I
Some weeks after the clash with Randall, the Chester affair occurred.
Hector was in charge of the Police herd-camp a few miles from the fort. One morning the detachment shifted to a new site. Chester was a shy, retiring sort of youngster, newly joined. During the move Hector placed him in charge of the tools. As a result, the only axe was left behind. At dusk the loss was discovered and Hector sent the boy off to get it, promising to follow him and aid the search himself.
Darkness fell while he was still some distance from his objective. He caught himself wondering why he did not meet Chester. Reassuring himself with the thought that the boy had perhaps encountered some unforeseen difficulty, he pushed on. But no sign of Chester greeted him. All about the old camp was lifeless and silent.
Returning to camp as rapidly as possible, he hoped to find the missing man there before him. The cook's anxious enquiry disillusioned him:
"Is that you, Chester? And have you got the axe?"
"Turn out, the lot of you," said Hector. "Chester's lost."
Lanterns were lighted and the whole party made an extended search on foot. The results were disappointing. The discovery of the axe added to their alarm.
Hector reported the affair to Inspector Denton, at the fort, who promised to send out a large search party at dawn. To continue the hunt at night would have been futile.
Next morning, in a little hollow as yet untouched by the wind, they found the first clue—a sprinkle of blood, among jumbled hoof-prints—and a wide cast revealed Chester's hat in a clump of bushes. They searched the woods. More evidence of a foreboding character was then quickly gathered and the reason why Chester's horse had not returned was made clear.
Hector himself found the horse. It had been led into the woods, tied to a tree and shot.
And then they found Chester himself. The body was lying in the bottom of a deep ravine, where it had been thrown. The foulest of foul work had been done, for he had been shot in the back at short range.
In the days and weeks that followed, they exhausted every resource, but the murder remained an unsolved mystery.
II
"Beg pardon, sir," said MacFarlane, waylaying Inspector Denton as he passed the guard-room. "The In'juns say they'll talk now. And they want you, with the interpreter, sir, and Sergeant Adair."
The Inspector wheeled quickly.
"Good! Splendid!" he exclaimed. "Is Brent back? Then send a man for 'em right away."
Twenty-four hours previously, Hector had carried out the arrest of a gang of Indian horse-thieves, accused of stealing stock from the 'Lazy G,' an 'outfit' in Montana. They had refused to talk, however, having apparently decided to say nothing whatever until the day of trial. Martin was away and the best linguists in the division had been able to produce no effect. MacFarlane's announcement relieved the Inspector's mind considerably.
When all four—the Inspector, Hector, Martin and MacFarlane—were assembled, they held a consultation outside the guard-room.
"Why in—ah—heavens," said the Inspector, "wouldn't they talk before?"
"Yes—what was the idea?" Hector agreed. "I made everything clear to them. But they wouldn't speak a word."
Martin laughed. He knew the Indian mind better than any of them.
"They got what chaplain call 'guilty conscience,'" he declared. "One thing—they either 'fraid say a word, fear give themselves away, or other thing—they think you have um for bigger job than horse-steal but you won't let on. You bet your boots, that it! They either make confession or give some other feller away. That why they want me an' Inspector. You see—damn quick."
To a number of a dozen, villainous-looking warriors every one of them, the Indians rose to their feet as the Inspector came in. A good deal of parleying then resulted in Bear Sitting Down, who was their leader, being elected to speak for them all. And Martin began.
"Why did you not say what you have to say to Sergeant Adair?"
The Indian looked uncomfortable.
"We would rather talk to you," he said.
"Well, what have you to say?"
Bear Sitting Down glanced nervously 'round the room. The other Indians watched him intently.
"Come," Martin said in his most commanding voice. "Answer quickly. What have you to say?"
Bear Sitting Down shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and at last exclaimed desperately, with the air of a man goaded to action:
"We did not do it. We know we have been arrested on that account. But we had no hand in it."
"No hand in it?"
"No hand in it—none!"
The spokesman's companions seconded him with anxious monosyllables of approval.
Martin's keen eyes flickered.
"Why didn't you tell the Sergeant so when he arrested you?" he asked.
"He told us he was arresting us for horse-stealing. But we know better. We have stolen horses, yes. But we had no hand in the killing of the pony-soldier."
Martin quivered like a dog on an unexpected scent. Otherwise, he betrayed no emotion.
"You are known to have killed him," he said calmly, "and you will all be hanged."
The shot in the dark flashed home.
"No—no—no!" exclaimed Bear Sitting Down. The Indian fear of the rope was evident in his face and he trembled in every limb. "You will not hang us if we tell you who killed him?"
"Not if you speak truth."
Inwardly, Martin was still completely puzzled, but he went on bluffing cleverly.
"I will tell all," said Bear Sitting Down. "The man who did it was Wild Horse. He came to us that night and he said, 'I have killed one of the Shagalasha. I killed his horse also and I threw the body into the ravine.' If you arrest Wild Horse, you will find that this is so."
The mystery solved—at last!
Martin turned swiftly to the other Indians.
"Is this true?" he asked.
"Yes, yes!" they answered eagerly. "It is true—true!"
"Come 'long outside," said Martin to the Inspector, with as much excitement as it was possible for him to show at any time.
"That feller," Martin declared very impressively, "He think you lie, Sergeant. He think you take him up, not for horse-steal—just bluff, that—though he say it true he steal horses, but for murder Constable Chester last spring. An' he say—all say—did not murder Chester. 'You no hang me if I tell who did it?' he ask. 'No hang you,' I say. 'Then,' he say, 'I tell you. Wild Horse kill him!'"
III
A fortnight elapsed before Hector was able to attempt the arrest of Wild Horse. The Indian had taken alarm with the apprehension of the horse-thieves and had left the reserve. Sooner or later, Hector knew, he would return, thinking the storm blown over. It behooved the Police to be ready to take him when that time came. They placed the reserve under the observation of Liver-eating John, a half-breed scout, whose orders were immediately to report to Hector any news concerning the whereabouts of Wild Horse.
So the fortnight dragged by. Then, in great haste, one afternoon, came Liver-eating John.
"Wild Horse, he sneak in 'bout noon," he told Hector. "Me see um—self. He be there p'raps two days. Hide in brother's lodge. Go, get him, quick!"
Within fifteen minutes, Hector and his men were on the trail.
Among those who had recently committed themselves to the baby business of ranching in Western Canada was Colonel Stern, a veteran of the Indian Mutiny and several other wars. Failing fortunes had driven him from the Army to seek a livelihood south of Fort Macleod. But, though his military service had ceased, his interest in all wearers of the Queen's uniform was as bright as ever. He kept open house for all ranks of the Police and it was an understood thing that any redcoat passing that way, on duty or otherwise, was to stop off at Colonel Stern's ranch. As the place stood on the edge of the reserve wherein Wild Horse was lurking, Hector headed for Colonel Stern's as a matter of course.
The Colonel—tall, gray-headed, hook-nosed, weather-beaten, with bushy brows, a heavy military moustache and eyes like rapiers—met them at the door as they loped into the yard at dusk, smiling a welcome and holding out his hand.
"And how are you, Sergeant?" he asked. "Looking like a young stallion, as usual. I'm not going to ask what brings you here, because that's none of my business."
Hector took him aside, nevertheless, and explained.
"I see," the Colonel commented. "Well, it's too late to catch him tonight, Adair. He'd surely get away in the dark. Besides, there's a storm coming up. It will be a wet night—no night for lying in the open. Catch 'em at dawn—that's sound tactics. They won't be stirring then, especially with the rain coming down, and you can take the whole camp by surprise. Come along—supper now, stay here tonight and you'll be fit for anything in the morning."
It was raining, as the Colonel had prophesied, when they turned out, a thin, penetrating, all-day drizzle, and the sky, just lightening, was heavy with an unbroken pall of dense grey cloud. Such weather, all in all, was admirable for their purpose. Half an hour's careful scouting brought them within sight of the teepees they sought—a ghostly group in the wet desolation. The question was—in which lodge was Wild Horse?
At this moment, they found an Indian boy, who willingly pointed out the teepee occupied by The Gopher, headman of the band. In order to comply with the custom of the Police it was necessary that Hector should inform The Gopher of his intentions.
The Gopher was instantly at the door when Hector sent the small boy into the teepee to awaken him. Speaking the Indian's own tongue, Hector rapidly explained his mission and was relieved to find that the Gopher, far from offering any objection, took the matter philosophically and himself pointed out the lodge in which Wild Horse was hiding.
"Keep everyone in their teepees," Hector went on, "until we go. Then there will be small likelihood of trouble."
The Gopher agreed. Hector ordered the constable with the horses up to a position close to Wild Horse's lodge. The others he placed one on each side, ready to seize the murderer should he attempt escape by crawling under the flap. For the last time, obedient to one of the greatest principles of the Mounted Police, he cautioned the men on no account to draw their revolvers. Then, removing his great-coat, he boldly entered the teepee alone.
For a moment unable to see anything, he shortly became aware of the presence of at least a dozen Indians, who sat up in their blankets and stared at him anxiously.
"What do you want?" one of them asked, bristling defiance.
Hector pushed back the door of the lodge still further. The cold light, streaming in, clearly revealed his uniform.
"I have come for Wild Horse," he answered.
The wanted Indian glared shiftily at the speaker over the edge of his blanket.
"You hear me, Wild Horse?" Hector queried. "I say I have come for you. You know what that means. I am waiting."
"I will not come," answered Wild Horse.
"What do you mean?" said Hector sternly.
The Indians had learned to dread that tone. They stirred uneasily.
"I will not come!" repeated Wild Horse.
The others broke into a loud murmur of applause. Some of the bolder threw off their blankets and reached for their rifles. Hector caught the sound of angry voices at his back. A hostile crowd was gathering outside. The Gopher had failed, either through weakness or treachery, to maintain control. Hector remembered that they were only four white men among at least a hundred Indians. The least misstep, lack of tact or wavering in courage, might have fatal consequences.
He fixed the murderer with penetrating eyes.
"I say that you are to come," he said. "Do not look so at me—I will not have it. And do not attempt to resist or it will be the worse for you."
In reply, Wild Horse bounded suddenly to his feet, a knife in his hand. The other Indians, muttering fierce threats, stood up behind him. A row of levelled rifles confronted Hector.
"Get out of this lodge!" said Wild Horse.
Instantly Hector closed. A wrench twisted the knife from the Indian's hand. Seizing him, he exerted a supreme effort of his great strength, whirled him off his feet and threw him bodily out of the lodge. Before the murderer's friends could pull a trigger, Hector was also outside.
But it was 'out of the frying-pan into the fire.'
A crowd apparently representing every grown man in camp, to say nothing of women and boys, was thickly clustered round the teepee. The men were all armed and many of them were actually covering the two constables.
One glance revealed all this to Hector; another, that Wild Horse had been promptly and efficiently handcuffed by his men, who held the murderer between them.
What now?
"Take him out of this," Hector ordered coolly. To the crowding Indians, he gave the stern command, "Stand back!"
They answered with a wild yell and one overwhelming rush.
In the furious struggle that resulted, only the intervening bodies of the nearest Indians prevented the policemen from being shot. To hang on to Wild Horse and to beat their assailants off without drawing a weapon—these two thoughts occupied Hector's mind exclusively. He could trust his men—through it all, they clung to Wild Horse like grim death. Meanwhile, all three were knocked down a dozen times, trampled on, beaten with rifles, bitten, throttled, kicked. When opportunity offered, Hector gathered his failing breath and bellowed for The Gopher.
"Give us Wild Horse!" yelled the Indians, pulling and dragging at the policemen. "Let him go!"
"He is our prisoner," answered Hector. "Where is The Gopher?"
So, like a football scrum, the three undaunted redcoats carried the crowd with them to the horses. The mob raved on. The crash of their carbines pierced the uproar.
"Put up your gun, will you!" Hector bawled, as the constable in charge of the horses, a young fellow and inexperienced, drew his revolver.
Then suddenly, at this crisis, came comparative quiet and The Gopher pushed his way forward.
"Where have you been?" Hector demanded. "What do you mean by allowing this to go on?"
The Gopher pretended not to hear. Instead, he bent his energies towards quelling the riot. Presently Hector found himself beside his horses, the prisoner and escort with him, the crowd, visibly subdued, falling back with lowered rifles and the shamefaced Gopher at his side.
"They know they've done a serious thing," Hector thought.
His troubles were obviously over. What plain men call sheer 'guts' had carried the day, as they so often do—as, with savages, they always do.
Hector struck while the iron was hot.
"Now that you have recovered your senses," he said to the hangdog assembly, "I have a word to say to you. You have committed a grave crime. You have tried to stop the arrest of one of your number by a Mounted Policeman. That is wrong, as you know. And it is also quite useless. You see that we are not afraid of you. When the Mounted Police come for any man, white or red, he has got to come, and we will see that he does come, let a thousand rifles come between. Wild Horse will get a fair trial, you know that. As for you," here he turned to The Gopher, who hung his head, "you have disgraced yourself. Instead of helping us with your authority, you stood aside. The Mounted Police have always treated you well—and this is how you repay us! You are unworthy of your trust. Is it not so?"
"It is so," The Gopher muttered sullenly.
"If you have any explanation to make, you must come to Fort Macleod. And let us have no more of this because, I tell you again, when the Mounted Police come for any man, he has got to come and it is no use resisting."
A moment later, with Wild Horse between them, Hector and his little party rode slowly out of the camp. In recognition of their superior authority, courage and determination, the Indians fell back before them as they passed, lowering their rifles with a gesture that was a salute.
IV
On the night following the lodgment of Wild Horse in the cells at Fort Macleod, Hector was called hurriedly to Inspector Denton's quarters.
Three men occupied the Inspector's parlour when Hector got there—Wild Horse, Martin and Denton himself. The air was tense with drama and breathed secrecy. The windows had been carefully screened and the key-hole blocked with paper, measures insisted on by Wild Horse, who was in deadly fear of spies or eavesdroppers. The lamp had also been turned down and placed out of the direct line of the windows. The dim light remaining fell on the faces of the men around the table with an unearthly glow. All in all, the place might well have been a noisome den devoted to the most fearful crimes and its occupants conspirators of the deepest dye.
"That you, Adair?" The reassuring voice of the Inspector greeted Hector. "Right. This may be a—er—long business, so you'd better sit down. Now, Martin, tell him to go ahead—slowly. I can understand him myself then."
"What have you to say?" demanded Martin, using the Indian's own language and speaking with the severity he always adopted toward redskin criminals.
Wild Horse glanced fearfully round the room and finally broke silence in a voice little louder than a whisper. He spoke very rapidly. The Inspector attempted to stem the tide with an indignant "Go slow! Dash it, go slow!" but the Indian paid no heed and even Martin raised a hand to silence his superior. Wild Horse ceased at last.
"Well, what's he say?" the Inspector enquired.
"He want to know," Martin replied, "if he tell all trut', we no' string him up. He want to know, if he give way man who got him shoot Chester, we save him from that man. We promise and he say he talk. We no promise, then he no talk."
The Inspector entered into a long explanation of the laws governing evidence and trial, admonishing Wild Horse, for his own good, to talk.
Followed a vehement discussion between Martin and the murderer, which Martin finally boiled down to one brief statement:
"He no' like talk. He ver' much afraid white man."
"Tell him the whole Force will protect him if necessary."
More vehement discussion; then Martin said:
"Good! He talk."
Bit by bit, with many frightened starts and pauses, Wild Horse unfolded the truth. Thanks to the hesitating manner of the telling, Hector followed it with comparative ease, first with interest, then with incredulity, rising step by step to understanding, conviction and certainty. Here was new light on dark places, here, in a few moments, the perplexities of years were made plain.
Said Wild Horse:
"I did kill the pony-soldier found dead in the ravine last spring. But I was bribed to do it by a white man; and I was mad with fire-water. This white man, he used often to give me that poison. He knew I had broken the law several times and would never dare to betray him, so he gave it me without fear, not only for myself but for others. I would carry it into camp in all sorts of ways—many gallons of it. We would pay him for it with buffalo-robes and other pelts, even with stolen horses and cattle. He never gave the whiskey to anyone but me, as far as I know. He made sure that he would not be betrayed in that manner. He is cunning as a wolf. And I have made him rich.
"Well, one day he sent for me and gave me a lot of fire-water and he told me he would give me lots more if I would do something for him. And he added, if I would not it would be the worse for me. So I said I would obey him, because I was afraid. Then he told me I must kill this man, the Sergeant here."
And Wild Horse pointed straight at Hector.
"I knew the Sergeant—have often seen him. I was afraid, so I said I would do it. I went to the herd-camp and hid all day under a tarpaulin. Just before the Police moved on to a new place, I heard the Sergeant tell one of the men he would go with them and come back later alone. So, when the Police were not looking, I crept out and hid in a good place near the trail. I waited till nearly dark. Then I saw a man coming along. I thought it was the Sergeant. Had he not said he was coming back alone? Besides, I could not see his face at that hour. I shot him dead. When I looked at him, I saw my mistake. But I put him on his horse and led him away; and the rest you know. Then I returned to my lodge. I wanted to hide in some other part of the country but I knew that if you found me absent you would suspect me. So I stayed there. The chinook wiped out all traces, so I had nothing to fear from that. And you did not suspect me.
"I thought it was all forgotten. Then you came and arrested Bear Sitting Down and the rest. That made me afraid. I had foolishly told Bear Sitting Down what I had done, while still drunk, and I thought you had arrested him because of that and I feared he would betray me. So I ran away. When I thought it was safe I came back. And then the Sergeant came himself and took me. That is all. I would not have killed the young man if I had not been drunk and mad for more fire-water and in the power of that bad white man. I swear that is true. Now go you and arrest him. He——"
"Yes?" said Martin, encouragingly. "Who is he?"
Wild Horse described his master.
"It's Welland!" Hector exclaimed, "Joe Welland!"
V
There was no question of it. The man who had bribed Wild Horse to attempt Hector's murder was Welland.
"Why, it's impossible!" Inspector Denton declared, when Hector explained. "Welland? He's one of the—ah—wealthiest, most influential, most respected men in the country. He would have no object——"
Hector shook his head. The time had come for him to unmask the man he had long suspected but against whom he had hitherto been unable to amass enough evidence. Wild Horse had pieced the puzzle together for him.
"I'll tell you what I think of Joe Welland, sir!" he said tersely. "He's the biggest horse-thief, cattle-rustler and whiskey-smuggler this side the boundary. Yes, sir," as the Inspector voiced a mild protest, "that's so. Oh, I've suspected him for a long, long time. We've tried to clear the district of those crimes, sir, and made some progress, too; and yet can't completely stop it. Well, sir, some time ago it struck me that the reason why we weren't able to stamp out the business was that it was being run from a central headquarters. This headquarters kept itself well informed of our movements, so that it could direct operations with the best chances of success. It kept itself well informed, with the result that, capture as many of its tools as we please, we could never nab the men on top. This pointed to careful organization, employing men over whom it had a definite hold only and letting those men into no matter that did not directly concern them. The small men had no idea of the scope of the gang employing them, nor, in fact, any knowledge of the chief men, to say nothing of their own comrades. Each was just a cog in the machine, doing the little job assigned them. When arrested, they gave no evidence of value because they hadn't any. So we just jailed them as men convicted of a small share in the big game and went on working in the dark as before."
"That sounds plausible," the Inspector asserted, a little doubtfully. "But—er—what about Welland?"
"Why, sir,"—Hector was aflame now with the conviction that they were on the verge of a big thing—"we know how easily Welland became wealthy, apparently without effort. All sorts of evidence, too small to arrest him on but still damning, gradually brought me to suspect him. His herds of horses—new buildings—lands—where did they come from? The horses and cattle were stolen by gangs of Indians and whites, who did not know they were working under that man but simply delivered them to men who in turn handed them over to him—men in his power. Selling these herds, he made money. But the greater amount by far was made from the sale of robes, horses and cattle received in exchange for whiskey run into the country by his organization. That's how he got wealthy, I'm certain of it now. I could tell you a thousand little things that show why I suspect him, sir, but it would take a long time. Meanwhile——"
"Well, meanwhile—what?"
"We have evidence enough from this Indian, sir. Welland bribed him to shoot me. Why? Because I've been too hot on the trail of his whiskey-runners for the past few years! He was afraid I might get too near soon, so he thought he'd better put me out of the way first. What more easy than to have this done by an Indian in his power—an Indian who wouldn't dare to give him away if caught? That's why he picked Wild Horse. If Wild Horse hadn't made a mistake, I'd be dead now—and my suspicions with me! Look at the evidence we've against him, from Wild Horse alone, sir!"
The Inspector pondered.
"Er—about this idea that he was out to finish you, Adair. And—ah—about this organization of which he's the—ah—chief. Can you give me an example of the sort of thing that made you suspicious?"
Hector was ready for this.
"Yes, I can, sir. You remember when I settled that whiskey story and—well, dealt with Randall, the man who started it?"
A flicker of a smile played over the Inspector's face.
"Yes, I do," he replied.
"Well, it comes to me now that that was started to discredit me—perhaps to make you think I wasn't to be trusted, sir, and get you to take me off the whiskey-runners altogether. If Welland is what I think he is, that's just what he'd do. Now, Welland was the only man except Randall who knew that whiskey had been shipped to me. If he had power over Randall, he could make him circulate those yarns and take the blame later. Finding that the scheme wouldn't work, he next thinks of putting me out for good by getting Wild Horse to shoot me. I'm certain if we get Randall here now, sir, and tell him we know part of the truth and want the rest, he'll give it to us. Being in Welland's power, as I believe, he'll welcome a chance to knife him. Besides, he's a coward, and will think more of saving his own skin than of anything else."
The Inspector was slowly but surely marshalling the facts and was almost finally convinced.
"That's an idea, too," he declared. "But Welland's always been a good friend of ours, Adair. He's—ah—respected everywhere and——"
"He's made a fortune out of that sham respectability, sir," Hector said. "His friendship was carefully planned from the time we first came in—I'm sure of that now. He was probably whiskey-trading as a side-line when we arrived and, instead of really welcoming us, he hated to see us come. After that he could only carry on with safety by doing it secretly, while he played the friendly respectable on the surface. That tune went down well with the decent people in the country; and how were newcomers like ourselves to know him for what he really was? The only man who could possibly succeed at the head of the organization I've described, sir, was a man we all considered respectable—I saw that when I first became suspicious that such an organization actually existed. Welland is thought to be one of the most respectable in the country, as you've said—and tonight what Wild Horse has said leaves me absolutely convinced."
The Inspector looked Hector in the eyes.
"I believe you're right!" he said. "Send out for Randall."
VI
Hector's estimate of Randall proved absolutely correct. He told them all he knew.
"Ya've caught me with the goods, I guess," he said, nervously twisting his big hands and rolling his bloodshot eyes, "so I may's well 'fess up. But for God's sake, don't give me away to Welland. That feller, he's a hound o' hell, Mr. Denton. He beats that there squaw o' his——"
"Beats his squaw, Randall?" queried the Inspector, astonished.
"Yessir, beats the hide off'n her. There ain't many knows that but I know it—blast him! An' he's——"
"That'll do. Get on with your story," the Inspector said.
"Well, sir, he come to me an' he says, 'You got to start a story against Adair,' he says. 'He's been interferin' a sight too much in my business lately—' Hector flashed a triumphant look to the Inspector, a look that plainly said 'I told you so!'—'an' I want him broke. I want him ruined!' he says. 'That case o' whiskey,' he says, 'that gives us what we want.' Then he tells me I gotta tell everyone Sergeant Adair was as bad a whiskey-runner as any in the North-West, that he was gettin' whiskey up reg'lar from th' East—you know all about it, Sergeant! I wouldn't 'a' done it, I wouldn't, Sergeant, that's straight—but that human devil, he made me."
"He's got you, too, eh?" the Inspector interjected. "What had you done, Randall—theft or murder?"
"Eh? Eh?" Randall jerked, jaw dropping.
The shaft had struck him fair and square.
"It wasn't anythin' like that, Mr. Denton, I swear. That's—"
"Look here," the Inspector rapped. "You're lying! You'll deny you've traded whiskey for him next!"
"Whiskey?" Randall's face was ghastly. "Mr. Denton, for God's sake——"
"I knew it!" the Inspector exclaimed remorselessly. "Hand in glove with that Indian there, too, I'll bet!"
Wild Horse jumped uneasily. Randall cast a frightened glance in that direction.
"Ah, Inspector," he cried, desperately. "No—I never seen that feller before. That's Gospel true! I'll admit I smuggled whiskey, but——"
Hector cut him short.
"You see, sir," he said to Denton, "he's one of the minor cogs in the machine. Wild Horse is another. Both work under Welland—neither knows the other from Adam!"
The Inspector nodded.
"Tell us what happened after your scandal-mongering failed," he ordered.
Randall hesitated—then made the plunge.
"Well, sir, 't was like this. Welland come to me one Sunday, 'bout three weeks after Sergeant Adair treated me so rough. He reckoned the game had failed. Sergeant Adair was still workin' on the whiskey business and was more of a hero than ever. Welland was rip-snortin' mad—said he'd like to have Adair shot. 'Adair ain't done nothin' to shoot him for,' I says. 'Oh, hasn't he?' says Welland, 'He's done more'n you think. Always pokin' his nose into other people's affairs.' That's all he said an' he never mentioned Adair ag'in. He never said nothin' to me 'bout usin' Wild Horse to shoot the Sergeant. I never knowd nothin' 'bout that."
"All right, Randall. We'll believe you," said the Inspector. "At any rate, Adair, he confirms Wild Horse's statement to this extent—that Welland actually threatened to settle you. After the whiskey fiasco, he thought—ah—murder a better scheme than any. Taking all the evidence, Adair, we've got about enough to give him—ah—at least ten years. Frankly, I—ah—think you've landed the biggest fish and—er—uncovered the biggest thing you've come across since the Force started. This will cause a sensation! And—er—if you bring him in and he's found guilty, I—ah—shouldn't be at all surprised if it meant—ah—promotion. In the meantime, we must collar him as quickly as possible. Think you'd better try the arrest? It might be—ah—rather risky, for you!"
"That's just why I want to do it, sir!" Hector declared, with all the emphasis possible. "This is a personal fight between Welland and myself. He's made it so; and I must see it through. Besides, he's my meat, anyway. I trailed him. I showed him up. I must see it through. And I'd rather do it single-handed, sir, if you don't mind."
The Inspector leisurely filled his pipe.
"I—er—appreciate your viewpoint, Sergeant," he said at last. "By George, if any one should arrest him, it's you! Where is he?"
"At home," Randall interrupted. "I know, 'cos he went back there yesterday."
"Right. Handle it your own way, Adair. You'd better start at once, though there's no particular hurry. You're sure to catch him by surprise. But do as you please. It's your hand."
"I won't leave anything to chance, sir," replied Hector. "I'll start wow."
"Right." The Inspector lighted his pipe at the lamp. "I'll expect him within twenty-four hours. And, oh—as you pass the guard-room, tell 'em to send over an escort for two prisoners. What's that, Randall? Why, ofcourseyou're going behind the bars, too, my good man. You surely don't imagine—Good luck—ah—to you, Adair."
"Thank you, sir."
Hector saluted and was gone.
The Inspector had said there was 'no particular hurry.' Hector himself believed that there was 'no particular hurry.' Both were lamentably wrong.
One of Welland's spies had overheard every syllable of the discussion in the Inspector's parlour and, before Hector had saddled up, had left Fort Macleod two good miles behind and was galloping hot-foot for Welland's to warn him of his danger.
VII
On clearing the barracks and turning his horse into the trail to Welland's ranch, sixty miles distant, Hector saw that the moon was rising among the scattered clouds above the distant foothills, and he studied his watch by its radiance: eight o'clock exactly. He planned to reach Welland's before dawn. Setting a brisk pace, if all went well, he should have his enemy under arrest within six or seven hours. The trail was so clearly revealed that he could safely proceed at almost any speed. He settled down for the long ride.
As he went, he found himself unable to put out of his mind the night's startling revelations. Having long suspected Welland of whiskey-smuggling, horse-stealing and cattle-rustling, confirmation of these suspicions caused him no surprise. But that Welland had plotted his disgrace and afterwards his death came home with unexpected force. He saw now that, from the time when they first met, until that moment, Welland's feelings towards him were nothing but sham, maintained for purposes of his own. Welland had recognized him long ago as a man who would probably become dangerous and had gone out of his way from the first to hoodwink him—to produce in Hector's mind an impression strongly favourable to himself. As with Hector, so with the Force generally, to a lesser degree, and so also with the civilians of the district. To discover that Welland's friendship had always been false, that, while apparently well disposed toward him, the rancher had long been plotting against him and had actually attempted to murder him—this was a very bitter pill.
Running over various incidents, Hector, now that his had been opened, could see traces of Welland's deceit everywhere. The warmth with which he had condemned all evil-doers and especially all whiskey-traders when he first came to Fort Macleod had been nothing but hypocrisy, to blind them to his own misdoings. The energy with which he had worked to make their first Christmas a success had been born, not of generous good feeling, but a selfish desire to increase his own popularity with the Force and thus lend further concealment to his real character. He had pushed Hector into prominence on that occasion simply to strengthen the latter's good opinion. The interest he had always shown in Hector's work—as when he enquired so tenderly after the progress he was making with the whiskey-runners when they met in Weatherton's store—that, too, was a sham, an attempt to win useful information. One by one, Hector took these things from their dusty pigeon-holes, examined them in this new light and added them to the damning evidence he had collected against Welland.
So much for that friendship!
Other matters came back to him, bits of evidence of which he had just hinted to Inspector Denton. There was, for instance, the fright displayed by Welland when the party of Police arrived unexpectedly at his house on the way to 'Red-hot' Dan's and asked for shelter. The rancher had been so startled that one might have almost fancied him anticipating arrest. And later, when he endeavored to scare them with wonderful stories of the desperate character of the wanted man—what was this but a sign that he was in league with the trader and desired to gain time to warn him and secure his escape into U.S. territory, while the Police returned to Fort Macleod for reinforcements? They had found 'Red-hot' Dan ready for them, even as it was, and Hector suspected, now, that Welland had obtained means at least to warn him in time to put up a resistance. Hector remembered the shrieks he had heard on the way to the Sun Dance and knew that Randall's tale of Welland beating his squaw was true. It was then that Welland had shown him the buffalo skull used by the smugglers—an effort, that, to put him off the scent. The man had been cunning as the devil; but not cunning enough. These things, together, betrayed him at last as a liar, a traitor, a brute, an arch-criminal.
And it was with this man—no petty law-breaker but a foeman worthy of his steel—that Hector had his quarrel. He was almost glad that such a man had chosen him as a special enemy, had in fact forced him to take up as a personal fight what otherwise would have been only a matter of duty. He leaped to meet the challenge. 'This is a personal fight between Welland and myself,' he had told the Inspector. 'He's made it so; and I must see it through. Besides, he's my meat, anyway. I trailed him. I showed him up. I must see it through. And I'd rather do it single-handed....' The words came back to him as he rushed through the night and he looked forward, keen as mustard, to the moment which should bring them face to face, in the struggle which had been approaching year after year and was now at hand....
He was so absorbed in these pleasant anticipations that, in spite of the bright moonlight, he failed to notice a hole in the trail. His horse, half asleep, though cantering, was as blind as himself. Somersaulting heels over head, horse and rider fell. The horse stumbled wildly to its feet. But Hector lay stunned.
And the spy ahead went galloping on.
VIII
At three o'clock in the morning Joe Welland woke from a sweet dream to find his squaw beside him. On the arrest of Wild Horse, he had sent Lizzie to Fort Macleod to watch and report developments. Her return was now sufficient evidence to tell him that something momentous had happened.
A horrible fear swept over him and, sitting up in bed, he frantically ordered her to speak.
In her halting English, Lizzie obeyed. Long a familiar and pathetic figure in barracks, no-one had suspected her and she had been able to maintain a close watch on Wild Horse's prison. When she saw him brought to Inspector Denton's quarters, she guessed that vital developments would follow. Going round to the Inspector's kitchen, she begged for food. Mrs. Denton knew her quite well and thought her harmless. She gave her a seat in the kitchen and a bite of supper. Lizzie, when left for a moment alone, slipped into a hiding-place under the stairs, whence she overheard everything going on in the parlour. As soon as she learned that Sergeant Adair was to start for Welland's, she escaped from barracks unobserved, mounted her pony, which was tethered in a gully not far off, and had ridden over the sixty miles at the best speed possible.
Then she gave the rancher full details of the conference.
It was typical of Welland that he had no word of thanks for the woman who had dared and endured so much for his sake. Day in and day out, through the years, he had used her as a slave, working her to exhaustion and often flogging her. Yet, with the dumb devotion characteristic of the Indian woman, she had borne it all, content to suffer his injustice if only she might dedicate her life to him. And now, in his great need, when she might have left him to the fate he well deserved, when circumstances had offered her an opportunity for retribution, she had unhesitatingly done her best to save his wretched hide. Years of selfish brutality had made him incapable of gratitude for the greatest of services, and he would have regarded the sacrifice of her life for him as a matter of course.
It did not take him long to see that flight was his only refuge. His day was done. The Police—represented, in his view, by Hector—had at last unmasked him, had gathered conclusive evidence against him and were at that very moment on their way to take him. When they had him safely in jail, he realized, they would set about gathering more information. With the Chester murder against him, it would be at least a life sentence. To attempt to bluff it out was madness. If the Police laid hands on him, he was doomed. The United States boundary was only a few miles away. Once on American soil, he could quickly hide himself so that not even the Yankees could find him. After that, he could begin life over again somewhere. This life, the life of Mr. Joseph Welland, rancher—had crumbled to pieces round him and only instant action could save him from burial in the ruins.
A man of quick decisions, his mind was at once made up. Jumping out of bed, he began to dress, throwing instructions at Lizzie the while.
"And don't make a noise, or I'll kill you," he adjured.
Fear lent him swiftness and strength. Already, he fancied he heard Hector's voice, summoning him to surrender. Hector! At thought of him, Welland was possessed with fury. To Hector, he knew, he owed his downfall. With infinite patience and cunning, beginning years before Hector's arrival, the rancher had built up a criminal machine of amazing efficiency, a machine which had made him rich. He had hidden his own connection with the machine so cleverly that, as time went on, he began to consider himself absolutely safe. One by one his vassals were jailed but no evil consequences for himself resulted. He had taken good care, from the first, to see that they were men who knew it best to keep their mouths shut. So, to all the world, he had continued to be Joseph Welland, most respectable of ranchers. The world might have lingered on in this illusion for Heaven knows how long, at least until the day when, made wealthy by the machine, he might have scrapped it and became truly respectable. That day, of late, had seemed near; and he looked forward to it, since, to do him justice, he was not a master-criminal for the love of it nor a secret associate with low-down whites and Indians for any love he bore them. That day had seemed near; and now, thanks to Hector, it was gone forever.
It was no satisfaction to him at this moment to recall that from the first he had recognized the quiet, immensely keen young giant as a dangerous factor. But the knowledge that he had been unable to maintain Hector in ignorance of his real character, that he had failed to realize until too late that Hector was on his track, and that, when realization came, he had made so poor a job of his attempt to 'settle' him—this knowledge tortured him.
Well, he would see to it that he was not taken by Sergeant Adair or any other Mounted Policeman! If he hurried, he might still get away to such a start that no-one could overtake him. But he must hurry. Hector could not have been far behind Lizzie in leaving Fort Macleod.
The black horse stolen from 'Lazy G' was the best in the stable! He ran out into the moonlight to saddle him.
IX
Hector's struggling return to consciousness ended when he felt something soft and warm against his hand and found his horse anxiously nuzzling him. For a minute or two he was powerless to think or move. The moon and stars went wheeling weirdly round and round, while a sticky stream coursed slowly down his cheek. Feeling horribly sick and weak, he yielded to an intense desire to sleep and closed his eyes again.
Meanwhile, precious time was flying.
From this condition he recovered with a start and a dawning sense that something important was hanging in the balance. His next thought was to get to his feet; but, when he tried to rise, agonizing pains shot through him, dragging a groan from his lips and forcing beads of sweat to his face. He sat up gasping, teeth clenched. The spasm past, he tried again, got to his knees, then, catching at the stirrup, dragged himself slowly up and so at last to a standing position. Had he not had the saddle to cling to, he would certainly have fallen. As it was, he reeled drunkenly and only the dim knowledge that he must pull himself together gave him the power to hold on.
So, as he hung there, everything came back to him. He remembered that he was on the trail to Welland's to arrest the rancher. Then he saw that the saddle was twisted to one side and the oak cantle broken. The horse, too, was cut and grimy about the knees and blood had dried in its nostrils. Next he realized that his tunic had been ripped up the back and was hanging in shreds. His hat was gone, his face covered with dirt, the clammy streams on his cheeks were blood, flowing from wounds in his forehead. Then he recollected the fall. The horse had apparently put its forefoot in a hole and turned a somersault. In the fall, pinned beneath the horse, he had been torn along the ground. Gradually he realized that had he not been exceptionally strong, he would have been killed by the fall, in which he had been dragged twenty feet.
As things were he was in no condition to go on. Even the iron code of the Mounted Police had no quarrel with a man who yielded when in such a state as Hector found himself. But his first thought was for the business in hand. The moon was going down. His watch had stopped at three o'clock. Then probably he had lain there hours afterwards. In desperate haste, he set about making up for lost time.
The whole secret of his reputation was revealed in that crisis.
He was sick and sore and his brain was whirling like a top. Yet somehow he twisted the saddle back into its rightful position, thanking God that his horse had remained faithfully beside him throughout, thus enabling him to complete his journey on horseback instead of on foot. Then he got somehow into the saddle, somehow started the horse and so, the reins twisted round his hands, while his fingers clung to the mane and he held on from hip to heel, urged gradually into a steady gallop.
"Am I in time? Am I in time?"
Drumming in his head with the beat of hoofs, that was the only thought he could retain.
The rest of the ride was sheer torture, without dimensions of time or distance. The road staggered under him, the horse rocked, the moon, now almost out, did idiotic things. Every shooting pain, every bump, went through him with terrible violence, his desire to end this agony and get to grips with Welland became a consuming fire.
"Am I in time? Am I in time?"
More dead than alive, he pounded into Welland's yard at last. Dawn was gilding the mountains. The shack showed only one feeble light. In a daze, biting back the cry of torment beating at his lips, he slid to the ground.
Now!
He opened the door cautiously. From Welland's bed-room, the light burned dimly. Hector entered.
At the entrance to the room, he found confusion everywhere. A dark form crouched, moaning, in a corner. She looked up at him—Lizzie! The sight gave him a nasty shock, for he fancied her at Fort Macleod.
Suddenly possessed of a vague uneasiness, he strode quickly in. Welland, acting on some strange freak, had left a message for him under the lamp on the table. He snatched it up and read:
"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 threat was lost on Hector—at any other time he would have laughed at it. But now he turned swiftly to Lizzie.
"Where is Joe?" he demanded.
Surely, surely Welland had not escaped him, after all that had passed?
"Where is Joe?" he repeated fiercely.
Lizzie laughed in mad triumph.
"He gone—hour ago! You no' catch him. He over the medicine-line!"
Hector rapped an inward oath of agony. White man—ghastly in the lamp-light, with pale, bloody face, and tattered scarlet—and Indian, they stared at each other.
I
Until comparatively recently, the destinies of nations depended mainly upon roads. A nation might be judged by the state of its roads. Civilization and Progress moved along good roads, bad roads were the symbols of Barbarism. Rome, the Imperial power of the ancient world, the greatest apostle of Civilization and Progress born before the Renaissance, built the best roads ever made.
For the past century the railway has been to nations and Empires what the road once was.
Western Canada, marching under the wing of the Mounted Police, had by this time emerged from barbarism. A decade of strong government had done its work. Homesteads dotted the vastness of the plains, small islands in wide seas of grass. Little towns were rising up like magic at the forks of the long, lone trails. The country was slowly waking, like a young giant, from the sleep of untold centuries, awakening to a vague yet definite conception of its destiny. Faintly visioning its mighty future, it carefully took the measure of itself and looked around for what it lacked to fill its deficiencies. Where one homestead stood it knew there should be a hundred. Where little shack-towns rose, it knew there should be cities. The future held its promise of these things. But until the country's crying need was filled, the future remained a promise—nothing more.
The country's crying need—what was it?
The railway.
And the railway was coming now. From Atlantic to Pacific, one poem with an heroic theme was in the making—the epic of the Transcontinental.
To the East, in this epic, belong the giants of vision, the planners, the intellectuals. The West saw only the men of action, the giants who did the bidding of the fathers of the dream, the surveyors, plate-layers, navvies, engineers. These men of action were organized like an army. Like an army, they had their officers, their N.C.O.s, their rank and file, their hangers-on and camp-followers. The men who supervised—the construction-bosses, skilled engineers, managers of one thing or another—were the officers; the foremen and master-mechanics were the N.C.O.s; the lesser labourers—mostly called Dagoes—who laid the road-bed, dug ditches, carried sleepers, rails and fish-plates—were the rank and file; while the camp-followers and hangers-on—gamblers, whiskey-smugglers, robbers, cut-throats and lost women—were scum clean through.
Though organized like an army—these people—they were actually a crowd. An army is distinguished from a crowd by its discipline. And they had very little discipline. It was necessary, for the good of the great work, that their unruly elements be kept in hand. As far as such men could be, they were kept in hand. And, through their labours—this fact will help them at the Day of Judgment—the great work marched steadily towards completion. Slowly but surely, the thin thread of steel pushed its way through the trackless wastes of rock and burnt-out timber north of the Great Lakes; thrust itself across mile after mile of sunlit plain; climbed step by step over the foothills and into the mountains; clambered along sheer precipices, sprang over dizzy gorges, bored through vast walls of granite; and, tracing always the pathway of the pioneers, pushed forward month by month in the wake of the setting sun.
The crowd was kept in hand—partly by the iron rule of its chiefs but mainly through the unceasing vigilance of the Mounted Police, who soothed their discontent, caught their robbers, suppressed their gamblers, baffled their whiskey-smugglers and forestalled their murderers.
The 'end of track,' by this time, had reached Regina; and Hector was the senior N.C.O. of the Mounted Police on that division.
When Sergeant-Major Whittaker, six months before, had left the Force to take up land in the North, his departure had left a great gap in J Division; but nobody had been surprised when Hector was called upon to fill it.
"He's one of our best N.C.O.s," was the general comment. "Besides, he has the luck of the devil, anyway!"
So Hector was now Sergeant-Major, at twenty-eight, and it was more than probable that before he was thirty he would easily realize his dream of a commission. There was no cloud on his horizon. He was very happy.
For some time after Welland's escape Hector had feared for his prospects. A criminal involved in innumerable crimes had slipped through his fingers; he thought the Big Chiefs would consider this inexcusable. Hector's fall, which to some minds might have exonerated him, seemed to him to add to the disgrace. The result of sheer carelessness—so he considered it—that fall should never have happened to a Mounted Policeman; and he was certain the Big Chiefs would hold the same opinion. But when the Commissioner and Inspector Denton heard the details of his condition when, ragged, gory, white-faced and held up only by his indomitable will, he returned from Welland's, and realized just what he had done, they acted as they thought best. Hector, after all, had unmasked the man—one of the most dangerous in the country—and at least driven him out by his own unaided effort. It was good riddance of bad rubbish; and Welland's escape did him no harm.
That was two years ago now and Hector had almost forgotten the whole affair. Even Welland's dramatic little note, with its vindictive threat, 'I'll get even, if it takes me twenty years' he had contemptuously banished from his mind. And today he was Sergeant-Major of J Division, maintaining the law along one hundred miles of the line of construction.
The job carried very heavy responsibilities, which aged him daily—not physically but mentally. He had, where duty was concerned, the outlook of a man twice his age. He was the connecting-link between officers and men, his task to see that every order and regulation was obeyed. Besides these matters concerning the internal economy of the Force, he had also to deal direct with law-breakers. So he came in touch with all the vice, wretchedness and stark tragedy abounding in the tent-towns and construction camps. He knew all the thieves, 'rollers,' toughs, shell-game experts, whiskey-peddlers and ladies of doubtful reputation by sight and most of them by name. When the scarlet-coated patrols swooped down on crowded caboose or side-tracked box-car at dead of night to catch the drunks in full carouse, he was almost always in the offing. When a gambling-joint was raided, he led the rush. When, in pauses between dances, the dirty men and painted women at the little tables in the reeking dance-halls became suddenly silent to watch a lone man in uniform pass vigilantly among them, the lone man was generally Hector.
In his turn, through all the seething, howling world whose axis was the railway, his was the most familiar figure. They knew him as the kindest and best-hearted of men to those who slipped through ignorance or foolishness, and, to those who slipped from choice, the most merciless; loved him or hated him, according to their lights; went out of their way to meet him or to avoid him; and feared him, one and all, far more than they feared God.
II
In spite of all his responsibilities and hard work, Hector found opportunities to have a little harmless fun; as witness Mr. Augustus J. Perkins, gambler and whiskey-smuggler, temporarily resident in the mushroom city of Regina.
Hector first spotted Mr. Perkins on the way to Qu'appelle, a few miles down the line, where Sergeant Cranbrook was stationed. His attention was drawn to Mr. Perkins because, firstly, the man's face was unfamiliar, secondly, he was a book-agent. Book-agents were frequently seen along the line and Hector had learned to regard them all with suspicion, as most of them adopted the profession to hide their true identity, which was generally criminal. And Mr. Perkins' appearance was against him. He was a plump, ruddy, cheery soul and might have passed muster but for his eyes, which were shifty and bloodshot; also, his nose was red. His hands were pudgy, too, and covered with cheap rings. He wore a little bow-tie, a wide-awake hat, a vile flowered waistcoat, a Prince Albert, very baggy trousers and a dazzling gold watch hung with many seals. His face was too good to be true and he studiously kept his eyes away from Hector. These things condemned him.
"I'll try him out," thought Hector.
He approached Mr. Perkins, who greeted him with a convincing smile but was still unable to hide his aversion to Mounted Policemen. Hector noted the fact.
"Nice day," he began, sitting down opposite the book-agent. "Augustus J. Perkins, I presume?"
"Yes." Then, doubtfully, "Le's see now, where'd we meet before?"
"It wasn't in jail, was it?" Hector smiled.
"Quit your jokin'," Mr. Perkins returned, shifting uneasily. "Where was it, though?"
"I don't know. I saw your name on your grip, if that's what you mean?"
"Oh, yas. Yas." Followed a pause, Mr. Perkins evidently searching his whirling brain for something to say. "Have a cigar?"
"Thanks. I'll smoke it later, when no-one's around."
The book-agent lighted up.
"How's business?" Hector resumed.
"Pretty good," Mr. Perkins admitted.
"Sold lots of stock?"
"Oh, yas. Yas!"
"I wonder if he's foolin' me?" Perkins was thinking. But Hector was perfectly serious.
"I'm quite fond of reading myself," said Hector. "You've a lot of books there. What have you?"
The book-agent pondered.
"I've got Scott, Thack'r'y, Dickens, an'—Dickens—an'—le's see; the Waverley Novels, Shakespeare, Pickwick Papers—that's a new book, just out, by—by——"
"Scott, isn't it?" Hector suggested.
"Yas, Scott—tha's right," Mr. Perkins hastily affirmed. "Oh, an' lots more."
"Good, I'd like to see one or two. Fetch down the big bag and let's have a look at it."
The agent reached a hand to the rack, laying hold of a small bag.
Hector did not let the action pass.
"Thebigbag, I said," he reminded the agent pleasantly.
Perkins pretended not to hear.
"Thebigbag," Hector repeated.
"Eh?" Mr. Perkins jerked suddenly.
"I want to see the big bag."
The agent found his voice.
"Hell, that's my stock," he protested. "My samples are in this."
And he pulled the small bag down.
"All right, my buck," Hector thought. "I understand."
They looked over the books together.
"Well, you've a fine stock," Hector asserted, after a time. "Now, I'll tell you where to find me in Regina. Come up there when you're next in town and I'll buy twenty books from you."
"Say, that's real white of you, Mr. Adair. An' I'll be there first chance."
Though he tried thereafter to pump Mr. Perkins, the book-agent would not be drawn. But he was well satisfied.
"A smuggler and probably a gambler," he thought. "He'll never come within a mile of my quarters, of course. That's a certainty. Never mind. We'll land him."
They parted at Qu'appelle. Cranbrook was waiting for Hector, who pulled him under cover and pointed out Mr. Perkins, instructing him to keep an eye on the gambler.
Together, they prepared a combined plan for the downfall of Mr. Perkins.
Returning to Regina that night, Hector delved into certain records and finally unearthed data concerning a gambler answering closely to the description of the suspect. Moreover, he was nicknamed 'Artful Gussie.'
Hector advised Cranbrook of this discovery and passed word along the whole line setting detachments on their guard.
In one week's time they amassed sufficient evidence to arrest Mr. Perkins, and landed him behind the bars.
III
The Press Association's special train was speeding towards Qu'appelle, its whistle screaming, its noisy little engine pouring out long trails of sparks. From the windows of the cars were thrust serried rows of heads and strings of handkerchiefs. As they neared the little town, one lively young lady, wearing an especially smart hat and a particularly large bustle—her name was Nita Oswald and she represented a leading Eastern paper—gave voice to the sentiments of the company:
"Oh, here's another of these horrible holes! Whenarewe going to meet thereal'Wild West'? I've seen plenty of picturesque scenery and some lovely cut-throats. But I do want to see something truly romantic.Pleasesend us something romantic, O Lord!"
And she rolled her very alluring eyes towards Heaven.
Whereupon, suddenly, the prayer was answered. From the woods fringing either side of the line at some distance, came all at once a startling succession of blood-curdling yells. Everyone became galvanized to attention, with thoughts of Indian attacks and gory massacres. But they had no time to yield to their alarm. The first war-whoop was still echoing through the August woods when out burst two racing lines of horsemen in dazzling scarlet. They dashed across the intervening ground, swung to left or right with thrilling precision and so, at utmost speed, galloped alongside the train.
"Oh, oh!" screamed the young lady with the bustle, "How lovely! A whole army of the Mounted Police!"
The windows of the train grew clamorous, the handkerchiefs fluttered like frantic birds, the engine answered the continued yells of the flying horsemen with shriek on shriek. A trumpeter at the head of the troop stirred the watchers with a glorious ripple of music and the horse at the tail, wildly enthusiastic, put down its head and tore over the ground with terrific bucks but without lagging a yard behind or disturbing its impassive rider by the breadth of a feather. The gleaming scarlet and steel, the brilliant horsemanship, the dash and movement of the whole picture roused the journalists to mad applause.
Thiswas something like the West and no mistake about it!
At Qu'appelle, a halt was made, and journalists and policemen fraternized. A group of admiring press-men offered respectful congratulations to the tall young Sergeant-Major who had argued with the horse. Attracted by the little crowd, a man on the platform of the nearest car came down and joined it. A moment later the journalists were thrust aside.
"Hector!"
And Hector, wheeling, gave joyous answer:
"Hugh!"
After that, of course, there was nothing for it but that Hector should hand over his horse to one of the men and to return to Regina with Hugh. This was easily arranged; and, while the train rattled on to the 'end of track,' Hector and Hugh enjoyed a splendid chat—the first in ten long years.
There was naturally a tremendous lot to tell, but certain facts stood out. Hugh had been a journalist a long time now—Hector knew this already, having watched his career with a good deal of interest—and when the editor of his paper in Toronto looked for a man to send Westward with the Press Association, his choice had fallen upon Hugh. Why had he kept his coming secret? Oh, he wanted to give Hector a real surprise.
"Well, you've done that, all right," Hector declared. "You're the first man from home I've seen since I came West, Hugh!"
Speaking of home inevitably led to a cross-examination covering all the latest doings of Hector's mother—Cousin John—Allen—and the others. Hugh, to satisfy Hector's craving, described everything in detail. Then, suddenly, he was struck with an inspiration:
"But look here, Hec'. You've earned a holiday, God knows. Why not come back with me and see it all for yourself? I can't possibly do it justice, you know. Now, Hec'!"
The suggestion brought a light to Hector's eyes. But presently he shook his head.
"I can't, Hugh," he said. "We're up to the neck just now. I can't be spared. Don't argue. There's no-one to take my place."
"Oh, bosh!" laughed Hugh. "You're not so darned important. Of course they can spare you! You've got swelled head, old boy."
Hector rapped him playfully.
"Yes, haven't I?" he replied. "Never mind—it can't be done. No such word as 'can't' in the Police vocabulary? There is, in this case!"
Hugh thereafter exhausted his arguments. Hector was a Gibraltar.
"Oh, tell us—who's your C.O.?" asked Hugh, at last.
"Superintendent Denton. Why?"
"Never mind," said Hugh, abruptly changing the conversation. And Hector forgot the matter.
But, later on that day he was greeted with the dazzling information that Hugh, while Hector was absent a moment on duty, had seen the Superintendent and the latter had consented to allow Hector six weeks' leave.
"Six weeks' leave, Hec'! Six weeks! Think of it! He didn't say a word against it. Said, in fact, he'd been contemplating sending you, as ten years without leave was quite enough for any man. And when I told him you'd refused to ask for it and I was seeing him without your knowledge, he said it was just like you—that you had a wonderful sense of duty! What more can you want? Isn't that great?"
"Hugh!" said Hector.
He was going home!
IV
News of all kinds runs swiftly through organized formations and within an hour every man at headquarters, including the prisoners in the cells, knew that Hector was going East.
While he was putting the finishing touches to his hurried preparations, the Sergeant in charge of the cells came to him.
"Sergeant-Major, can you spare a moment?"
"Well?"