not.
"Listen, Moon." He steeled himself for the effort. "Tell me—where have they gone?"
She looked at him, striving always to smile. But her eyes were already clouding, her voice and senses failing.
"Will—it—serve you—if I tell?"
He answered swiftly: "It will be the greatest service man or woman ever rendered me, Moon. And it will end this miserable, useless rising."
"So?" she said. "Then—I will tell—you. Why should I not—tell you? Loud Gun—and his—people—have cast me off. Then, why should I—not—tell you—whom I love—ah, yes I love—as much as—ever? They have gone—they have gone—"
He felt her slipping away and made a desperate attempt to hold her back.
"Yes, yes! Where have they gone? Quick, Moon—tell me!"
"They have gone—gone—that way." She pointed with her shaking hand. "They—rode—through—that slough—there—to hide the tracks—and down a little stream—on the other—side. So—for three hours—and then—for—"
"Yes?"
"For the—great lake—in the north. Its name—its name—"
"I know it!" said Hector. "I know it."
She had shown him the trail.
And she was fast nearing another trail—a longer trail—herself. He felt her clutch his hand convulsively.
"Then—I—haveserved you, after all!" Her voice was very weak but there was great joy in it. "I—could—not have—you for my own self; and you—would not let—me—be your servant then. But the Great—Spirit, He—has—been—so kind to me. He has—let me—aid you—serve you—when you—most needed me—and in the—end. Oh, you of the gentle heart—see how your kindness to the—poor and lowly—brings you—a reward!"
Her eyes rested now with a vague longing on the heedless, bright blue sky, the dazzling sunshine, the long sweep of the empty hills and the slough, a sheet of silver. To renounce all this—and lose him with it! All the agony of all the partings and renunciations that have ever been was in that one wistful glance.
Hector's heart—soft as a woman's, as are the hearts of all really strong men—was breaking and this was more than he could bear. A slow tear coursed down his face. He did not heed it. But she saw it there.
"Tears—for me?" she said wonderingly. Again she smiled, the bravest smile he had ever seen. "Ah, do not weep for—me. I am happy—to—die—for—you—with you. It is—just as I—have always—wished."
A moment more and the fierce grip of Death seized her. She felt it coming, shook convulsively, torment indescribable on her face—
"Moon!" Hector implored.
She opened her eyes—smiled again into his—
"Hold me—tight!" she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms.
The story was ended.
At last he set her down and was instantly back to the business in hand.
He shouted an order at the staring men and cleft the silence with a blast on his whistle that brought the others racing in.
"All right, Sergeant-Major—send the scouts off—this way! Follow up with the rest—follow me!"
Mason, the innocent cause of Moon's death, came running up with the horses, recalling to Hector's mind—Loud Gun.
Then, once more, but for the last time, the astonished trumpeter heard his leader ripping out most fearful oaths.
"I'll settle him! By God, I'll settle him!" he ended.
Savagely spurring his horse, he put himself at the head of the scouts and flashed off on the trail the rebels had taken.
VIII
Broncho wasen fête—spreading herself. The uprising was over—every spark of revolt completely quenched. That afternoon, there was to be an official 'welcome home' to the city's heroes.
At the head of the column forming for the march to the platform was Hector and his cavalry—a rejuvenated troop, happy as larks.
But Hector was more serious than the men had ever seen him.
"C.O. got the hump? Just look at him!"
His mind in a turmoil, Hector obeyed the order to march off. The Broncho band, of citizens of all ages, uniform caps their only regalia, burst into semi-harmonious strains and led the way through the crowd.
And the crowd—looked at the bronzed young officer on his noble horse, remembered his record—and worshipped.
Hector heard their Hosannahs thundering to the sky, saw men, women, children, all madly excited, swirling round him, waving innumerable handkerchiefs, flags, hats—and still floated in a world of dream.
They were grouped round the platform now. The Lieutenant-Governor of the Territories and his party appeared; 'God Save The Queen'; a salute; hysterical cheering!
Colonel Stern, a wonderfully handsome figure, with his keen face, hooked nose and long moustaches, came riding up with his staff. Passing Hector, he smiled kindly; then joined the Lieutenant-Governor, who began a speech in his praise.
Bursts of cheering! The Lieutenant-Governor shifted to a new theme. Hector, still in a daze, caught snatches of these remarks.
"The dashing young leader ... officer of the gallant and well-beloved Mounted ... spearhead of the advance ... exposed himself recklessly throughout ... when the time came, swept fiercely in pursuit ... engaged them finally at ... where they were caught between the lake and ... could not escape ... though greatly outnumbered, smashed the rebels utterly ... captured not only the remnant ... but their leader ... head of the whole revolt ... himself ... thus single-handed bringing ... campaign ... swift and glorious conclusion ... yes, Inspector Adair!"
Then a wonderful thing happened. The impatient crowd broke its bonds and instantly filled all the space about the platform. It rushed round Hector. He found himself suddenly walled in by a field of exultant faces and dimly realized that they were cheering him ... cheering him....
Over this heaving mass a voice suddenly threw a roaring word, hailing Hector by the name long given him by the Indians and sometimes by the civilians, in token of the strength and fearlessness which they considered him, the embodiment of himself:
"Manitou-pewabic!" shouted the voice. "Manitou-pewabic!"
Instantly the crowd took the cue and roared the name, sometimes the translation of the name, in one great tumult of sound:
"Manitou-pewabic!"—"Spirit-of-Iron! Spirit-of-Iron!"
For a moment, then, coming out of the clouds, Hector felt, for the first time in his life, the tremendous exultation of wide fame and brilliant success. This crowd, these cheers, were his. That name, that wonderful name, they had given him. In their way, those people represented all Canada. The whole country was applauding him. Destiny had given him greatness. He was no longer struggling to advance. He had advanced!
"Spirit-of-Iron!" thundered the crowd. "Spirit-of-Iron!"
Afterwards, those who had seen him returning their salutes, remarked that he had not once smiled.
If they had known the reason why! ... They did not know.
The fact was that, the first wave of exultation past, the intoxicating drink turned to gall on Hector's lips, became a curse and a mockery.
Just before falling in for parade that afternoon, an orderly had handed him a sheaf of letters, his first mail since leaving Broncho to fight the rebels. Among the letters was one which brought his heart to his mouth. It was his letter to Frances—returned 'dead' after wandering over half America.
On the envelope was stamped 'Address unknown.'
In the hour of success, Fate, after her playful manner, had kicked him off his pedestal and crushed him like a beetle.
The laurels had developed spines that lacerated his hands.
He had lost Frances, utterly lost her.
What did he want with this cheering?
But still the crowd yelled on tumultuously and the great moment lingered—the moment of universal acclamation—mocking him—glorifying him——
Spirit-of-Iron!
IX
Autumn dawned. The epic railway lay completed from sea to sea. Its last spike had been the last nail in the coffin of the Old Order. The dead heroes of the little war, who had made that victory possible, slept peacefully, heedless of the thunder of the vast tide of humanity now bearing down upon the plains for which they died—the tide which was the first wave of the iron-spirited nation to come.
I
On the open prairie outside the growing city of Broncho, in the heart of the cattle country, the Mounted Police held their Queen's Birthday sports.
Mrs. MacFarlane, not long made wife of Inspector MacFarlane, looked on the scene from her seat in the front row of the officers' marquee and felt herself quite intoxicated with the glamour of it all.
Mrs. MacFarlane was an American, brought up in the Eastern States and hence new to the West and particularly to such martial pageantry as this.
She was also an uncommonly pretty woman, small and graceful, with seductive eyes of baby blue, fringed with very long lashes; well marked and arched eyebrows; a mass of hair so fair that it was almost white; a little tip-tilted nose; and lips that seemed perpetually to ask for kisses. She had a voice which alternately cooed and purred and sometimes did both at once. Intensely feminine, she revelled in her frills and ribbons and exotic perfume, had always an eye for a good-looking man, craved masculine attention as a child craves candy, and, when any prospects of the kind were in sight, was alive to nothing else whatever. If attacked, she would instantly resort to tears. Altogether, she was of the type which some women call 'sweet' and others 'cattish.' Most men would call her 'pussy.' But she made her presence felt; and there was 'more in her than met the eye.'
No one could quite understand how a pretty woman of her stamp, who so admired physical beauty in men and was herself able to appeal to them after a certain fashion, had come to marry a big, grumpy, bear of a fellow like MacFarlane. Some months before, returning from the East on leave, MacFarlane had electrified every man and woman connected with the Force by bringing with him this unknown beauty as his bride. How on earth had he managed it—when, even now, she clearly revealed her preference by furtively ogling all handsome men, even the constables? Never mind; shehadaccepted him. Some day, perhaps, when the novelty of her present life wore off and she had settled down to await Eternity in the rough dreariness of pioneer barrack life with MacFarlane for company—well—things might happen.
Time enough to think of these things when they came! At present, reclining in her chair, watching the sports with the dreamy little smile which she knew became her so well, she was perfectly content.
Beside her sat Mrs. Jim Jackson, wife of the now prominent rancher, a large, good-humoured lady of much animation, with an insatiable love for gossip. From Mrs. Jackson she learned much concerning the sports and the sportsmen.
"See that bunch over there—where the big, red-headed man is standing? They've got an outlaw," Mrs. Jackson explained—"a horse no one can ride, you know. That particular beast is a corker. He's killed two men already."
Mrs. MacFarlane shuddered.
"Then why do they use such a horse?"
"Oh, but they have to. Unless the horse is a real snorter, it makes the competition too easy. Donny, the man looking on—Corporal Donaldson, y'know, the Superintendent's teamster—can handle him, don't worry. He's one of the best rough-riders in the Force."
Amid roars from the spectators, Donaldson flashed past the marquee, the horse bucking furiously. Mrs. MacFarlane caught a glimpse of its devilish eyes and of the face of Donaldson. She caught Mrs. Jackson's substantial arm with a pretty terror.
"Oh, he'll be killed! He'll be killed!" she gasped. "And—he's actually smiling!"
"Why, that's nothing to Donny," Mrs. Jackson soothed. "He's enjoying it. I've seen him stick till the blood ran out of his mouth and ears and the brute had jolted him insensible. No one can touch him unless it's Dandy Jack.He'sa wonder. There he is! In the roping contest—last on the right!"
"IsthatDandy Jack?" queried Mrs. MacFarlane incredulously, singling out a young puncher in brilliant regalia, who looked as if he had just stepped from a cocoon and possessed the face of Sir Galahad. "But—but he's only a child! And just beautiful, Mrs. Jackson. Who is he?Dotell me!"
"He's an American, aged sixteen, no one knows where from—originally. Landed in at my husband's ranch one day, dressed just as you see him now, a regular dream, and asked for work. Jim thought he was some romantic kid tenderfoot. 'Youride?' he says. 'Listen,' said Dandy Jack, 'if I show you, will you take me on?' 'Sure,' said Jim. So young Jack climbs up on the cross-bar over the corral gate. 'Drive your worst horse under here—no, never mind saddle or bridle. I don't want 'em.' As the horse ran under, didn't Jack drop onto his back and ride him out? So my husband naturally took him on. And he's been in this country ever since."
"But how wonderful!" sighed Mrs. MacFarlane, gazing adoringly on the young puncher. "Do tell me more!"
Mrs. Jackson, thus encouraged, chattered on.
"He looks a perfect angel, but my dear—the language that boy can use! He's the most original cusser west of the Mississippi. They say he had to cross the line because he killed three men in the States—brutes who wiped out his father, mother and sisters—a feud of some kind. The sheriff was a friend of theirs, so he had to hit the trail for Canada or swing. But that's just a story. It can't be true, or he wouldn't be busting horses for the Force now—that's his job."
"Oh, I hope it's true! I hope it's true!" sighed Mrs. MacFarlane. "And now do point out the new C.O. You know, I haven't met him yet. Mac's jealous—you've no idea! Of course, he only arrived yesterday, but still——"
"Do you see that very tall, straight man, joking with your husband? Well, that's him!"
"Isthathim? " 'Dandy Jack' was instantly forgotten. "Oh, but—but, my dear! I simply must meet him right away. Really, Mrs. Jackson, never——"
Mrs. MacFarlane, completely carried away, concentrated her attention on the new C.O. and was instantly brought to her figurative knees.
It was not merely his superb physique and its effect in brilliant uniform which gave her the feeling that she was in the presence of one unconquerable—a master of men, a builder of empires. It was his face—the face of a man still in his prime, but not to be measured in years. He might have been thirty or thirty-five, but was probably just on the right side of forty. To a strong regularity of feature, years of hardship and exposure had given an intense bronze and a network of stern clean lines, lending the face great character and nobility without adding much to its age. The man's smile, she thought, would have melted stone; but he did not smile often. Otherwise, there was more than a hint of sadness in his serenity. Once he glanced in her direction and she thrilled under eyes that were like the frosty blue of mountains seen from a great distance.
Till that moment, Mrs. MacFarlane thought, she had never set eyes upon a Man.
Mrs. Jackson was babbling away. She silenced her with an impatient gesture.
"But—tell me abouthim," she insisted. "He must be awfully interesting."
"Heis. Let's see—well, now, first of all, you must know he's a great friend of your hubby's. Why, I thought he'd have told you! Oh, yes—great friends. They were in the ranks together. The men love him and would follow him anywhere. He's about six months senior to and a step higher than Mac. Did brilliantly in the revolt—seven—ten years ago. Since then he's just mounted steadily. It wasn't long before he'd got a district. And they've transferred him up up all the time. His coming here is really a promotion. Broncho's one of the best plums going. You'd think he was a god, the way people look at him."
"I'm not surprised," murmured Mrs. MacFarlane, under her breath. "Go on, dear."
"He's supposed to be a fearful martinet. Jim says he worships Duty and says his prayers to Discipline. They send all the tough nuts of the Force to him, and my dear, he cracks 'em. The extraordinary part of it, Jim says, is half of it's done by kindness. Imagine, my dear, kindness! But the other half—wow! You know, 'gentle persuasion first and, if that fails, the torture chamber.' Naturally, it seldom fails."
Mrs. MacFarlane asked the question which for five minutes had trembled, wings spread, on the tip of her tongue.
"Is he—married?"
"No," answered Mrs. Jackson promptly. "Nor even engaged. Curious, eh? Personally, I think there's something mysterious about him—desperate love affair in his youth, jilted or something. But Jim, who's known him twenty years, says positively 'No.' Never cared for women at any time, Jim says. But I've my own ideas—nothing to go on, of course—just guesswork. Certainly he hasn't a thought or glance for a woman now. Perfectly sweet but thinks only of his work. I don't believe the woman lives who can move him!"
"I—wonder," Mrs. MacFarlane said softly. Her eyes were shining. "You must introduce me."
The sports over, the usual prize-giving and speeches followed. The Lieutenant-Governor led off in 'short but happy vein.' Followed Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P. for Broncho in the Dominion House.
His speech was clever, humourous, apt and obviously sincere.
Hector watched and listened to Mr. Molyneux with intense interest. Until that afternoon he had never met Molyneux. He saw and heard him now for the first time.
The speaker was a man of about fifty, with a neatly trimmed beard. Hair, beard and moustache were black, well powdered with grey. Once lean and hardy, he was just beginning to incline towards the soft fullness of inactivity and advancing years. His voice was ordinarily pleasant and he spoke slowly and impressively, but in addressing the crowd his delivery was hard and rapid, giving him an air of alacrity which went down well with a western audience. He was well dressed in the style common to the country, with a low white collar and a bow tie. In his hand, as he spoke, he waved a broad-brimmed felt sombrero and a much-chewed cigar, to lend force to what he said.
The Lieutenant-Governor spoke to Hector suddenly.
"A good speaker, Molyneux. Do you know him?"
"No, sir, I do not. Do you?"
"Only officially. A shrewd man."
Molyneux finished his speech and took a seat amid a patter of applause. Inspector MacFarlane—a heavier, more stolid MacFarlane than the Sergeant MacFarlane of twelve good years before—was on Hector's right. MacFarlane had been stationed in the Broncho district a long time. He should know Molyneux. Hector began to question him in an undertone.
Molyneux, it appeared, was one of those human sky-rockets common to new communities. Rising from unknown depths with the starting of a Broncho livery stable three or four years before, he had climbed rapidly into the western firmament to blaze suddenly forth as a prominent citizen and a candidate for the House at Ottawa. No one knew much about his past and very few cared. In a young country, where the oldest old-timer can count the years of his citizenship on two or three hands, where the scanty population is largely nomadic and where the vast majority concentrate exclusively on making use of their opportunities, a man's credentials are seldom demanded and those he offers are accepted as genuine. Mr. Molyneux, coming from nowhere, had simply set up business. Cash rolling in had given him good standing. Popularity and more cash had given him his nomination. Then came the election—and there you were!
"Doesn't he remind you of anyone?"
"No, sir," said MacFarlane, surprised. "Why?"
But Hector did not answer. He was busily delving into the pigeon-holes of that tenacious memory.
Strip off fifteen years—so his thoughts ran—from the body, with the fat that goes with it; take away the grey and the dye—it's probably dye—from the hair and most of the wrinkles from the face; shave off the beard; put him in riding rig, on a spirited horse; and——
Vague trouble stirred in his mind as he looked at the politician—almost a sense of coming conflict.
He remembered the keen-faced, lean, sinewy, tawny-headed man with the smooth ways and false professions of friendship, with whom he had waged war many years before; remembered how that man had sought his life, sent Chester to his death and Wild Horse to the gallows; remembered, above all, without fear—though perhaps this memory was mainly responsible for his vague foreboding—the note left behind by that man when he drove him out of Canada:
'You have won this time. But I will win yet. I owe you my ruin and, if it takes me twenty years, I'll get even. Remember, I'll get even, if it takes me twenty years.'
The voice—somewhat disguised—the eyes—which could not be disguised—and a dozen smaller things; these told him, against every point of reason, against all his better judgment, that—the Mr. Steven Molyneux of today was the Mr. Joseph Welland of long ago!
As the crowd left the field after the National Anthem, Mrs. Jackson introduced Hector to Mrs. MacFarlane.
II
On the morning following the sports Corporal Donaldson, the Superintendent's teamster, came 'round to Hector's quarters in the Police barracks at Broncho with his smart turnout, a shining two-seated trap drawn by two magnificent roans.
"Drive to Mr. Molyneux's office," Hector ordered.
"Yes, sir," said Donaldson. "Giddap there, John A.! Hup there, Laurier!"
The equipage bowled majestically out at the gate on the road to Broncho.
Hector had decided overnight to call on Molyneux for several reasons. His chief object was to ascertain, by diplomatic methods, whether, as the new commander of the Broncho district, he could rely on the support of Mr. Molyneux, as M.P. for that constituency, in all matters wherein that support was to be legitimately expected. His secondary object—to a certain extent dependent on the first—was to discover, to the best of his ability, whether Mr. Joseph Welland and Mr. Steven Molyneux were actually one and the same.
Upon the outcome of his visit, much would depend. In steering his course through the uncharted waters ahead, it was essential for Hector to know from the outset whether the local M.P. could be counted friend or foe; and he was taking no chances.
Hector had already heard certain allegations concerning Molyneux. He intended, during the interview, to test their truth.
When the Mounted Police first came into the country—these were Hector's reflections as he sat in the trap—the Northwest had been free of a certain great influence now beginning to make itself strongly felt. That influence might be summed up by the one word: 'politics.'. The population was small; it was too busy to care about the details of government; and it was glad to leave those details in the hands of the authorities appointed by the Crown, who were the instruments of a kind of benevolent autocracy. But, as time went on, the population increased and became more settled, the standard improved and British democracy demanded that the people should have a greater voice in the Territories. The years following the construction of the railway had brought these powers with them. The people began to send their own representatives to the local legislature and to Ottawa. The benevolent autocracy passed away and the double-headed monster lying beneath the surface of all representative government began to worm its way from the East into the Northwest—the monster politic with the twin heads, 'favoritism' and 'pull.'
Climbing gradually upward through this period of expansion, Hector, eyes and ears open, had come to a full realization of just what the change meant and could mean. By observation, he had learned something of the tremendous power possessed by politicians and especially of its decisive effect, for good or evil, on all matters affecting the government of the country. By watching the experiences of others and by enduring similar experiences himself, he had discovered that politicians can make or break not only any individual or group of individuals, no matter how prominent, no matter how worthy or efficient, who chance to be members of a government service, but even a whole department—an institution—worst of all, a regiment. And he had at last discovered that the life of such an individual, especially if he holds high authority, is apt to be one long fight for the preservation of himself and his subordinates from the machinations of the monster politic.
From this had risen the further knowledge that, in dealing with politicians, the personally helpless crusader must remember the old battle-cry, 'He who is not for us is against us'—that the officer fighting for his corps under the terrible handicap of an oath binding him to obey political authority, must do everything possible not only to deal with the enemies already threatening it, but to prevent other politicians from joining the hostile alliance, even descending, if necessary, to the bitter humiliation of 'bootlicking.'
All this Hector had learned in his steady progress up the ladder. And that was why he found it necessary, this morning, to visit Molyneux.
Had he not been so utterly bound up in his work, had the good of his corps been further from his heart, he might have left Molyneux to declare himself at leisure. But for almost a decade now he had thought of nothing but Duty and Regiment. The day which had witnessed his public christening as 'Spirit-of-Iron' and had brought back his letter to Frances had marked a new era for him—an era when, convinced that his destiny lay along a lonely path without a woman's love to brighten it, he had given himself with renewed ardour to his country. Changelessly true, certain that he could never care for anyone but Frances, he had waited, hoping always that she might re-enter his life, until the creeping years had killed the last remaining flicker of hope. But, though his faith in her had never wavered, though he always felt that she would have come to him had she been able, the belief had steadily grown upon him that, after all, she had not been meant for him. If he could not have Frances, he wanted no-one. With this in mind, he had plunged headlong into his work, making it his absorbing interest. Today—except for occasional moments of fierce regret—he thought of nothing else. Today, as a result, he held the reputation Mrs. Jackson had given him.
But these years had brought him face to face with no tremendous personal issue. Thousands of little problems had confronted him in the ordinary course of duty and he had so dealt with them all. Nothing in the nature of something predestined—an immense test, a vast struggle involving, say, the whole course of his existence or the progress of the country—had appeared to try him.
He was wondering now if all that had passed had been merely leading up to this issue. In plain words, was his big fight to be against—Welland? Had the events of fifteen years before, which had laid the foundations of a lifelong enmity, been as a prelude to a tremendous drama in which Welland—in the guise of the politician, Molyneux—and himself, as the champion of straight dealing—were to come together in terrific conflict?
"Who-o-a-hup, here!"
The trap, after speeding through the fierce sunshine down the long, unpaved streets between the wooden shacks, past the bleached hotel, the banks, the red saloons, had pulled up before a pretentious building sheathed in imitation stone—weakness dressed up as strength, falsehood as truth. The nicely polished window bore the legend:
STEVEN MOLYNEUXFLOUR AND FEED CATTLE DEALERMORTGAGES MONEY TO LOAN
A moment later the M.P. and the Mounted Police officer—craft and honesty—politics and patriotism—sat face to face.
The interview was apparently amiable. Hector kept himself keyed up to the pitch of vigilance, studied the politician's face closely and tried to trap him into betrayal.
Molyneux, without gushing, was cordial. He offered Hector a cigar. As they lighted up, Hector opened the ball. "Having just assumed command of the district, Mr. Molyneux, I called to pay my respects to the local M.P. There was no chance for us to chat yesterday."
His smile was disarming.
"Quite so, Major. Glad to see you. Beautiful day, isn't it? How long have you been here?"
"Only since the day before yesterday."
"Ever been in Broncho before?"
"Not since the revolt."
"Oh, yes. You were the hero of that affair."
"Not at all. Luck was on my side. You're a newcomer, I think?"
"Yes, comparatively. About three years now."
"You got in by a big majority, Mr. Molyneux. You must be popular."
"I suppose I am." Molyneux flashed a keen glance at him. "It takes it to get in nowadays."
"Yes—and to stay in. Of course, you're a Canadian."
"You bet—Maritime Provinces."
"New to the West?"
"No. Spent years in the Western States—even before the railroad."
"Indeed? Ranching?"
"Yes."
"Do you know the—Macleod country?"
Again the politician's eyelids flickered. But Hector met his gaze unflinchingly.
"You see, I spent a lot of time there myself."
"Never been there in my life," said Molyneux.
"A grand country. I would have liked to have been posted to that district, I think."
"Oh?"
"Yes," asserted Hector. "I know the people well there. Besides, I heard they didn't want me here."
"Didn't want you here, eh?"
"Yes. In fact—well, it's been said thatyou——"
"Me?"
"Yes—idiotic, isn't it? But it has been said that you were against my coming."
"Oh, nonsense, Major."
"Of course it is. I'm glad you're behind me. I never doubted that you were. It makes things so much easier—and, of course, safer."
"But—but—I tell you, Major Adair, you don't know what we M.P.s have got to stand for! Why, you'd think that the moment a man tacks 'M.P.' after his name he becomes a crook of the first water."
"Yes—strange, isn't it? Never mind, Mr. Molyneux. Your word is good enough for me."
Molyneux puffed angrily at his cigar.
"We're going to get on well, I feel sure," Hector went on. "I feel as if I'd known you years already. Together, we can do wonders. I want the Police here to be safe-guarded from the attacks of unscrupulous politicians—members of the other party, for example. The senior officers are united in this desire. It's pleasing to know I can count on you."
Molyneux looked at Hector solemnly—a hard look in his eyes.
"That's right, Major. As long as they do their duty and the administration in this district is efficient, they can count on me. And I've lots of power, Major—lots more than some people think. I control a great deal of organized——"
Was there a threat beneath this assertion? Hector refused to see it.
"Thank you, Mr. Molyneux," he said, rising to go. "And you can count on me to fight any attempted political interference in my district tooth and nail. Make the mess your home if you want to. Goodbye."
Their eyes met; then their hands.
"Goodbye, sir, goodbye!"
Hector was absolutely convinced now. Welland, after hiding himself for years in the States, had ventured back to Canada. Today he was Mr. Steven Molyneux. And Mr. Steven Molyneux had not forgotten.
With the closing of the door on the Superintendent, the politician's face changed. He pitched his cigar away savagely.
A fierce thought was lacerating him:
Had Hector discovered his identity?
In his own mind, he was almost certain that he had.
Much depended on the question. The memory of the ruin Hector had brought upon his former plans just when they were at the point of fulfilment was still bright within him. The pangs and disappointments of his struggle to advance under a new name in a new country, in constant fear of being detected and denounced, still made themselves felt. Venturing back to Western Canada when he thought it safe, in order to avail himself of the country's greater opportunities for acquiring power and wealth and to work up at the same time to a position whence he might easily crush Hector, as he had sworn, he had endured a further struggle of three years' duration, a struggle which, but for Hector, had been unnecessary; and this struggle was too recent to be forgotten. If Hector had actually seen through his disguise—a disguise so perfect that it had completely deceived all others—even the old-timers who had known Joe Welland—then, not only his own future was at stake, but the retribution he had promised himself would be denied him. Hector would unmask him, have him brought to trial, utterly break him and, in so doing, save himself. Had he held his hand so long, awaiting his chance to make Hector's fall the more terrible, only to be caught in his own trap?
Altogether, Mr. Welland alias Molyneux was in a very pretty panic. He meant to smash Hector, anyway. It now behooved him to act quickly. As long as there was the least likelihood that Hector had discovered him, he could not rest. He decided to put the wheels instantly into motion.
III
I am the voice of War and Fame,Of Truth and Might and Chivalry.I am the soul, I am the flameOf all that heroes love to see.I hailed the day when Rome was born,I watched the ancient Peoples rise,I sang a song of laughing scornWhen Dissolution closed their eyes.Supreme were they one little dayAnd then—their glory passed away!Their lips are dumb, their suns are set—My voice, my voice is ringing yet!
In every age, in every land,When fierce and fell the battle grew,I bade the hard-pressed army stand,I steeled the yielding line anew!I charged the breach, I drew the sword,And, when the fateful hour was come,Above the storm I spoke the wordThat hurled the howling squadrons home!In red retreat, in dread defeat,When Life is Death, when Death is sweet,When Valour reaps its golden yield,My voice, my voice controls the field!
I am the voice, the brazen voice,The ardent voice of States and Kings.Let fools and dreamers cast their choiceWith milder music, softer things—The mistress, I, that heroes love,I sing the songs they leap to hear.A guardian spirit, poised above,I serve the Soldier. Year by year,By day, by night, 'tis my delightTo guide his eager steps aright.He lives—or dies—howe'er I will.My voice, my voice directs him still!
And when he sleeps at lastUnder the stainless Flag his hand defendedOn Death's dark camping-ground—The battle past,The long march ended—Mourning his loss with dirging fifes and drums,His comrades fire the harmless roundAnd silence follows—Then my moment comesAnd, note by note, with music sadly splendid,The last to speak, my grief to tell,My voice the final tribute pays,Shatters the hush—and says"Farewell! ... Farewell!"
'The Song of the Trumpet,' recited with immense fervour by the author to the accompaniment of a 'flourish off' between verses, though of the type at which soldiers are apt to sneer, began with the audience's sympathy and ended in tumultuous applause. Mrs. MacFarlane, in the front row—she was always in the front row—turned rapturously to Inspector Cranbrook, her nearest companion, who, in his whimsical way, was entertaining her.
"Wasn't that just—delightful?" she cooed, flashing him a dazzling glance. "Now—whowas that? Isn't he handsome? My! I never can understand how you get men like that in the ranks of the Police. Most policemen are so common."
"You forget this is no common corps," Cranbrook laughed.
"That's quite smart!" she laughed, in return, patting his hand coquettishly. The action stirred Cranbrook strangely. "But tell me about him. He speaks like a gentleman—English; and he can recite. He seems very popular, too."
"Yes, he's not bad-looking. I should think he's public schools—Eton, Harrow, y'know. He was in my division at Edmonton a year ago. Name's Humphries—a buck constable. Quite a card—rather wild, I'm afraid, but humourous all the time. Of course, he's got a past—must have."
"A woman?" she questioned quickly.
He flushed a little.
"I suppose so. He's too fond of 'em, I'm afraid."
"Can one be too fond of a woman?" she cooed.
"It depends on the woman—ofcourse!" he answered with a touch of gallantry. "There are other things—cards—and—er—" Suddenly realizing that he was playing traitor to his sex and also touching on matters best left alone, he switched abruptly to a former line. "Yes, he can recite, as you say. Writes 'em all himself, too!"
"No—really?Howromantic!"
"Yes. Oh, he's rather unique. Does conjuring tricks, plays the guitar, composes his own music for his own songs, and spouts Latin when he's—when he's under the weather."
Mrs. MacFarlane clasped her hands in an ecstatic and calculated gesture.
"O-o-h! I do hope he comes on again."
"Oh, he'll come on again."
The conversation flagged. Mrs. MacFarlane, for the twentieth time, cast furtively anxious eyes 'round the crowded room, with its row on row of laughing, eager men and girls, of mingling black and white and scarlet—scarlet—scarlet, the colour which made her tingle from head to foot. This was the C.O.'s concert—a special concert to welcome the new Superintendent, now with them seven days. Why was he not here?
As a matter of fact, hewasthere! Had she arrived earlier—the desire to make a sensational entrance plus natural laziness had made her late—she would have seen Hector in the forefront. Unexpectedly called away, he had now returned and was at that moment chatting with Inspector Forshaw, his adjutant, in a corner, on the very subject of Humphries, the entertainer.
"That man who just recited, Forshaw," Hector enquired. "Who is he?"
"That, sir?" Forshaw, a short, good-humoured Englishman with intensely bright eyes and a round, ruddy face, beamed and smiled. People always smiled at mention of Humphries. "That's a new man to this division. Name's Humphries. Fact is, sir, he's not much good—not exactly a bad hat, but wild and unreliable. Gentleman gone wrong—you know the sort, sir. The usual story, I expect—younger son—felt his oats—a girl."
The C.O. smiled.
"I'm sorry. He looks whole-wool. I wonder if we can't snatch the brand from the burning?"
Between Forshaw and Hector had sprung up immense sympathy. Forshaw was not an old hand in the Force and his service had not brought him into contact with Hector—they had met for the first time a week ago. But he was a man of insight, who knew Hector by repute and had with him much in common.
He immediately saw that the C.O. had become unusually interested in Humphries.
"Fact is, sir, they've been wondering the same thing at Regina. They've transferred him to us, sir, as a sort of last resort, for you to discipline him."
Hector nodded again. The reformation of 'bad hats' was his specialty.
"I see. Well, perhaps I can manage him."
"I'm certain you can, sir," said Forshaw quickly. "You know, he's clever, in his own way—probably a lot in him. Rather extraordinary humourist. The story goes,"—the Adjutant's face radiated merriment—"that he was a remittance man before he enlisted. You know whatthatmeans!"
"So that's the style of fellow he is?" said Hector. "Well, bring him in, in the morning. Mr. Humphries had better make my acquaintance before it's too late."
Hector parted with the Adjutant and walked forward. Mrs. MacFarlane saw him coming. Cranbrook had left his seat on an errand for her. Her heart beating curiously, all eyes upon her, she beckoned Hector to the vacant place. He smiled abstractedly and sat down.
The next number started. It was a comic song of the red-nosed variety. Mrs. MacFarlane hated the song, the comedian, the vulgar crowd that roared at the jokes. She wanted to talk to Hector. But her companion was laughing quite as heartily as the rest of them and she felt obliged to conceal her annoyance and laugh with him.
The number concluded, Hector turned to her.
"You didn't seem to care for that song, Mrs. MacFarlane."
She started.
"What amazing insight you've got, Major!" she declared. "I thought I'd fooled everyone."
"You're a clever actress," he said, quietly bantering. "But I saw through you."
"It's just terrible to be so transparent! That's why I'm always natural."
"It's the best policy," said Hector gravely. "Besides, when one is so naturally charming——"
The gallantry caressed her and, pussylike, she purred.
"Thank you, sir! Really, for a woman-hater——"
"A woman-hater? Who gave me that reputation?"
He was looking at her keenly with just a hint of amusement. Unable to fathom his mood, she compromised.
"Oh, there just seems to be an impression 'round—nothing definite—that you don't care for the sex. But I—just guessed."