'The speaker then repeatedly cautioned his hearers against reading his remarks as an incitation to violence. He did not advocate violence. But he thought they should respectfully petition the Government to allow them to make their own laws. And one of the first laws should compel all late-comers to hand over their claims to those who entered Black Elk before them.
'The speaker then said that the meeting was not secret, in the strictest sense, but had been called quietly together so that it might not be interrupted by non-sympathizers. The same consideration had induced him to select for an audience those known by Mr. Yates to hold his own views. It would, at the same time, be necessary to organize quietly, lest their purpose be misconstrued and their prospects wrecked.
'He then sat down, amid applause.
'The speaker was evidently a man of some education and talent. He spoke excellent English and was apparently not of the criminal class.
'The chairman calling for the audience to state their views, several members rose in support of the speaker's remarks. Two were especially extreme, abusing the Premier, the Lieutenant-Governor, the Mounted Police and yourself, and favouring violence to gain their ends. Yates suppressed these remarks. Others, whom I judged to be foreigners, insisted in demanding that the privileges of British subjects be extended to all resident in the Territory. I gathered that the audience was of a low moral character and somewhat hostile to the Force.
'A resolution was then passed, sympathizing with the speaker's stand and pledging all present to work quietly towards awakening the first-comers to 'a proper appreciation of their grievances.'
'I am having search made with a view to discovering the whereabouts and identity of the man who addressed the meeting and am also keeping O'Brien, the proprietor of the hall, and Ginger Yates, the chairman, under observation.
'I have the honour to be, sir,'
And so to Cranbrook's flourishing signature and a conclusion.
Forshaw watched his chief's face closely as he perused this report, but could read nothing there.
"What d'you think of it, sir?" he asked.
"My only wonder, Forshaw," answered the Superintendent, "is that we've not had similar reports before!"
"Then this one from Corporal Dunsmuir won't surprise you, either."
And the little man laid the following before him:
'Hopeful Pass Detachment, B.E.T.,Today's Date.
'Officer Commanding, N.W.M.P.,'Nugget City.
'Sir: I have the honour to report that I discovered concealed in the outfit of a negro giving the name of Rastus Lafayette Washington Green, who endeavoured to pass customs today, these weapons: 6 revolvers, of various makes, all modern; 1 Winchester rifle; 2 Snider carbines; also 100 rounds assorted revolver ammunition. I confiscated same and am detaining Green pending instructions from you.
'This man has made frequent trips from Prospect to Discovery, but no arms have been discovered on him, though his outfit, clothing, etc., have always been closely searched.
'I have the honour to be, sir,'
And so to Dunsmuir's scrawling signature and a conclusion.
The Lieutenant-Governor's report, Kellett's report, Cranbrook's, Dunsmuir's—and still he searched for light in the darkness.
IV
Three weeks later the Lieutenant-Governor came again to Hector with a long catalogue of crookedness recently detected.
"It's too bad," Hector sympathized, when Lancaster had finished. "The temptations in this Territory are tremendous."
"Yes. But that doesn't matter. And this fellow Molyneux——"
"What about him?" asked Hector quickly.
"I don't like his presence here, Adair. He says nothing, does nothing. But suppose he carries word of all this back to Ottawa before I clean it up. That will mean ruin—to me."
"I hope not, sir."
"I'm afraid so." The Lieutenant-Governor passed a hand over his tired eyes. "Yet I'm doing my best. I couldn't fight Molyneux, though, on his own ground. And the public would suspect me of being personally implicated in this graft. They always do suspect the men on top. Yes, it will mean my finish."
"I think you'd get plenty of support from the men who know you."
"Perhaps. But could they fight Molyneux's money? And the man's been acquiring claims right and left! You know that, don't you?"
"I know it, yes."
"By the way, have your men reported anything further?"
"Bribery? Yes; several more attempts. I don't like it, sir. It's unfair to a man to try him with such temptations. Even a small bribe looks worth while to a man drawing fifty cents a day. But I'm sure the boys will pull through with flying colours."
"They'll need to. The feeling along the creeks is rising. The miners are very many; the servants of the Government very few."
When the Lieutenant-Governor was gone, Hector sat down to think. He fully grasped the significance of the corruption which the Lieutenant-Governor was fighting. Molyneux must know of it, since it was known to many of the miners. And if Molyneux did not use it as a weapon on returning to Ottawa, the miners were almost certain to raise a storm about it. The community of Black Elk was like a spirited horse, fretting against the curb. Every bribe accepted by a Government official, be he only an insignificant clerk, was a stroke from the whip. 'The miners are very many; the servants of the Government very few.' This statement showed the fear haunting the Lieutenant-Governor—the fear of serious trouble, of indignant protest by the miners against this maladministration. If trouble came, the position of the minority would be very uncomfortable. All in all, Lancaster's anxiety was not surprising.
The situation being what it was, the necessity of maintaining the integrity of his own command untarnished was greater, if possible, than ever. In view of the temptation, and of the delicate situation, perhaps a little encouragement from higher up might be a good thing.
"Vickers," he told his clerk, "take this down for circulation to all posts and detachments—to be read by every man in the division——"
Sergeant Kellett, on Discovery Creek, called Constable York's detachment to attention and read them the C.O.'s letter:
'CONFIDENTIAL.
It has been brought to the notice of the Officer Commanding, Black Elk Territory, that members of the Force and others have recently been offered bribes. The Officer Commanding has yet to learn of a bribe being accepted by any member of the Force.
The Officer Commanding recognizes no circumstances justifying any member of the Force in accepting bribes in any shape or form. Recalling the fact from personal experience, he knows of no instance since the Force was organized of any member either seeking or accepting illegitimate remuneration for his services.
All ranks of the Force in Black Elk Territory will remember that the reputation of the North-West Mounted Police is in their hands.'
The Sergeant gravely folded the paper and dismissed the detachment. Whereupon the detachment—total strength, three men—flocked round him and begged to see the letter for themselves.
Followed muttering comment: "'And others'—that's tactful, eh?"—"'The O.C. has yet to learn'—there's a touch of brag in that."—"'The Officer Commanding recognizes no'—by Jove, I wish he'd spent the winter with me in Hopeful Pass!"—"You fool, he went through worse before you were born!"—"'Recalling the fact from personal experience'—that's right! The Old Man came out with the Originals!"—"'All ranks will remember that the reputation—.' Good old 'Spirit-of-Iron'!"
"Yes," said Sergeant Kellett, forcibly annexing the letter, "it's in their hands! And, before the Lord, you, York, or any man Jack of you, if you forget it, I'll take down my stripes and lick the stuffing out of you!"
"Thanks!" the red-readed York flashed back hotly. "Think I'd go back on the Chief? You just hint that I'd forget it, Sergeant Kellett, an' I'll knock your block off, stripes an' all!"
"Right-o!" replied the Sergeant, grown strangely husky. "Keep your hair on, carrots! We'll let that sentiment stand for the whole Force, if you please."
And stand for the Force it did.
V
Miss Nita Oswald, when she first came to the North, had ignored Prospect as a field for 'copy.' Discovery City lured her. But closer acquaintance had shown her that Black Elk Territory was almost too law-abiding to be picturesque. Her Editors were clamouring for 'thrills' and 'ginger.' Her friends advised her to seek them in Prospect. Mr. Northcote thought that Prospect was no place for a lady. But Miss Oswald's thirst for sensation ruled her and she insisted on seeing the place for herself.
"Very well," said the Human Parson, "if you will go, I'll go with you."
"Chaperone?" Miss Oswald had queried, with a touch of assumed anger. "Think I need one?"
"Chaperone? No! Protector? Yes! Though you mightn't think it, I'm an artist with a six-shooter; and not a bad fist at boxing."
"Come on, then! There's no need to ask you to leave your odour of sanctity behind—you've never had it!"
So they went down into Prospect; and, in due course, sallied out on knowledge bent.
The streets were a blaze of light. Crowds gathered thickly, like blundering, deluded moths, round the glaring entrances of the bigger dance-halls, cafés, saloons, gambling houses, dope dens and theatres. On platforms outside the theatres bands blared murderously and leathern-throated men, standing before posters of scarlet-cheeked women in all stages of dress and undress, bellowed lurid descriptions of the delights they had to offer. From the dance-halls came crashes of music, shouts and shrieks; shouts, jingling of glasses and pistol shots from the saloons. No-one minded them. No-one minded anything—except their own business. When drunken men were flung out of the saloons, when obstreperous plungers, their last dollar gone, were pitched bodily from the gambling houses, no-one raised them from the ground where they lay. Greasy Jones' gang worked openly through the crowd. The men in the ticket-offices sat with revolvers ready to hand. Broken men, shuddering from the effects of cocaine or opium, wandered aimlessly about the dope dens. Innumerable painted ladies cried their wares. There was no peace, no truth, no beauty in Prospect. It was a ghastly hunting-ground of Vice and Death.
The Rev. Mr. Northcote and his companion saw it all.
Towards two a.m., seeking a climax, they visited a theatre, the lowest they could find. Miss Oswald was determined to see it. There were boxes at the sides, benches in the auditorium. The air was grey with smoke, the floor a mass of filth. The packed audience, as Nita Oswald afterwards told the readers of the Comet, 'would have made the combined resources of ancient Newgate and modern Sing-Sing look like a Band of Hope meeting.' There was a real stage, with real scenery. A cavern below the footlights accommodated the orchestra, consisting of a jangling piano and two asthmatic violins. The artists were of two varieties—the has-beens and the never-will-bes. The former depended on charity and their past reputations, the latter on their youth, their looks and their self-confidence, which was unfathomable. There was a bar in one corner, marvellously patronized. Between the acts, the younger actresses, in their airy costumes, ran up to the boxes and beguiled the occupants on commission into buying cigars at one hundred dollars a box and drinks at ten dollars per. Greasy Jones and his cronies occupied a box and were closely surrounded by bevies of beauty; but he paid for nothing, the proprietor being entirely dependent on his patronage.
As soon as Miss Oswald and the parson were seated, a man in an old dress suit appeared on the stage and announced that one of the actors would deliver an address.
This was a surprise to the audience, 'addresses' being unusual. But it proved even more of a surprise to the Rev. Mr. Northcote and the woman reporter.
The actor, who had previously given a 'black-face' turn, came on in costume, with his cork still on. And he began to speak. He had been drinking.
"Ladies an' Gennelmun: The lady that pre-ceded me sang you a song, the composhision of one of our bri'est local poets, directin' upon that famous force o' sanctimonious red-coats clevuhly referred to as 'the yallah-legs,' the well-deserved arrars of wit an' ridicule. Ladies an' Gennelmun, I agree with her (Cheers). You agree with her (Cheers). An' I wanna tell you folks whatIthink should be done to 'em.
"Ladies an' Gennelmun—fellow-citenens—them fellers have kept you an' me out o' Black Elk Terr'ty. Yes, suh, kep'us out' Black Elk Terr'ty. Is tha' right! Is tha' just? (Thunderous cries of 'No!') Cer'nly not! We're en-titled to get in on that gol' up there. An' I say we ought ge' in (Cheers).
"Now, why aren't we in there? Eh? 'Cause them yallah-legs keep us out. An' why do they keep us out? 'Cause in'str'ns from—from the citenens o' Black Elk? No! From the autocrats that govern Canada (Prolonged booing).
"Now, I advocate that the laws oughta be changed. Yes! Who should gov'n Black Elk Terr'ty? Why, the citenens! If they gov'ned Black Elk, you'd find we'd be there! Yes, suh (Cheers).
"Now, I wan' all you peepul, Ladies an' Gennelmun, to work for tha' change. Mos' of us here tonight, 'll stay here—'cause o' the yallah-legs. But you can work for tha' change jus' the same! An' those on their way in, they can work for 't, too. An' you can help fix the yallah-legs." Here followed two minutes of scathing and heartily applauded abuse of the Mounted Police. The speaker worked himself up to a high pitch of excitement. Then, "I tell you, Ladies an' Gennelmun, I'd like to see a new flag over Black Elk! Yes, I would! Any flag—but the Stars an' Stripes preferred! (Terrific applause from one section of the audience.) I want a change. An' I tell you, suh, confidenshully, there's goin'——"
Over the hall rang out a man's voice, commanding, terrible:
"Stop!"
All eyes turned to Greasy Jones' box. The actor hesitated in bewildered fashion, then, evidently deciding that the interruption was not seriously meant, went on:
"I tell you, there's going to be a change. We'll dash the yallah-legs——"
"Stop!"
"Heavens! I'm glad we came in," whispered Nita Oswald. "This is going to be exciting. Is the terrible Greasy Jones a British patriot, after all?"
"He's no patriot," the clergyman whispered back. "Keep still."
Again the actor looked up at the box. Greasy Jones, his ladies having fallen back, was clearly visible, his fierce eyes fixed on the wretched speaker.
"Isn't tha' what you——?" whispered the actor.
The answer was a pistol-shot, smashing the hush. Greasy Jones, his face livid with rage, had fired. The actor pitched upon his face, dead.
"Keep your seats, everyone!" ordered Greasy, peering with his hawk face over the audience. "Manager, take that man away. And get on with the show!"
The audience was stunned into obedience. The manager followed the gangster's instructions without a word. A raucous-voiced actress tripped onto the stage, where the murdered man's blood had left a stain, and relieved the tension with a song and dance. In five minutes the tragedy was forgotten, the crowd was laughing uproariously and Greasy Jones was toying with his girls.
Northcote's first thought was for Nita.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
But the plucky reporter's nerve, stout as it was, had been unable to stand this shock.
"For God's sake, let's get out of here!" she whispered. "This is terrible!"
Outside, recovered, she asked Northcote what he thought of the occurrence.
"I don't know," he answered. "But, rest assured, I'll see that Adair hears about that speech and Jones' extraordinary behaviour!"
Next day they returned to Discovery.
I
Dr. Quick, Chairman and Commissioner of the Board of Health for Black Elk Territory, was a man with a wonderful sense of humour. Though plump and rosy, he did not look a jester. His face was always solemn and his twinkling grey eyes were so hidden by his huge round glasses that nothing could be read in them. Taking advantage of these facts, the doctor made his life one round of fun. He was one of the busiest men in Discovery City, working night and day and carrying almost all the burden of his department on his own shoulders; but he still found time for tricks and jokes. The doctor was an inexplicable enigma to those who did not know him. To his friends he was a perpetual delight and one of the cleverest practitioners in North America.
The doctor, being a shrewd man, knew the real thing when he saw it; hence his deep friendship for the Superintendent commanding at Discovery.
One night not long after the Rev. Mr. Northcote's return from Prospect, the doctor lingered on in Hector's quarters till the last of the guests had gone. Then he suddenly said, in his slow, solemn way:
"Adair, I'd a queer experience today—a joke. Last winter, at Nugget there was a fine big Yankee there, dying of pneumonia. Very far gone. I treated him. 'Doctor,' he says, 'if you're going to save me you'll have to be quick.' 'Quick?' said I. I'm always Quick!'" (The doctor's favourite pun.) "Well, he pulled through. He was grateful, the poor cuss. Early this evening, Adair, I saw that man again."
"Is that so?"
Hector wondered what was coming.
"Yes. I went into theCash-In—no, not for a drink; to see a fellow lying upstairs with a broken leg, a man who can't be moved. Afterwards, on my way downstairs, a fearful specimen of human microbe held me up, asked for my money or my life. I've lots of money but only one life. Besides, he had a gun. So I obliged. One of the first holdups we've had in Discovery."
"Can you describe the man?"
"Yes. But I don't want him jailed. He's had his punishment. That's the joke. After the gentleman held me up, I returned to the office. When I got there, who should I see but my Yankee friend? Struck it rich this summer and is on his way home. Came in to make me a present of a beautiful nugget, in gratitude. We opened a convivial bottle and I told him my experience. 'Could you point the man out?' he asked. 'Come on, then. I'll get your money back.' 'I don't want the money,' I said. 'And he's armed.' 'Never mind. I want to get your roll for you. Don't worry. I was champion boxer at Yale.' So, to humour him, and expecting a little fun, I took him to theCash-In, a good starting-point for our search. The human microbe was in the bar. Our Yankee friend called him outside—said he wanted to tell him a secret. Secret! Wow!" The doctor chuckled. "He got the human microbe's gun and then pounded him to a jelly. When the massacre was ended, the microbe handed over the roll and departed like a lamb. Strange, eh?"
"Very. But," Hector insisted, "we must take the man."
"Aw, Adair, he's had enough."
"No, he hasn't. Describe him, will you?"
The doctor looked reproachful.
"Adair, if I thought you'd do this I wouldn't have told you the story. But the King must be obeyed. He was a huge, broad-shouldered creature, with a beard and, strange to say, he had no nose. Why, do you know the gentleman?"
"Do I? That's No-nose Joe, one of Greasy Jones' men, I'm certain. Grown a beard, eh? I must see to this."
After a word with Forshaw, Sergeant Savage, at that moment patrolling the streets of Discovery, was sent for. The bulldog Sergeant appearing, he was given a description of the man and told to look for him at theCash-In.
"And be quick!" said Hector.
"You may be quick, but you won't be Quick as I'd be," said the doctor.
"Don't worry, sir, I'll take him myself."
This to the doctor, whose joke had gone completely over the Sergeant's head.
For three-quarters of an hour, Hector and the doctor awaited the Sergeant's return at the office. At two a.m. precisely, enter a tableau:
Two solemn constables, one on each side of a battered wreck in hand-cuffs, like supporters to a battered shield; the wreck, clothes torn, face blue; Sergeant Savage, the bulldog, both eyes blackened, nose swollen, tunic torn up the back and spattered with gore. The Sergeant at his full height did not reach to the sagging shoulder of the wreck.
"Well?" said Hector.
The doctor's eyes twinkled but the Superintendent's were very stern.
The Sergeant saluted with a whisk and a clash of spurred heels.
"Sir——" said the Sergeant, "I proceeded direct to theCash-Insaloon; left the patrol outside; spotted the prisoner in a corner, drinking; arrested him. He drew a gun and pointed it at me, contrary to sections 105 and 109 of the Criminal Code. We struggled. Finally, I got the handcuffs on him and handed him over to the patrol. I regret to have to report, sir, that the following damage was done to Government and private property——"
Here the bulldog produced his notebook and read:
"'Tunic torn and blood-stained; three chairs smashed; twenty glasses smashed——' that was when we hit the bar, sir—'table smashed; wall bloodstained; panel of door smashed.' That's all, sir."
And the Sergeant closed his notebook and saluted with the utmost gravity.
"Well, it's the microbe, all right," said the doctor.
"Yes, and it's No-nose Joe!" said Hector.
Of himself he asked, "Now, how didheget through the pass? And what is he doing here?"
II
The secret service agents of the Police in Black Elk Territory were known only to one man—the Superintendent in command; and the reports they handed in he kept to himself. They came to him for orders, in the middle of the night, unseen by any other living soul. Of their chief's plans, they knew nothing. Each worked independently, without coming into contact with the rest.
One of the most trusted of Hector's agents was Perkins, the gambler of Regina and Qu'appelle, yet a different Perkins, reformed when Hector, returning from Arcady, had told him of his mother's death and shown him whither he was drifting. Perkins now devoted his knowledge of crime to the cause of Justice and was hardier, stronger, cleaner, altogether a better man.
A hint of wintry frost was in the air when Perkins came in one night from Prospect to report.
"Well, Perkins——" this from Hector—"have you watched Greasy Jones?"
"Sure have, sir. First thing, I got a job at theJoyland, a Prospect dance-hall. Greasy visits that place pretty frequent. An' I've got thick with him, sir. I always waits on him. He thinks I'm scart o' him, so he sen's for me—enjoys seein' me sweat fear, I guess."
"Good. And?"
"Well, sir, he's been following the usual line o' battle, murder an' sudden death. 'T'other night, sir, he an' his pardners was havin' a drink in a private room. Greasy had a drop on board. He was layin' on hot about the Police, 'cause he said you'd arrested an' put in jug one o' his main pushes—No-nose Joe."
"That's true. He didn't like the idea?"
"He didn't, sir. 'Pears he's scart Joe will let out some plan or other Greasy's got in his head."
"I see. Well, Perkins, No-nose hasn't had a word to say. I've tried everything, bar torture, and he won't open his mouth. I want to learn how he got through the pass and what he's doing here and in disguise—he's grown a beard, you know. But he won't talk."
"Would you like me to try an' find out from Greasy, sir?"
"Yes, if you can. But I don't want you shot. Last spring one of my best men was shot dead by Greasy's gang a few days after reporting here to me. It may have been accidental. Yet he hadn't learned much. He gave me useful information about Greasy but I doubt if it was worth his life."
"I'll be all right, sir. I'll be thick as thieves with Greasy soon. There's another thing you oughta know, sir. There's a lot o' feelin' runnin' against the Force. Shouldn't be surprised if they tries to rush the pass, or somethin'. It's not safe for even six policemen to be seen on the streets in Prospect now, sir—take it from me."
"I know that, Perkins. Any more meetings?"
"No, sir, but the guys at the theatres spout long spiels, all sayin' there oughta be a change in Black Elk Territory an' the yallah-legs should be swept away."
"They haven't counseled violence or said anything more about a change actually at hand?"
"Not since Greasy shot that actor 'bout three weeks ago, sir. Strange thing, that!"
"Very. Well, keep your eyes and ears open, Perkins. And stick to Greasy—tight. I may tell you, things are looking very serious here. We've had meetings demanding the Lieutenant-Governor's resignation and a clean sweep of everyone in power. They haven't threatened—but the Territory is rising to a turmoil. The other day, though, a miners' meeting at Nugget advised lynching the recorder. Mr. Cranbrook talked them into reason—a fine piece of diplomacy; but it all points to unrest. You report similar troubles from Prospect. Then again, I learn, recently, of several attempts to smuggle in large quantities of arms—started with a big nigger in the late summer—I'm speaking confidentially—and has continued intermittently ever since. It may mean nothing—or a great deal. Now, do all these things connect? And is Greasy in the game? That's what you must find out, Perkins."
"I'll stick to Greasy day an' night, sir."
"Good. And keep me posted. Mum's the word.
"Yes, sir. Good night."
III
Hopeful Pass lay gripped in the first big cold of the northern winter. Every lake, creek and river in Black Elk was frozen over. The miners had deserted their claims for town or retired into their shacks till spring. Travellers in the pass might be counted on one hand. The human tide, like the watery tide, had succumbed to the wintry clutch.
And yet the Mounted Police post was as active as in the days of the rush. Half the men were tramping up and down in the snow. Outside their big fur coats they wore their bandoliers, belts and revolvers, and each man carried his carbine, while young Inspector Gemmell, similarly equipped, was sitting on an open box of ammunition.
They were going to fight? They were—if necessary.
Gemmell, who had relieved Cranbrook at Nugget a short time before, had been advised by headquarters that an attempt might soon be made by the thugs of Prospect to rush the post on Hopeful Pass and gain admittance to the gold-fields. He was to avert this attempt by 'taking such steps as he deemed advisable'—(Let the boy run his own show!) and Gemmell, who included Hopeful Pass in his jurisdiction, had instantly taken long steps—in Hopeful Pass direction, since it was better that he should be on the scene of action himself.
To resist the advance, Gemmell had erected a barrier covering the approach to the post and had maintained a perpetual look-out in the pass a mile or two ahead. This lookout was on duty now.
From Prospect that morning had come word of an advance. Gemmell had thereupon turned out half his men, leaving the rest in comfort in the tent. Gemmell had also a Maxim in the tent but, as it was water-cooled, it was liable to freeze up if left for too long in the open.
If the thugs came up, Gemmell planned to emulate the Spartans of Thermopylae.
The pass must be held to the last.
He meant to hold it.
Meanwhile, he wished the thugs would 'get it over,' as he was sure his nose was freezing.
Gemmell's scouts suddenly appeared over the skyline a hundred yards away.
"Gang of two hundred, heavily armed, just come into sight, sir," the scouts reported on arrival.
"All right," said Gemmell. Then, to the men in the tent, "Turn out, you fellows!"
The fellows turned out. Gemmell mounted the Maxim in a conspicuous position, pointing down the pass. He stationed his reserve behind the barrier. The remainder of the men, six all told, he drew up in a line, across the pass.
Then, in a mist of descending flakes, they waited.
"If you'll pardon me, sir,"—Sergeant Kellett tactfully placed his superior knowledge and experience at his C.O.'s disposal—"I'd parley with them first."
"Yes, Sergeant," said Gemmell.
He wished his moustache was bigger.
An hour passed.
"Are you sure they're coming?" Gemmell asked the scouts.
A sudden roar, borne on the wind, supplied the answer and a crowd of men surged over the crest below.
All alone, Gemmell advanced to meet the crowd on the boundary-line, a stone's throw in front.
Two hundred?—a low estimate. There were at least three hundred in the crowd—ruffians all, and well armed, the dregs of Prospect, the toughest town on earth. Gemmell looked for Greasy Jones or his gang but saw none of them.
The crowd yelled with mingled passion and triumph when it saw Gemmell. He slung his carbine easily over his shoulder and unbuttoned the holster of his revolver. On the boundary-line he met the mob, face to face.
"Out o' the way!" roared the crowd—and halted.
"Sorry, but this is the boundary," replied Gemmell coolly. He was forced to raise his voice. "Behind me is Canadian territory. You can't pass!"
These remarks produced a storm of hoots, laughs and jeers. The crowd began to advance again, intending to sweep Gemmell aside.
On the very edge of Canadian territory the crowd halted again, checked by their leader, a desperate-looking villain, who waved significantly toward the line of Police.
"Well, what you got to say?"
Turning, when the mob had halted and had fallen into silence, the leader challenged Gemmell.
"My orders," shouted Gemmell, in return, "are to halt you at the boundary. I have a big force of men, and a Maxim gun, that could clean up this pass in half a minute. Now, I don't want trouble. I want you fellows to have some sense and go home."
The leader of the mob placed himself in front of Gemmell, feet wide apart, hands on hips, and looked him up and down. "Say, kid," he demanded, "who th' hell d'you think you are? Who told you to stop us law-abidin' citizens?"
"Her Majesty the Queen!" said Gemmell.
"Whoop!" shouted the man; and the crowd jeered.
"What th' hell right has Her Majesty got in Black Elk, anyhow?" went on the leader. "The Black Elk miners is the boys to run that country. An' they want us in. An' we're gain' in! See?"
He thrust his lowering face to within an inch of the Inspector's.
"Get your men an' your pop-gun out o' th' way!" the thug continued. "An' no one'll be hurt! Out o' th' way, you——!"
And he put out his hand to thrust Gemmell aside.
"Hard words!" smiled the Inspector.
Then he flicked the man across the mouth.
A shriek of anger rose from the crowd. The leader, his face crimson, whipped out a revolver and pointed it at Gemmell.
"Out o' th' way!" he roared.
"We're on Canadian soil. You've broken the law!"
With that, the Inspector dashed the thug's weapon aside and closed with him.
Sergeant Kellett, waiting with the line behind, saw the youngster struggling furiously, in a turmoil of snow, and the mob closing. Instantly, he doubled his men forward. A row of levelled carbines came suddenly to Gemmell's rescue.
"Stand back, you!" ordered Kellett hotly. "Or I'll open fire!" A roaring mass, the toughs swayed to and fro before that slender barrier. Between them, as on common ground, Gemmell and his antagonist rolled and struggled.
Sergeant Kellett whipped out his handcuffs, watching his chance to plunge into the fight.
But out of the scurry of snow came Gemmell, at that instant—smiling and on top! His face was lacerated, the tough kicking and clawing like a mad dog. Gemmell had pitched the revolver out of reach in the first struggle.
"Leave him, Sergeant!" he implored. "He's my meat!"
Then—click!—pulling a pair of hand-cuffs from his own pocket—the arrest was a fact accomplished.
To get back with their prisoner to the post was the work of a moment. The crowd, now lacking determined leadership, wavered. The arrest left them dazed.
"All ready?"
The machine-gun crew and the men at the barrier nodded.
The Inspector hailed the crowd.
"Get out!" he shouted. "Do you hear? The first man moving this way will mean the end of the lot of you! Remember my Maxim!"
Then both sides waited, facing each other, in intense silence.
This was the crisis. Which was it to be—a fight or a retreat?
"Don't fire, sir, till they're right on us!" whispered Kellett. "Never do, sir, never do!"
The mob gathered itself together, yelling. The Police maintained their ominous silence. Motionless, they faced the mob—twelve men against three hundred. The flag above them blew out gloriously in the breeze.
Suddenly the toughs charged.
Gemmell's face was marble, under dried streaks of blood. This, surely, was the end. Bullets whistled round them, the crowd opening fire as it advanced.
"Machine-gun, ready there!"
"Ready!"
The mob had forgotten the machine-gun. Every man heard that firm cry, "Machine-gun, ready there!" and the answer, "Ready!" Now they remembered. Quick as lightning, a mental picture flashed through them ... a picture of the pass, blocked with their bodies, dominated by a devil of brass and steel.
And the rush—melted away. Melted away!
The Police were left with their prisoner. The crowd went sullenly pouring back to Prospect in defeat.
Gemmell drew a deep breath. The tense line relaxed.
It was hard to believe the mob had given way, not on account of the carbines but simply and solely on account of the mere threat of the Maxim.
For the Maxim had been frozen up for the past twenty minutes.
"Bluffed 'em, by the Lord Harry!" said Gemmell.
IV
Greasy Jones and Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., sat opposite each other in the little room wherein they had held their first conversation, months before.
On the stairs outside, Greasy Jones' spy, whom Northcote knew as Charlie, kept watch. Charlie had fulfilled his duty faithfully. Greasy was well aware that Welland had not 'squealed.'
"Look here," said Welland forcibly. "What are you kicking at? Haven't you been paid regularly? Isn't everything O.K.?"
The gangster started moodily at the candle flame.
"Don't misunderstand me, Molyneux," he said. "I ain't kickin'. But I do think things ain't goin' as good as they oughta have gone."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Welland impatiently. "What's the matter with them? Isn't Black Elk in a turmoil? Aren't the miners demanding the resignation of the Lieutenant-Governor and half the administration? Hasn't a petition as long as Hopeful Pass gone round calling for the transference of governing powers to the miners? Haven't we got more than enough arms in the country to overthrow the Police? Isn't every man in Black Elk ready to follow you as soon as you appear? Haven't you slipped in half your gang? And your talkers? Aren't the Police asleep? What more do you want?"
"Just listen to me a minute. When we first thought o' this thing, the idea was we was to make the first-comers sore about the others who came in later an' struck it rich first. Wasn't that so?"
"Yes," said Welland.
"Well, now we've got thewhole countrystirred up, not only the first-comers. An' that's dangerous. I mean, the yallah-legs is all the more liable to get on to what we're really tryin' to do."
"Now, don't be a fool, Greasy. The idea certainly was to stir up the first-comers; and we've done it, too. But I promised to help from my side. Well, I have. I got men all through the country to bribe the recorders and different government officials until the whole thing's just rotten with corruption. I got 'em to try to bribe the Police, too, but no luck so far. Never mind; the Territory's rotten. And the result? Why, everyone but the old prospectors and a few fools is on our side, instead of just the first-comers!"
"Where do the first-comers get in, then?"
"Why, I'll show you," said Welland. "We keep what we intend to doafterthe turn-over quiet. The Police think the whole country's against 'em. Then, when that's over, the first-comers and us—that is, you and your gang—we tell the rest, 'We're running this show now!' See? Then we put them in their places—quick!"
"That's what you once said me an' my gang 'ud do to the first-comers," said Greasy. "We was to getthemstirred up only. Then we was to throwthemdown only. Now what do we do with 'em? Aretheyto be thrown down, too?"
"Why, yes!" exclaimed Welland. "They throw the others down. Then we throwthemdown. Is that clear?"
"A hell of a lot o' throwin' down!" muttered the mollified gangster. "But I guess I see. Has all that been kept hidden, though?"
"Certainly! None but your gang and a few men in with us know that we're going to smash the Government by force, if force is necessary. We've been preaching peace the whole time. Nor do they know that we're going to throw down the others when we're ready. See?"
"I guess I see," said Greasy again. "'Stead o' just a small crowd to scare the yallah-legs, we get everyone. And afterwards we gets our fling. That right?"
"Got it!"
"You're even slicker than I thought," the gangster remarked admiringly. "Say, I don't like the way the yallah-legs got No-nose. Suppose he squeals?"
"I know for a fact he hasn't squealed."
"You do?" asked the gangster quickly.
"Yes. He daren't. He knows what's coming. And he knows you'd kill him if you got at him and the scheme failed."
"That's so. Well, about these here arms. The yallah-legs has got most o' 'em. Don't they suspect nothin'?"
"Nobody knows what you're sending them through for, do they? Nor who's sending them? Nor where they go to?"
"No. They don't even know it's me sendin' 'em. They're told to leave 'em at a certain place in Nugget. Then O'Brien calls an' gets 'em an' stows 'em away. An' they stays stowed till wanted. An' O'Brien daren't squeal, 'cause I got him watched. An' he knows it."
"Well, what are you afraid of?"
"Just that the yallah-legs has smelt trouble."
"They haven't. And, anyway, they'd never connect these arms with you or with any big plan."
Greasy was satisfied—till he raised another point.
"I ain't got half my men I wants through the pass; not more'n twenty. An' it's gettin' harder all the time to get 'em through. An' we tried to rush the pass—that is, some o' the boys did, an' 'bout thirty o' my men behind, so's the yallah-legs wouldn't see 'em. An' what happened? Why that li'l squirt of an officer an' his twelve men wouldn't let 'em through—kep' 'em off with a bloody Maxim!"
Welland felt tempted to tell the gangster that the crowd had been bluffed. But he refrained.
"Why did you try it?" he demanded.
"Well, you remember you said we could try it if we weren't gettin' men through quick enough."
"Pah! None of the crowd had the guts to make a real charge."
"At a Maxim? They ain't crazy."
The gangster spat scornfully on the floor.
"Oh, never mind. We'll smuggle a few more through before we shoot."
The gangster grunted.
"Are you sure the yallah-legs is asleep?" he asked.
"Certain. But I'll find out again before you slip across the line. Anything else?"
"You bet!" Greasy sat up and looked fiercely at his companion. "How do I know you won't double-cross me yet? You—a Canadian M.P.?"
"My dear Greasy," said Welland, with an air of infinite patience. "Suppose I did? Couldn't you give away my part of the show—and ruin me?"
"I s'pose so," the gangster admitted. "But I ain't let on about it to anyone."
"Why not?" the politician enquired derisively.
"An' have you get to know it? Then you'd squeal on me sure!"
"That's right. So we understand each other!" Welland smiled.
This delightful pair most certainly possessed an amazing mutual understanding!
Followed a pause, while they lit cigars.
"Like to know what I've done?" the gangster asked. "Well, I've got all the Prospect toughs behind me—ready to rush in as soon as we let 'em from inside. My men are just hintin' to 'em quiet that the li'l old U.S. is goin' to back us later. Also, the same thing among the guys in Black Elk. That's bolsterin' 'em up. An' later, we'll tell it that it's so, for sure." Welland nodded. "Then—look here!"
From a corner the gangster produced a large bag. Emptying it, he revealed notepaper, stamps, rubber stamps, and a flag. He spread the smaller articles out on the table and held up the flag by the corners.
"Look!" he repeated.
Welland, eyebrows raised, complied.
The paper bore the device of a black elk's head, with the slogan, 'Liberty or Death' above it, below it the words, 'The Black Elk Republic,' and at one side, 'F.D. Jones, President.' The rubber stamps bore similar legends, with such captions as 'Board of Health' and 'Department of Justice.' The stamps were white, with the black elk's head and motto. The flag was also white, with the same device and the initials, 'B.E.R.'
"Splendid!" said Welland. "Splendid!"
He seemed struck with the assurance and determination which had caused these things to be prepared.
"Notice I'm president?" Greasy grinned.
"You bet! Why, this is fine! Real revolution—and no mistake about it!"
"Sure thing! Pretty fine, eh?"
"I—er—hope you were careful in having these things made, though," said Welland slowly, as an afterthought.
"Careful!" Greasy was scornful. "The flag was made by my woman. She's under my heel! She's made six. Everything else was made by men that I've got where I want, don't worry."
The gangster stowed his treasures away.
"When do you think we'd better spring it?" he enquired.
"Soon as the country's thoroughly tied up," said Welland. "Less than a month now, I guess—first heavy snow. Eh?"
The gangster nodded.
"You'll send me word?"
"Either that or come down and see you. It's getting hard for me to get away now. But trust me. Now, is there anything else?"
Greasy pondered.
"Oh, I was forgettin' to tell you I been tappin' the telegraph lines from Discovery to Prospect for the past week. An' I'll keep it up till we're ready."
"Why, you're a genius!" Welland cried. "I never thought of that. Anything important come through? You know, all the messages for Canada have to come down by that line."
"Yep, I know. Guess that's why I'm doin' it. I am a genius, I guess. No, nothin' much's come through yet. But, if there does, I'll know it."
"Fine. Well, that's all, eh? All right. Say, this is going to be great, Greasy! Shake!"
The two friends shook, mightily satisfied.
V
Hector, coming into his quarters one night, found awaiting him the first of his usual visitors—Welland.
"Cold night," said Hector cordially. "Glad to see you've stoked up the stove."
"Yes," said Welland. "Look at this."
He held up Hector's ink-bottle, placed on a table outside the immediate circle of the warmth. The ink was curdling into ice.
"I told Blythe to put the bottle on the stove," Hector said. "He's forgetful. Had a good trip?"
"Fine. Went to Prospect. I'm writing home my impressions, you know—have done for some time—and I thought I'd get acquainted with that hell-hole. Hadn't really time when I last visited it. I wanted to contrast it with Discovery City, thinking it would throw the wonderful order and quiet of Black Elk into strong relief."
"And?"
"Why, it's the finest contrast I ever clapped eyes on. Fact! This place is Paradise. But no wonder. Look at your men! Why, the way that kid Gemmell held the pass—it's marvellous!"
"I'd have flayed him if he'd let 'em through," said Hector grimly. "Still, it was a good piece of work."
"Things might be worse than they are here if a few of those swine got in."
"Yes. But there are none of that type here."
"None?"
"No."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," Welland smiled. "If those Prospect toughs had a hand in the present unrest, for instance——"
"We'd be up against a big thing."
"Yes."
"But, as it is, there's a difference."
"Aren't you alarmed?"
"By the present situation? No."
"There's a lot of discontent," Welland reminded him. "And many tough characters. And they're armed."
"Yes. But they're sensible. They won't try violence."
Welland fingered his beard reflectively.
"Why are you so sure?" he asked.
"Well, I know positively they're not preaching violence. And I know their opinion of the Mounted Police."
"I see," said Welland slowly. "I see."
Just then Blythe put his head in.
"Dr. Quick's waitin' outside, sir.'
"Oh!" exclaimed Hector. "Tell him I'm coming. I go round the hospital every night with Quick, you know, Molyneux. Who's that with you in the next room, Blythe?"
"Charlie, sir—Mr. Northcote's man."
"Oh, yes. Well, excuse me, won't you, Molyneux?"
And Hector, smiling pleasantly, departed.
"The fool!" Welland's lip curled sardonically. "We've got him buffaloed, by God! The poor—blind—fool!"
VI
Late that night Antoine, best and fastest dog-driver in North America, was summoned to Police headquarters with an intimation that he was required for a long and arduous journey. Antoine was not surprised. Surprise was beneath his principles. Besides, he was often employed on special missions by the Police, who knew his inflexible fidelity.
A French-Canadian half-breed was Antoine, a man in his prime, built on the slim lines of a runner, deep-chested, broad-shouldered. Born in a Hudson's Bay post, there was no trail of the North unknown to Antoine, no team he could not handle. To him, a run of one hundred miles a day was next to nothing; and he was as punctual as the sun itself.
Dressed for the trail, parka hood thrown back, dogs and sled outside, Antoine waited patiently in the outer office, smoking his short pipe and spitting reflectively at the stove while the Superintendent, Manitou-pewabic, prepared a despatch in the next room.
Presently he was summoned into the Presence.
Behind the lamp sat the Superintendent, quiet, gigantic—in Antoine's eyes, a god and hero.
"Cold night, Antoine."
Antoine nodded.
Hector held out a large official envelope, carefully sealed.
"For our representative in Prospect," he said. "You will hand it over to him, Antoine, and wait there for an answer. You may have to wait several days. The Sergeant there will give you the answer and you will bring it back to me here."
Antoine nodded again.
"Guard both despatch and answer with your life. No-one must see the despatch but the Sergeant. No-one must see the answer till you give it to me. Tell no-one your business either way. You must travel fast, Antoine, very fast—both going and coming; faster than ever before."
Antoine's eyes gleamed with the light of battle.
"All right. Now, this"—the Superintendent handed him a small, unsealed envelope—"is a letter which you will show to any Mounted Policeman or Mounted Police post, if necessary. It authorizes you to claim any assistance you wish. Understand?"
Antoine nodded.
"Dogs in good shape? That's fine. Start at once, Antoine. Good luck and goodbye. Remember—the fastest trip you've ever made——"
Antoine carefully stowed the two envelopes away and, drawing himself to his full height, saluted the Superintendent gravely.
A moment later, whirling his whip, he swept off behind his dogs, fleeing like a shadow, under the mysterious sheen of the northern lights—swept off into the vast silence, down the Prospect trail.
Welland, roused from sleep by the jingle of bells, gave a thought to the 'poor blind fool,' turned over in bed and slept again.
I
In Hector's view, the biggest man, mentally or spiritually, in Black Elk Territory, was Northcote—by this time one of his closest friends.
With the approach of the long winter night and the slowing down of the wheels of Black Elk activity, Hector saw more of Northcote than ever. The clergyman liked to talk to the Superintendent, whom he ardently admired. Hector liked to talk to the clergyman, because Northcote knew Life as few men know it, was charitable and merciful, friend of the fallen, rarely criticising, never condemning—no pink-tea preacher, shivering at the sight of sin, but a great knight wielding a mighty lance in the heart of the dark fight. So Hector liked him.
From Northcote—though the clergyman did not know it—Hector learned much.
Northcote had several favourite themes. And, reclining in his chair, pipe in mouth, feet on the stove, he would ramble on in his deep, quiet voice, from one theme to another, as the spirit moved him, while Hector sat content to listen.
Men open their hearts to each other in that way.
"Came across a queer case today—" Northcote would begin; he always ruminated on these occasions; never preached—"a boy here who struck it fairly rich this summer; and he wants to buy a claim to work next year—a big claim, that will make his pile for life. But his mother, in Nova Scotia, is dying. Her only chance is to get to Florida or some mild climate. To send her there will cost the boy most of his summer's takings. And that means—no claim next year. He's got to choose between his claim and his mother—a nasty situation for an ambitious lad—a nasty situation.
"Well, I converted him to the right way of thinking. Gave him a little sermon on Sacrifice, gilding the pill. This boy is the type which hates anything churchy. So I left out the biggest sacrifice of all. But I told him about Nelson, going back to sea, maimed and dog-tired of it as he was, to blockade Cadiz in his uncomfortable little ships and, eventually, to win Trafalgar. I tried to show him how there's not a really successful business man who hasn't had to make great sacrifices to achieve success. He was interested in learning what our early explorers endured to open up the country. In the end, he realized, I think, that all big things, everything worth while, is won by sacrifice. 'And usually,' I said, 'there comes a time, at least once in every man's life, when he must make one big concrete sacrifice. Sydney made it,' I said, 'when he gave that cup of water to the dying soldier. He wanted that water so badly himself. But he gave it up. Once in every man's life,' I said, 'the time of his great sacrifice comes. Your time has come to you now.'"
"And the boy—?" asked Hector.
"Is sending off the money by tomorrow's mail."
The words stuck in Hector's memory: 'Everything worth while is won by sacrifice.' 'Once in every man's life, the time of his great sacrifice comes.'
Of one thing he was certain: everything he had achieved, thus far, had been won by grim, fierce sacrifice—the sacrifice of self to state. But had the time of his great sacrifice come—or was it still upon the way?
He could not answer that question—yet.
II
In the crisis rapidly approaching, Hector, on whom so much depended, was conscious of great moral support.
First, he saw that the level-headed old-timers were with him. They were not numerous and their influence was small. But individually each man of them was worth any two of the clamourous adventurers among whom discontent was flourishing.
Then there was the great moral support of the Commissioner. In those anxious days when the temper of the crowd was sweeping towards its climax, he often recalled the Commissioner's encouraging farewell on his transference to the gold area: 'It's the last bit of true pioneering this country will see, Adair.... It will be a big job—one of the biggest we've ever done, ... but it will be a splendid thing in the way of a crowning achievement to all you've done already. Make it a credit to yourself and Canada.' These words were to him a tremendous driving force, a great source of inspiration. Remembering them, he could feel that, though thousands of miles lay between him and headquarters, though Black Elk Territory was cut off from the rest of Canada, there was still at headquarters a keen, strong personality, watching his every move intently, pouring bright rays of faith and power and confidence in his direction.
Greater than all this, however, was the moral support lent him by the people of Canada—the real Canada, beyond the mountains. He knew that its weight was behind him. With each mail he received letters and papers telling him that this was so. Politicians—Welland's political tools and henchmen—might be against him. But the people, the great, long-suffering, oft-deluded and victimised people, whose hearts could not betray them—from coast to coast they knew that in Superintendent Adair they had a man. They recognised his strength and integrity, and they trusted him to see that the dignity of Canada was maintained, the law of Canada enforced, in Black Elk Territory. With such support, Hector felt that he would gladly stand against the world.
One item in particular, clipped by Hugh from a powerful Eastern paper, voiced the general feeling well. Hector had read it, wavering between amazement and humility. It was high-flown nonsense, of course; but, with the storm fast closing upon him, he found much comfort in the memory of its sentiment.
'In Superintendent Adair'—it ran—'the Canadian people have a worthy representative. He is a fighter, born and bred, son of a veteran of the Peninsula and Waterloo. So he is a living link with the Empire's great traditions, with the blood of British heroes in his veins. Adair was brought up for an officer; and to those who know him he is the personification of the best type of British officer, whose soul is in his corps, who thinks only of the steep and narrow path of Duty. But he is more than that. Fate killed his prospects of an early Commission. Nevertheless, being determined to serve, he joined the original North-West Mounted Police and fought his way up through ten strenuous years to commissioned rank. And he has continued to advance ever since. Today he is looked upon in the West as the embodiment, in one individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted Police. And the comparison is apt, for we find in Adair all those high qualities of devotion, ability, firmness, strength and determination which we have learned to expect of the Mounted Police. Some even speak of him as the embodiment of Western Canada. And this too, is apt, for he has grown up with the country, kept up with and done much to aid its advance. And the qualities we attribute to Western Canada, once more, are Adair's. Out there, they call him by the name the Indians gave him—Manitou-pewabic—a tribute to his personality, for the phrase means 'Spirit-of-Iron.' Surely this is the spirit which has made not only the man, but the Force to which he belongs and the country which is its environment—Spirit-of-Iron!
'This is the man today responsible for maintaining the Queen's authority in Black Elk. He has a desperate job on hand. We have heard of the unrest sweeping the Territory from end to end—unrest which may end in serious trouble. Cut off from the rest of Canada and with only a handful of men, Adair is sitting on a powder-barrel. That the disgruntled cut-throats returning from the country are so loud in their abuse of the Superintendent, however, is the greatest possible tribute. Adair has handled many such in his time and none has ever beaten him.... Whatever may yet happen in Black Elk, Adair may rest confident that Canada looks to him. And, on their part, the Canadian people may rest confident that the country's honour is absolutely safe in the care of this modern Lion of the North.'
'The personification of the British officer ... and of the Mounted Police ... and of Western Canada ... this modern Lion of the North'! Rubbish! Nonsense! But there was more truth in this article than Hector would recognize. At any rate, with the words before him, he was resolved humbly to do his best to serve these people, resolved firmly to see that, while life remained to him, whatever lay ahead, he would not fail them.
III
The exodus of miners from the creeks to the towns was now reaching alarming proportions. It was known to all men that the unrest and discontent was risen almost to high-water mark. No violence had been preached. The law-abiding element, from the Lieutenant-Governor down, had no idea that there was organisation in it all and still less that the real purpose of those secretly behind the movement was swift—perhaps bloody—revolution. But they sensed a menace vaguely—like horses in a field, restlessly switching tails and ears when a tempest is in the air.
From the Lieutenant-Governor down, they placed their confidence in one man—Spirit-of-Iron. The Lieutenant-Governor, among many others, had, in fact, told him so.
"They're going to spring something, Adair," he had said. "Nothing extreme. But they're going to ask for my resignation. They don't trust me. But you can handle them. Adair, I'm afraid it will be up to you."
Then, with stunning suddenness, came the news—terrible news to the law-abiding element, glorious news to the rest—that Spirit-of-Iron was ill, perhaps upon his death-bed! The Lieutenant-Governor felt that the solid rock on which he stood had melted away.
Blythe, stammering, white-faced, brought the news to Dr. Quick, who hurried over. All the twinkle went out of the doctor's eyes when he saw Hector.
"He would go round the infectious wards with me!" the doctor groaned, cursing himself. "It's typhus!"
It was easy to isolate the patient. But to keep the news from the lawless crowd was impossible. Within twenty-four hours the whole Territory knew that the one man the malcontents really feared washors de combat.
There was a waitress in Discovery, known to every soul in town as Seattle Sue. Her face was painted, her hair dyed, her language unfit for drawing-rooms, but she had that rare physical phenomenon, a heart of pure gold. In the early days of the rush, when the temporary hospitals were full, this girl had volunteered to nurse in her spare time—no small sacrifice, since her duties as a waitress occupied twelve hours daily. Today, Seattle Sue was the best nurse in Discovery.
"We'll get Seattle Sue!" said Dr. Quick. "We must save him!"
Here it was, too, that Nita Oswald showed the mettle of her pastures. Appreciating what it all meant, she was at Hector's door, offering her services, before the doctor had finished his preliminary examination.
With Blythe and the doctor, the two women made a powerful quadruple alliance. But the stake was tremendous. It would tax them all to the utmost to pull Hector through.
Outside, day after day, the crowd clamoured for bulletins. The men of the Force threatened mutiny if they, at least, were not kept informed. But Lancaster would allow no bulletins. It was better that the malcontents should not know that the great chief was dying.
The delirium, the worst feature of the case, came on in a few days. At times the Superintendent was quite calm, whispering, muttering, sighing, smiling; then they guessed, from phrases here and there, that he thought himself a boy again or at home. At others he talked violently, shouted, gave orders, laughed; then they knew that he was living through his daily life in the Force, as he had lived it twenty years, or fighting over many of his desperate battles. At other times—most frequent—he became a raving lunatic, at grips with some awful menace, struggling against terrific odds, crying bitterly over his physical helplessness, making desperate efforts to get up and rush outside. They did not know that at these times he was dealing with the local crisis.
In sane moments, as he insisted, they kept him informed of the situation.
To Hector, his illness was a mad jumble of mental pictures, sometimes awful, sometimes pleasant; interspersed with lapses of clear sanity, when the agony of his position reached its height. And it went like this:
He saw himself a small, brown-headed boy, on the lakes and in the woods of his old Ontario home. He saw himself fighting his first fight in the cause of chivalry, for Nora; and suddenly his opponent became Welland, whom he fought furiously, though why he could not say. Then Sergeant Pierce, long and tanned and solemn, came and stood before him, as vividly as if he were alive and in the room. But they were not in the room. They were in the stable-yard, at home. The Sergeant was giving him advice—the old slogan: 'Fight, little master, till the last shot's fired!'
'Till the last shot's fired!' Yes, he must fight till ... but against what? And why? Suddenly he remembered and, remembering, wept, cursing his great weakness and the Fate that held him helpless at the crisis of his life.
Then his father came to talk to him—out of the air. He saw the fine old gentleman in the library at Silvercrest with a small boy at his knee. He was telling stories—stories of days long past, of Adairs who had been mighty fighters, nobly serving King and Country, each in his time. As he talked, he took the small boy up to the coat-of-arms on the mantelpiece and made him touch it and the motto beneath:
'Strong. Steadfast.'—'Strong. Steadfast.'
He heard his father's voice: 'The Adair motto for centuries, Hector. An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.'
'An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.' And surely strong and steadfast now—now—when the crisis was upon him. 'Strong. Steadfast.' And here he was, helpless in bed, while the trumpets sounded for battle and he was not there!
Sometimes his mother came—sweet-faced, white-haired—smiling—touching his face with gentle fingers. He took her in his arms and kissed her. As their lips touched, she became suddenly young and beautiful—became, not herself, in the days of her youth—but Frances. He was in Arcady with Frances. He heard himself making his humble confession—thrilled to her reply—gave a glad, wild cry of joy and swung her off her feet, kissing her madly. A hand came out then, from nowhere, tearing her away—her father's hand. No, not her father's—Welland's. Why Welland's? Why? She was gone—his arms were empty. And he knew himself back in Discovery, weeping for her whom he had lost fifteen dreary years ago.
Nita Oswald and Seattle Sue heard that name, 'Frances! Frances!' many, many times. Afterwards, while they wondered what it meant, they swore never to betray the secret the Big Chief had unwittingly revealed.
Sometimes he fancied himself making his first arrest—the arrest of Red-hot Dan. He saw the whiskey-trader at his door—but the face was Welland's. Welland came out, shot at him, missed. Hector ran to his horse—galloped away—with Welland after him. His enemy required no horse but pursued on foot, travelling like the wind. Hector rode at a furious pace, over hill and dale, for hundreds—thousands—of miles, until it seemed he had been riding months and years—but still Welland followed him, tirelessly. Then he found himself on the ground, half-stunned, his horse beside him, Welland bending over him, pointing a rifle, grinning hideously. And Moon came out of thin air to thrust herself before the murderer. Hector struggled to his feet and called her. She stretched out her arms. He stepped to meet her—and found—Mrs. MacFarlane. For some unfathomable reason, he hated her. Thrusting her aside, he fronted Welland once more. And yet it was not Welland—but Whitewash Bill. He advanced, without a weapon, to meet him—advanced—and the outlaw became a trumpeter, sounding the Reveille.