The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSpirit-of-iron (Manitou-pewabic)This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Spirit-of-iron (Manitou-pewabic)an authentic novel of the North-West Mounted PoliceAuthor: Harwood SteeleRelease date: December 25, 2024 [eBook #74974]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company, 1923Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRIT-OF-IRON (MANITOU-PEWABIC) ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Spirit-of-iron (Manitou-pewabic)an authentic novel of the North-West Mounted PoliceAuthor: Harwood SteeleRelease date: December 25, 2024 [eBook #74974]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company, 1923Credits: Al Haines
Title: Spirit-of-iron (Manitou-pewabic)
an authentic novel of the North-West Mounted Police
Author: Harwood Steele
Author: Harwood Steele
Release date: December 25, 2024 [eBook #74974]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company, 1923
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRIT-OF-IRON (MANITOU-PEWABIC) ***
[Transcriber's note: Unusual or non-standard spellings are as printed.]
SPIRIT-OF-IRON
HARWOOD STEELE
"He is a living link with the Empire's great traditions, with the blood of British heroes in his veins ... 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 ... the embodiment, in one individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted Police ... the embodiment of Western Canada. 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!"
—BOOK IV., CHAP. V., 2.
(Manitou-pewabic)
AN AUTHENTIC NOVEL OFTHE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE
By HARWOOD STEELE
A. L. BURT COMPANYPublishers     New York
Published by arrangement with George H. Doran CompanyPrinted in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1923,BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
SPIRIT-OF-IRON. III
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
TOTHE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE"ORIGINALS" OF 1874,THE ADVANCE SCOUTS OF THE ARMY OFWESTERN CANADIAN CIVILIZATION
FOREWORD
"Spirit-of-Iron" is an attempt to present fact in the form of romantic fiction. It portrays the development of North-Western Canada in the pioneer period, the main events of which, with one or two exceptions, have been closely followed.
The characters are types. Hector Adair is intended to represent the ideal Mounted Police officer in particular and the ideal British officer generally. He is not to be identified with any historical figure connected with the Force. The plan, here employed, of symbolizing and tracing the development of a country through the development of an individual such as Hector is, I think, new. The politician, Welland, similarly, is a type, and has no definite connection with any famous politician of real life. The men of the Police—the Marquis, Sergeant Kellett and others—are also types, true to the extraordinary calibre of the Force. The remaining characters—whom the reader may identify if—and as—he chooses, all had their originals in the old Canadian North-West.
Practically every incident and episode of the story had its origin in fact. The arrest of Wild Horse, the Whitewash Bill man-hunt, the holding of Hopeful Pass and innumerable minor incidents all occurred, though not necessarily in the circumstances described, while the details of the dangerous plot confronting Hector in Book IV are drawn, almost line for line, from a great if obscure page in the more recent history of the Mounted Police in the North. Hector's long struggle with Welland is not based on any particular conflict of this kind in real life, but that such things occur, in Canada as elsewhere, any man acquainted with the Services and politics can vouch for. Finally, the locale of each episode is not necessarily to be identified with any particular point in our North-West.
The word "Royal" is everywhere omitted from the title of the Force because the honourary distinction of "Royal" was not theirs when the events covered in this novel took place.
I have described the book as "An Authentic Novel of the North-West Mounted Police" because I wish to emphasize that it endeavours to present the Force as it was and is and not as portrayed by well-meaning but ignorant writers of the "red love, two-gun" variety, and it is my hope that, through this book, the reader may obtain a clearer conception of the marvellous devotion to duty, the high idealism, the splendid efficiency which have made the Mounted Police famous than any to be derived from these inaccurate romances.
HARWOOD STEELE.
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE:On the Anvil
BOOK TWO:Spirit-of-Iron
BOOK THREE:The Clash
BOOK FOUR:Coup-de-Grâce
I
The time had come for the North-West Mounted Police to say goodbye to Lower Fort Garry, the home of the Force since its inception some months before.
In the clear spring dawn, the scarlet-coated column fell in, ranging behind it a long tail of ox-carts and wagons. Sergeant-Major Whittaker, of 'J' Division, a straight-backed, dapper, sinewy little man with a pair of fierce moustaches, called the roll. The Regimental Sergeant-Major, trotting over to the bearded Assistant-Commissioner, reported all ready to march. Orders cracked down the line. With a shout, a thunder of hoofs and the roll of heavy wheels, the cavalcade surged into motion.
In the rear of the column rode Constable Hector Adair.
II
A fine, big, handsome fellow, Hector, a splendid specimen of what the Province of Ontario could produce when it tried, and looking every inch what he was—the son of a hardy soldier-father, that Colonel Adair who had been one of the pioneers of old Blenheim County, at home, and who, before that, had served under the Iron Duke himself in the Peninsula and at Waterloo. This young giant's broad shoulders and deep chest would have been the envy of many heavy dragoons, and he was six feet tall. His face, bronzed, with straight nose, strong chin, firm mouth and steel-grey eyes, had in it a great power and yet an idealism unspoilt by contact with the rotten side of Life. Men—a keen observer felt—though knowing him still a boy—he was actually twenty—would regard him as a man, fear him intensely and follow him anywhere. Women would thrill at his physique, linger over his brown hair, know him a man, regard him as a boy and love him with a love largely maternal.
More than this, he looked the soldier-born. No finer school for the making of men ever existed than the old, partially developed Upper Canada where Hector had first seen the light and spent his childhood. It had been rough, crude and half civilized but also vigorous and strong. Its immense forests, its rapid streams, its solitudes possessed by dangerous wild animals, had given him resource, self-reliance, endurance, courage. The most ordinary affairs of life—a visit to the nearest settlement, the routine journey to church or school—tested the quality of many a grown man. The barest necessities were won only by the hardest of hard work. Even the pastimes of the district round about demanded much pluck and stamina. Blue blood went without luxuries and handled axe or plough. Men were men there, boys were men in miniature, and women were worthy of their sons and husbands—more could not be said in praise of them. Altogether, the natural environment which had been Hector's as a boy could not help but develop in him the first requisite of the born soldier—true manhood. And the sports to be enjoyed in Blenheim county—shooting, fishing, big game hunting in the heart of the great wildernesses—had made him a giant at last, with a heart that nothing shook and no nerves whatever.
If all this were not enough, Hector's boyhood associates had been of a character which must inevitably have shaped him into what he was. Take the Colonel, who, coming out to Canada to occupy land under one of the earliest settlement schemes, had built up prosperity for himself and constructed Silvercrest, his fine estate, from the trackless wild. The Colonel, from the first, had intended that his son should have a Commission in the Army and carry on the fighting traditions of a martial family. He believed, besides, in King Solomon's adage concerning the rod and the spoiled child, considered that boys should be seldom seen and never heard and held other ideas equally as uncomfortable.
The Colonel had not been able to spare much time to Hector, but, such as it was, it was well spent. He had not only thrashed him when he needed it, but had educated him. Knowing that the little country school could give his son only a rudimentary education, he expended an hour or so a day in teaching Hector many things in literature, geography, history and mathematics—particularly literature. By great effort, labouriously bringing many of the books all the way from England, the Colonel had formed a fine library at Silvercrest. The old classics were there, with later and contemporary writers—Scott, Coleridge, Dickens and Alfred Tennyson, the handsome lion of the Old Land. Father and son had toiled most studiously over these treasures and it was worth something to see the small, brown-haired boy struggling with the heroes of Greece under the stern eye of his white-haired parent. Hector had the run of the room and on rainy days all the giants of romance and chivalry took full possession of that book-lined haven in the wilderness. Such passages as this rang like far trumpets in his ears:
I made them lay their hands in mine and swearTo reverence the King as if he wereTheir conscience and their conscience as their King;To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,To honour his own word as if his God's,To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,To love one maiden only, cleave to herAnd worship her by years of noble deedsUntil they won her....
These stirring lines, from the beginning, had filled him with strange longings and given him a great ideal.
Besides these more general things, much of the Colonel's teaching had been devoted to building up the boy into that splendid product, 'an officer and a gentleman.'
Then there was his mother—a sweet, gentle, dainty woman, of marvellous housekeeping ability. From her, Hector had learned such of those fine, old-fashioned principles as the Colonel had been too busy to teach. Hector's little sister, Nora—his constant companion in his boyhood doings, rendering him profound homage and devotion and regarding him as a demigod, the mover of mountains, the achiever of impossibilities—had done much to make him chivalrous. His cousins Hugh and Allen, boys of his own age who lived close by, could not be said to have much influenced him, except to make him one of the most reckless lads and finest sportsmen in the county, though from his older cousin, John, he had learnt all he knew of woodcraft and athletics.
But the men on his father's farm had done more to make a soldier out of Hector than even the Colonel. They were all veterans of many campaigns, or at least members of the local militia—none but these were granted work at Silvercrest. Grey old, lean old Sergeant Pierce, the Colonel's right-hand man, had marched with the 28th, the Colonel's own Regiment, from Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees. Corporal Hardwick, late of the 95th, had served in the Kaffir Wars and accompanied the 'Green Jackets' in the attack on the Sevastapol Ovens. Private Toombs had aided the 57th—the famous 'Die-hards'—in suppressing the 'Sepoy Rebellion.' 'Maintop' MacEachern, senior naval representative, a lean, white-whiskered old sea-dog, had been a powder-monkey under Broke when theShannontook theChesapeake. And 'Long Dick' Masters, the 'daddy' of the whole crowd, barring Sergeant Pierce, and so tall that he could give even the Sergeant a couple of inches, had long ago led the rush of the York Volunteers at Queenston Heights.
The influence of such men on a youngster's development was inevitably potent. Thanks to them, Silvercrest had overflowed with Service tradition. As a small boy, Hector had been allowed to form them into a little company, which, under the Sergeant's supervision, he drilled with unflagging zeal, until he was as efficient as the smartest instructor in the smartest regiment of the Guards. They told him yarns of a hundred fights and fields. They sang him marvellous choruses—'Ranzo,' 'We'll Fight the Greeks and Romans on the High Seas-O,' 'The Bold Soldier Boy' and many others—which in their day had startled the French outposts in Spain or enlivened the fo'c's'le of theVictory. They gave him such formulæ as this, which he had from Sergeant Pierce: 'Don't knuckle down to a bully. Don't start the trouble but take on anything that breathes if there's good reason. Stand up to your man like a soldier, even if you know you're licked, and fight—d'you see, little master?—till the last shot's fired.' And, between them, they drove him wild to serve the Queen.
No wonder, then, that he rode out today in the midst of the Mounted Police.
But why was he only a ranker—when the Colonel, from the first, had trained him for a Commission?
Of this—a word later.
III
So the years of Hector's boyhood had been passed in an atmosphere of idealistic tradition.
His first attempt at soldiering in earnest was made when he was twelve years old—with the Fenian raids on the Niagara Peninsula.
The Blenheim Rangers, one of Upper Canada's finest militia regiments, being called out on this occasion to defend the frontier, Hector yearned to march away with them. He thought, poor youngster, that he might be allowed to serve as a bugler or a drummer, for he was big and strong for his age. Born, as Maintop put it, with a sword in his hand and epaulettes on his shoulders, accustomed all his life to hear of 'sallies and retires, of trenches, tents' and such matters, his daily course shaped with the idea that he was eventually to have a Commission, this was only natural. The Colonel, equally naturally, refused point-blank to let him go. And—again of course—Hector took the law into his own hands and ran away.
All was confusion and anxiety at Silvercrest during the following three days and a hue and cry sought Hector over half Upper Canada. When eventually he was brought back, a dishevelled, unhappy little figure, the Colonel found he had not the heart to punish him as he deserved. He could only gently reprove him and promise that, in any future emergency, provided the authorities would have him, he would be allowed to go.
Though Hector's share in the repulse of the Fenian raids was thus brought to nought, the attempt had at least shown that the spirit of soldiering was strong within him.
The Colonel's promise was tested and Hector's second opportunity came with the expedition sent to crush the rebellion on the Red River. The boy was then sixteen and already of fine physique. John, who had a Commission in one of the regiments, requested and, to Hector's rapture, received permission to enlist him in his company. But again Fate stepped in, cruelly. Hector got as far as Toronto, where the expedition was assembling, when a telegram recalled him. His adored little sister, Nora, always delicate, was dying of pneumonia caught in a summer storm. Hector reached home in time to hold her dead body in his arms. He was heart-broken. Grown pale and stooped and haggard in a night, his father made him a piteous appeal.
"Hector," he had said, "I want you to give up this idea of going to Fort Garry. It would have been different had—had Nora lived. But your mother needs you now. She can't lose her two babies at once. Everything can be arranged. My friends in the Rifles will give you your discharge. I hate to disappoint you a second time, boy. I'm asking you to make a big sacrifice."
And Hector—with a great effort of real courage—had answered quietly,
"Of course, in that case, sir—I'll not go."
So he moved a step nearer true manhood.
IV
At Toronto, while waiting to go to Red River, Hector had a strange experience—an isolated thing, as incongruous as a wreath of flowers in the mouth of a cannon. He had not, at that time, the perception to realize that it was the first shadow of things to come, sent to open his eyes to his dawning power.
One evening, walking by himself, he struck up an acquaintance with a young fellow named George Harris. Afterwards, they saw each other frequently. Hector enjoyed George's company, because he was refreshingly unlike any other boy he had ever met, an amazing complexity, made up of many extremes. He had odd fits of melancholy, when he said nothing, alternating with bursts of liveliness, when he chattered away for hours on any subject. Though he neither smoked nor drank, he could swear with marvellous fluency—like a schoolboy in the role of man-about-town. Possessed of an extraordinary eye for a well-dressed woman or a handsome man, he yet hated Hector to look at either. He had rooms in town, but persistently refused to ask Hector into them. No persuasion would induce him to go out except at night. Altogether, he was a curious fellow.
Then came the revelation. The childish side of George's character showed itself one evening in enthusiastic declarations that he wished he was a soldier. Hector agreed it was a fine life. That fairly launched George. Real soldiering did not appeal to him. It was the glamour of display—the great reviews, the bands, the gleaming scarlet.
Quite carried away, he halted in the street, clasped his hands and exclaimed ecstatically:
"Oh, I love to hear the jingling of the spurs!"
Instantly Hector's suspicions, till then stupidly dormant, had flamed up. He glanced around the dark street. No-one was in sight. They were in the bright glow of a lamp.
Sending George's hat spinning, he caught him by the wrists in a fierce grip. And—a mass of fair hair came tumbling down the captive's shoulders—a pretty face, distorted with alarm, sprang into view—
A girl! All the moods and caprices were instantly explained. A girl!
Hector's heart beat furiously. He held her tight.
"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling. "You're hurting me. We'll be seen! Let me go!"
Hector flamed into frightened rage—he was very young and knew nothing of women.
"Who are you?" he panted. "What do you mean by it? Supposing we'd been caught like this? You fool—you fool!—"
"Let me go!" she begged.
"Answer me, will you?" he stormed.
Realizing that this was a woman several years older than himself, he became suddenly conscious of his helplessness in her hands and felt something not far from terror seize him.
"What am I to think of you?"
"Shut up!" White, with agonized tears in her eyes, she looked defiantly into his face. "I won't have you talk to me like this. Oh, I know I've run the risk of ruining myself and hurting you, but I don't care—no, I don't! I'm just as straight as—as—" She mastered herself with an effort. "Listen! Do you think I'd have dressed myself up like this otherwise? Gone to all this trouble? And taken these chances? And kept you out of my rooms? You bet I wouldn't! I'd have dressed myself up to kill and stopped you on the street. But a—a straight girl can't do that! So I had to do this. It was the only way. Oh, can't you see?"
"Had to! The only way!"
Bitter scorn lashed her.
"Yes, it was," she said. Suddenly she dropped her voice and turned her face to his. "I saw you out walking several times. I had to know you. Hector, don't you understand?"
He was dazed. He clung to her wrists.
"You fool—" she went on, with a strange little laugh. "You are the fool, funny, silly boy! Don't you see—I'm mad about you, Hector?"
This frightened him more than ever.
"The devil you are!" he ground out. "Who are you, anyway? What am I going to do to you?"
Desperately humiliated, she fought to escape. He held her strongly. She gasped and prayed for release but he would not listen.
"Hector," she had implored, at last, "if you're a gentleman—if you've any sense of chivalry—!"
Any sense of chivalry? She had struck the right note.
He let her go—watched her run away until the night swallowed her. Then, in a sort of stupour, he picked up his swagger stick and walked back to his quarters....
Nothing in his experience, before or since, had so closely resembled a 'love affair.'
V
Strangely enough, it was to his father's death that Hector eventually owed his opportunity to achieve the life for which he had been trained since birth—life in the service of the Queen; and the realization of his boyhood dreams of chivalry.
To this, too, he owed the fact that, when eventually he donned the scarlet tunic, that tunic was, not the gold-laced vestment of an officer, but the plain coat of a ranker, in the Mounted Police.
The status under which he entered the Service was a heavy disappointment. His early enlistments in the militia or the Rifles for the Red River had been merely preliminary canters regarded at the time as useful training for the future Commission. Hector was not ashamed of his ranker's uniform. He knew the true worth of the man who carries the rifle and pack. Though the sword points the way, the bayonet must follow—or there can be no victory. But the high heart aspires to the sword rather than the bayonet. It is not always easy to follow. It is always difficult to lead. He wished to lead—had been trained and moulded for leadership. To have to relinquish leadership or give up the Service altogether had been a terrible blow to him—how terrible only those who come of Service blood and have lived for years in a Service atmosphere can really appreciate.
For to such as these—to such as Hector—the Army is no machine, no hide-bound association of slaves marching in the lockstep of brutal discipline; nor is it a great dramatic society devoted to meaningless ritual and pompous display. At its worst, it is not the raving monster of ignorant fancy, revelling in sacrifice and blood. But it is something so wonderful that no pen on earth can picture it. It is a glorious brotherhood, a religion giving and demanding much of its votaries—demanding dauntless devotion, iron endurance, inflexible loyalty to God, King, division, battalion—giving the knowledge of work well done and petty selfishness voluntarily set aside for the good of the common cause. To such as these there is marvellous music in the wild voice of the bugle—hallowed by sacred memories and age-old traditions—and the majestic dignity and power in the mere sight of a brigade presenting arms will bring a lump to their throats, while the Colours, tattered, stained with the blood of heroes, emblazoned with the names of great victories, have about them something almost divine. They have one mistress—these Service men—one mother, one sister, whose honour is in their hands and for whom they will die without a murmur. She watches them, rewards them, punishes them, loves them, guards them, from the 'Reveille' of their first morning to the 'Last Post' and three rounds blank of the last night of all. She is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners. They call her The Regiment.
A place in this great brotherhood belongs to every soldier. But the officer is the High Priest of the order. It is for him to guide and encourage his men, to rally the broken line, halt the retreat, give fresh life to the failing charge and gather the spears into his breast to make a place for them to follow. Rob a boy trained for leadership of his birthright and he loses everything he considers worth while. Cut him off from The Regiment and—break his heart.
The Colonel had succumbed to a stroke. His fatal illness had not come suddenly. From the day of Nora's death, it had begun. Nora seemed to have taken away the Colonel's vigour with her. But the decline was not solely on her account. For years, though Hector had not known it till too late, the Colonel had laboured under a heavy financial burden—notes endorsed—bad harvests—family honour—the old, old story.
To this state of affairs, above everything, the change of plans for Hector's future had been due. The old gentleman had torn his heart out when he told his son that he must give up the idea of a Regular Commission or even of enlisting because it had become his duty to go into business and redeem the family fortune.
The hideous truth had revealed itself by slow degrees after the Colonel's death, when it was seen that practically nothing was left for Hector and his mother, that Silvercrest and everything in it must go, that Hector would have to get some kind of work at once and that Mrs. Adair must transfer herself to John's, for the time at least.
Came into Hector's hands, at this crisis, a clipping, like the blast of a trumpet sounding specially for him.
'Recruiting for New Police Force Commences,' said the headlines of the clipping. 'Officers in City.'
There followed a description of the measures which were about to enforce the new North-West Mounted Police Act. It seemed that three hundred men 'who should be mounted as the Government should from time to time direct,' were being assembled for duty as military constabulary in the North-West Territories. 'No person shall be appointed to the Police Force unless he be of sound constitution, active and able-bodied, able to ride, of good character, able to read and write either the English or French language and between the ages of 18 and 40 years.' This extract had shown Hector that he could easily qualify.
The clipping came from a Toronto paper and was dated August, 1873.
Here was his chance. It was 'now or never.' Fate or Destiny had placed that item in his hands, for a purpose, and that purpose must be fulfilled. Then and there, Hector had resolved to accept the chance....
There was in the dining-room at Silvercrest, carved in stone above the fireplace, a crest and motto, the coat-of-arms of the Colonel's branch of the Adair family. Hector, in the old days, had eagerly gained from his father a full knowledge of the meaning of every device and had even become capable, in time, of reciting every syllable of the heraldic language describing the coat-of-arms. This had been placed upon the shield to commemorate the gallantry of an Adair at Bannockburn; that to symbolize the endurance of another at Sluys. The history of the family was written in the design. And it bore not one vestige of dishonour.
"Remember, Hector," the Colonel had often said fiercely, "the shield is clean. Mind you keep it so!"
Beneath the clean shield was the motto, consisting of two words only, but in these words also might be read the story of a mighty line:
'Strong.—Steadfast.'
All that 'Strong' can mean, all that 'Steadfast' can imply,, the Adairs had always been. Woe betide the luckless wight who should be the first to deviate from it!
'Strong! Steadfast!'
Strong and steadfast Hector would have to be if he was to maintain the honour of the Adairs in the times before him. His feet were on the sunset trail. At its end was Life, swift and fierce and terrible. Years and years of battling through wild winters and blazing summers, on barren mountains, lifeless prairies, and death-dominated rivers lay before him and in that Western land the hands of many men—merciless Indians, murderous horse-thieves, gamblers, whiskey-traders and desperadoes—would be against him—against him and his comrades of the Police. He knew it. He knew that the Force would be but a handful scattered over a vast wilderness which it must protect and eventually free from the domination of innumerable enemies. He knew the greatness of the task to be achieved before the Flag could wave in security from sea to sea. Here was a wonderful opportunity, a real fight to win, a splendid objective. It should have frightened him. Instead he welcomed it. He was as fitted for the work before him as any man could be.
'Strong. Steadfast.'
I
At Winnipeg, straggling its hundred-odd houses, its dozen stores, its sturdy churches and its garish saloons along the muddy trail, the column found the entire population awaiting them. During the winter the Police had made many staunch friends. There were cheery greetings enough and to spare for Hector as he rode along with his comrades through the little crowd. Here was a shout and a wave from Big Jim Hackett, owner of theHell's Gatesaloon, there a smiling blush from pretty Miss Sinclair, one of the local lights, which drew upon him a volley of chaff. Stout, grizzled, jovial and 'unco' canny' Andrew Ferguson, the village baker, received him with a round of Gaelic and a burst of Cree which betrayed his parentage. Johnny Oakdale, the little hardware man with whom Hector had become pleasantly intimate when they erected stoves at the lower fort months before, gave him a shake of the hand which was worth a dozen noisier welcomes.
Now that the hour when he must part with these great-hearted friends was actually upon him, Hector found himself stirred with regret. Recalling happy times, he almost wished that he could remain in the settlement forever or, better still, take the entire population into the North-West with him.
II
Arriving at Dufferin, they joined in preparing for their tremendous march. The Commissioner and the rest of the Force came into camp, bringing more horses and wagons and an army of agricultural implements—they would be dependent entirely on themselves for food in the country to which they were going. A marvellous atmosphere took possession of the camp. The crews of theGolden Hind, theSanta Mariaand theNonsuch, which carried Drake and Columbus and the first officers of the Hudson's Bay Company into the new and unknown world, must have felt just such an atmosphere as they got ready for sea. La Verandrye, Champlain, La Salle were close kin to the men of the Mounted Police assembling at Dufferin.
Languid June drifted into the sunny splendors of July and the white-helmeted, red-coated little column began its march Westward.
To establish posts through that great wilderness, now tenanted only by a few white settlers, Hudson's Bay traders and other traders who dealt in poison-whiskey with nomadic bands of Indians; and from these posts to enforce over every yard of that immensity the laws of Canada—that was their task. They played the dual role of soldier-pioneers.
But they were soldiers and soldiers only in the routine that governed them in camp and on the march. From dawn to dusk, each day slipped easily by. The advance led them over mile on mile of wind-swept prairie blazing with wild flowers, trilling with the songs of birds and insects, dappled with sun and shadow, sweetly perfumed, a hundred tales of hoof and claw on its broad surface and the cloudless sky above. Sunset, when the tired teams halted, the tents sprang up, the wagons marshalled themselves into line abreast, the scouts and guards came loping in and the smoke of cooking fires arose—sunset, when the glories of the Kingdom of Heaven flamed for a moment in the dusk, was an hour of splendor. Then, after supper, the older officers told them strange stories, they sang choruses to the accompaniment of mouth-organ, concertina or violin, and the happy half-breed drivers danced the Red River jig on a special door they carried in the carts. Coffee followed and a general departure to the tents; more laughing as all hands settled down for the night; and so they came to the last bugle-call of a day punctuated by bugle-calls, 'Lights Out' quivered dolefully through the lines, the orange cones of glowing canvas vanished one by one and the deep silence of night in vast spaces, broken only by the occasional stamping of restless horses, descended on the camp, leaving the sentries to watch the stars alone.
There was plenty of hard work and much discomfort, rising towards the end, for some of them, to real hardship. But they were young and as keen and vigorous as steel blades. They cheerfully stood it all.
Hector preferred duty with the advance-guard or scouts to anything else. There was much more to see and do there, and courage, strength and intense vigilance were essential. Many useful lessons were to be learned in front and, above all, the teacher was the finest scout, the wisest plainsman, the surest horseman in the column, old in Indian fighting, versed in all the legends of the country, knowing the Indians as a mother knows her children and the prairies as a postman knows his beat. Though usually silent and distant, this giant seemed to take a fancy to Hector and unbent to him always. After a time they made a custom of riding together. He was guide and interpreter; a quarter breed; and Martin Brent his name.
Old Martin told Hector everything he knew, and started him fairly off towards being one of the best men in the Force.
As they moved forward, week by week, through sun and storm, intense heat, dead calm, cold rain and blustering wind, the country changed. The wide levels of plain dotted with small bushes became little ridges, sharp bluffs and rounded hills. Then a maze of rivers appeared before them, running in all directions but Martin led them unerringly through. Next came a bolder roll of prairie, with wider valleys and steeper, larger crests, sweeping on again to blend with the confused jumble of foot-hills which fringe the Rocky Mountains. The Commissioner at last turned back Eastward. The Assistant-Commissioner pushed on, Hector's division with him. Indians hovered restlessly on their flanks and came to visit them with tokens of friendship. Not a shot was fired against them. Once they passed through immense herds of buffalo, covering the plains for miles like a restless sea, the rear-guard of a tribe fast disappearing. At last the long-expected mountains rose in the Assistant-Commissioner's path, marking the limits of their journey, a line of blanketed chiefs, a ridge of wintry sea hurling silvery crests against long palisades of angry sunset.
Here they halted and prepared to build their barracks, the great trek ended.
A thousand miles, or little less, had been covered since they left Dufferin. In their trail blossomed flowers of law and order. The wilderness became a Land of Promise as they passed. Today the iron road, laden with the traffic of a continent, gleams where their wagons rolled. Prosperous farms rise everywhere on the expanse which to them was only an Indian hunting-ground. Young towns stand where they pitched their lonely tents. Proud cities blaze and thunder where they built their lonely forts and in peace and ease a People reap the harvest sown by them in peril and privation.
III
Before winter took full command the barracks were built—rough cabins, enclosed in a stockade—and the Flag hoisted. They christened the place Fort Macleod, in honour of their chief.
In the meantime, callers came and left their cards, came from everywhere—white men and Indians—but especially Indians. One of the first visitors was Crowfoot, chief of the Blackfoot Nation, who rode in with his fellow-chiefs of the Bloods and Piegans, a Prince of the Plains surrounded by his Court. They were tall, straight, fearless men, well armed, dressed in buffalo-robes or gay blankets, richly beaded moccasins and leggings, brass rings round their neat black braids, feathers in their hair. Martin began the pow-wow by presenting them to the Assistant-Commissioner. Then they squatted in a semi-circle before him and passed around the pipe of peace.
When the Colonel had explained the why and wherefore of the Force and Martin had interpreted, his long hair thrown back, his eyes blazing, the chiefs stood up in turn and gave thanks. They told of the devastating fire-water, of women carried away, of robes and horses stolen, of pillage and butchery endured at the hands of beastly white men. They showed themselves facing starvation through the wanton destruction of the buffalo. But now, they said, those days were past.
"Before you came, we crept in terror of our lives," said The Gopher. "Today we walk erect and are men."
Most eloquent of all was Crowfoot himself.
"Hear me," he began, "for I speak for every man, woman and child of the Blackfoot Nation." Then, baring his arm and with proud gestures, he went on. "I thank the Great White Mother and the One Above who rules us all because they have sent to us the Shagalasha, the red-coats, to save us from the bad white man and from ourselves. The Shagalasha are our friends. When we see them we lower our rifles and show them the open hand. What you have said is good and what you say shall be the law. I have spoken."
Hector, hearing these words interpreted, remembered how they had marched unchallenged through thousands of Indians, looked at his scarlet coat and, with a strange thrill of pride, understood.
Other visitors came to Fort Macleod in those early days—white men—spies sent by the whiskey-traders, curious American horsemen, and a few settlers, who thanked God, as Crowfoot had done, for sending the Police to deliver them from the drunken Indian and the low-down white. Of the settlers, none was so thankful, none became so popular in the course of a few calls, as Joe Welland, who lived on a homestead of sorts some sixty miles to the south, on St. Mary's River.
A keen-faced, clean-shaven, strong-handed man was Welland, tawny-haired, lean, sinewy as a broncho and as hard. He came in one day from what he called his 'ranch,' riding a fast mustang which he handled as easily as an expert dancer handles his partner on a ball-room floor. First he called on the Assistant-Commissioner, hat in hand, showing him the respect which was his due and telling him that the arrival of the Police was something for which he had prayed ever since he first came West. Thence he went to see 'the boys,' who received him cordially and consented to smoke some excellent cigars which, somehow, even in that wilderness, he could offer them. He revealed a quiet, congenial manner and wits which were as sharp as needles.
His antecedents, such as they were, were satisfactory, representing all his respectable neighbours knew of him, which was not much. From them the boys learned: First, that Welland was well educated; second, had been born in North America, none knew exactly where; third, had lived in the country at least ten years; fourth, was of unimpeachable character; fifth, seemed apparently well off; sixth, was one of the 'livest' men in the Canadian North-West; seventh, like most of his fellows, was a squaw-man.
"You'll like Welland," said the honest traders. "He's dead against the whiskey-men. And he'll surely help to make things lively!"
IV
A short time before Christmas Welland met and halted Hector on the trail outside the fort.
"We're going to have as real a Christmas here as you can get in this God-forsaken country, Hector," he announced. "The officers and men will chip in a day's pay. The store-keepers will help us out and we'll form a citizens' committee. We're going to have a dance and dinner and ask every decent man and woman we can lay our hands on. The Old Man's consented, but it's a secret so far. So mum's the word."
"That's fine, Joe," said Hector—there had grown up quite an intimacy between them. "Who started the idea? First I've heard of it."
"S-s-h!" replied Welland, twinkling. "Not a word, boy. I—I started it myself. You see, I thought this-ud be a lonely Christmas for you young fellows, the first in a strange land, and we'd better help to make it a merry one. A sort of combined affair, it'll be, d'you see—welcome on our part, house-warming on yours."
"Good of you, Joe," Hector asserted.
"Bosh! Another thing—I'm going to suggest you for your committee."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Hector. "Don't do that, Joe."
"Why not?" asked Welland, smiling a little.
"Well—you see—first of all—I—the boys might think I'd put you up to it. They know we're friendly. Second, I don't want to push myself. If they want to elect me, let them do it on their own. Besides, I don't know anything about these things."
Welland set out to crush this youthful modesty.
"Now, look, Hec'. This will be done quiet and nice and proper. There won't be any harming you in the eyes of the boys. I'll just tip Sergeant-Major Whittaker that I want you on the committee because I think you're one of the most suitable men they can elect. He'll put you forward—he thinks as I do—and then you'll get a place. You're a gentleman born. You've seen how parties should be run—yes, you have!—and you're popular. Young? Hang it, boy! What does your age matter? There's not a more manly or popular character in the whole Force. Come, Hec', to oblige me! Well, I don't care whether you like it or not—you're going on this committee!"
With that he rode away.
Hector hated this favouritism but was none the less flattered. Welland, it seemed, had taken a fancy to him at the first meeting—had apparently singled him out from the ruck. And now this remarkable demonstration of the man's esteem had come. Welland was one of the best friends of the Force in the country. To be singled out for his favours was a high compliment. But Hector didn't want to be on the committee!
A few days later, at Sergeant-Major Whittaker's instigation, he found himself elected. Preparations commenced. Welland was mainly responsible for their success.
Welland it was who acted as the link between the Police and the civilians, advised the Assistant-Commissioner on a hundred points and, though he modestly refused a place on the committee himself, did more than any other man to help the thing forward. He won the co-operation of the grouchiest store-keepers; solved the difficulty of obtaining enough flags to decorate the ball-room by having them manufactured at Fort Benton, in Montana, the nearest town; soothed all disunity among the members of the citizens' committee with a quiet word here, a story there; and oiled all the wheels of the preliminaries with a master-hand.
And, when the festivities had actually started, Welland was always at hand. If a guest became unruly, he brought him to his senses without disturbing for one moment the smooth tide of convivial joy. If the fiddlers got drunk before the dance, Welland had them in their places, tuning up, as fresh as daisies, when the hour for music came. To crown it all, he was so self-effacing that he might have been a helpful unseen spirit rather than a man.
As for Hector, the Colonel afterwards congratulated him on the part he had played in the arrangements.
"I owe this to Welland," Hector thought, a sentiment which would have greatly pleased that honest gentleman, as it happened to be true.
I
But there was more work than play for the Police in those early days, when they were striking at the roots of disorder.
The most powerful of their foes was the whiskey-trader. To the extermination of the whiskey-trader they directed a special campaign. Hardly a day went by through all the winter which did not see an expedition starting out to raid some distant outfit or returning with prisoners and spoil. A long ride through solitary darkness, a careful bit of scouting to surround the blissfully ignorant camp, a sudden swoop at dawn with levelled carbines and sometimes with a flurry of resistance; the guilty parties taken, the robes and liquor confiscated—thus went the programme. Courage, endurance, cunning, endless patience were all required to win success in the great game and no man employed on a whiskey raid could claim that his talents were wasted.
'Red-hot' Dan was operator, single-handed, of a den near the boundary-line. He was also a desperate character.
But no law-breaker, however desperate, could go unchallenged now. The Police must deal with him as with all. An exception, however, was made to this extent: the party was picked unusually carefully.
Sergeant-Major Whittaker led it. Martin Brent went with him as scout and guide. The three others were Constable Cranbrook; Constable Bland, the finest marksman in the Force; and Constable Adair.
The trumpeter was sounding 'Reveille' as they left Fort Macleod and turned their horses southward.
At dusk they reached Joe Welland's shack, where they proposed to pass the night. A light gleamed through the grimy panes.
"The King's in his Castle," remarked Cranbrook.
Sergeant-Major Whittaker knocked. Welland opened the door, a startled exclamation springing to his lips at sight of the scarlet coats.
"Good God!" he cried sharply. Then, "Oh, it's you! You scared me, boys. I never know who's prowling 'round in parts like these. But welcome—come right in."
"Did you think we'd come for you, old chap?" laughed Cranbrook, as they clanked across the threshold.
"You might have done, at that!" Welland grinned. "But what's the game, boys? Eh? Never mind that now, though. Whatever it is, you'll eat and spend the night here. I won't take 'No.'"
"Here's our orders to you, Welland," replied the Sergeant-Major. "A place for five horses; water for the same; use of your fire for cooking grub for four hungry men and a boy"—with a smiling nod at Hector—"and shelter till we choose to move."
"Done! I know you're after some darn whiskey-trader; so you're welcome more than ever," cried Welland. "Hey, Lizzie; fix fire, get table ready—quick, mighty quick. You're going to eat on me, Sergeant-Major."
At Welland's command, his squaw, a poor, bedraggled object, in home-made skirt and blanket, her hair braided and looped up behind, emerged from a corner and began to obey the orders of her lord and master.
"Now, the stable. Not a soul will guess your horses are there!"
He was a shrewd customer.
The horses put up, they all sat down to supper, while Lizzie waited on them. Welland treated her roughly and Hector's estimation of him bumped down suddenly. As they ate, Hector studied the room, which he had never seen before. It gave a not unfavourable insight into the owner's character. Surprisingly well furnished, it was carpeted in buffalo robes, its walls were hung with wolf skins, and pictures of places and people dear to Welland alternated with cuts from magazines to give it a touch of civilization. A couch covered by a gay Navajo blanket occupied a corner. Several first-class rifles stood in racks. There were books on shelves. This was the home of a man of at least some culture.
"Think it funny to see those bindings here, Hec'?" the observant Welland asked. "I tell you, Joe's not as rough a diamond as he looks. I couldn't leave Bill Shakespeare behind me when I first came West; and I find a lot of people in these parts remind me of Don Quixote!"
Hector wondered if that was a dig at the Police. But he let it pass.
After supper, Welland for the first time broached the subject of their expedition.
"You'll find that 'Red-hot' Dan a real tough nut to crack," he said.
Hector wondered how Welland had guessed. Trained by this time to conceal his thoughts, however, he gave no sign. The laconic Martin did not move a muscle. The road was clear for Sergeant-Major Whittaker.
"I've heard he is," he answered smoothly. No blind betrayal of their purpose there!
"You have? Then you'll be careful what you do."
"When we arrest him—yes."
"I'd shoot at sight if I were you."
"We never shoot at sight in the Police, Joe."
"But 'Red-hot' Dan does."
"What's he got to do with us?"
"See here, Sergeant-Major—why not trust me? You needn't play you're not going after Dan, because I know you are. He's the only whiskey-trader operating 'round here and——"
"Trust you? Why, of course we trust you!" laughed the cunning Sergeant-Major. "But we don't talk about our work to—outsiders."
"I guess I should be snubbed!" said Welland. "That's a nasty slap to a man who wants to help you. I'm talking for your good when I tell you Dan's a devil. Wait till I tell you——"
And he narrated several stories of the trader's daring.
"Now," he concluded, "if that won't satisfy you, ask Martin there. Isn't Dan a dangerous man, Martin?"
Martin, apparently asleep, pricked up his ears like a dozing dog.
"You bet," he said.
"There!" Welland declared. "The whole country knows these things. You're new—and you should be warned."
"Trying to frighten us?" the Sergeant-Major asked.
"Yes, I am. If you'll take my tip, you'll go back to Fort Macleod for reinforcements. Five of you can't take Dan without bloodshed."
"You don't think much of us, that's sure." Whittaker smiled. "Now look, Joe Welland! We appreciate your warnings—but—how d'you know we're after 'Red-hot' Dan? And suppose we were—could we go back to the fort without trying to get him? How about Dan? Wouldn't he get wind of us and skip while we were away? How about our orders? But what's the use? Who said we're after him?"
"You're taking chances!"
"We can take 'em!" said the Sergeant-Major, fiercely brushing his moustaches.
"All right. Have it your own way! I've warned you, anyhow." Welland was obviously disappointed. "My hands are clean!"
II
At four o'clock, having covered the twenty miles between Welland's and the trader's in excellent time, they found themselves near the scene of action. The Sergeant-Major ordered Cranbrook to stay behind with the horses and the rest of them crawled to the edge of the ridge overlooking 'Red-hot' Dan's cabin.
Hector's heart beat fast. This was the first experience promising real danger which had fallen to him since he joined the Force.
Down in the long valley they saw the hut—grey, lonely, forbidding, in the dawn. But—unexpected blow!—it seemed deserted. In all the valley there was no sign of life. The shack was like a skull in the desert. Life had been there. It was there no longer. Had the wolf scented their coming and—taken to his heels?
"By the Lord!" muttered the Sergeant-Major, between clenched teeth, "the beggar's gone!"
Martin smiled cunningly.
"You think so?Idon't! You see no trail going away—no. The beggar home, all right! But he play dead. No time get away, so he think: 'Pretend me gone. Foolum.' See?"
Light dawned on the Sergeant-Major's countenance.
"Now, listen: Dead snake always most bad snake. Always be more careful with dead snake. Make good plan now—he there, I bet you."
And so, assuming Dan at home, they made their plan. Keeping under cover, they crept to a point very near the shack. Sergeant-Major Whittaker posted Bland to cover the door from one hand, Martin from the other. To order the trader to come out was, they knew, quite useless. He would not surrender while the shack afforded him shelter. They must persuade him to admit them—then seize him. At the first sign of resistance, Martin and Bland were to shoot the man dead as he stood in the doorway.
"Come on, Adair," the Sergeant-Major smiled coolly. "You an' me must do the dirty work. Keep the bracelets handy."
So, their revolvers in their holsters, the pair of them approached the shack on the blind or windowless side. The sun was almost over the horizon. No sound, no movement betrayed a human presence in the shack. But one significant fact became obvious as they crept 'round to the front. The windows had been stoutly barricaded.
Close to the door they were, now—the air taut as a violin string.
The Sergeant-Major, motioning to Hector to remain where he was, strode boldly from cover and rapped thunderously on the heavy portal.
They heard only the echoes dapping through the rooms. Was there really no one there?
Again the Sergeant-Major knocked—twice—three times—without result. Then, like a drill instructor on the square, he bellowed:
"Open that door there—in the Queen's name!"
And then the answer came. A streak of flame flashed out, and a deafening report. Hector heard the bullet zip past him. The Sergeant-Major pitched down upon his face.
'Red-hot' Dan was 'Red-hot' Dan indeed—and decidedly at home!
III
Hector acted as his natural courage bade him; but how he got the Sergeant-Major away he never rightly knew. Bullets buzzed all 'round him as Martin and Bland maintained a rapid fire to cover his retreat. Through a tiny loophole in one of the barricaded windows keen eyes watched him as he dropped on his knees and crawled out to the motionless form. From this loophole other bullets came ringing, in quest of his life. Mechanically he lifted the little Sergeant-Major and slung him over his shoulders—his hot young strength standing him in good stead. A minute more and he was safely back with Bland and Martin, gazing stupidly at the Sergeant-Major, now lying on the ground, and asking, "Is he dead?"
His clothes were shot through, his hands bloody and he felt sick and shaken. But the spasm passed, leaving him—ready for anything.
Bred and trained for leadership, this was his opportunity. The Sergeant-Major knocked out, command of the party fell naturally into Hector's hands, hands preordained and long prepared to grapple with just such a menace. He had no thought of the benefits which would come to him if he dealt with it successfully. He only saw that someone must take the Sergeant-Major's place. He felt his powers rising to the occasion like a thoroughbred rising to a leap.
The Sergeant-Major, shot through the chest, was not dead but in great pain. Obviously, he must be sent away at once. Hector, now firmly in the saddle of authority, was already at grips with his problems.
"Tommy," he said to Bland, "I want you to take the Sergeant-Major back to Cranbrook. He'll manage it if you take your time. Then get on your horse, put the S.-M. on his, and ride back to Welland's. After you get there, leave him with Welland and go on to the fort. Report to the Colonel and he'll send a cart and medical help to Welland's. Is that all clear?"
Bland nodded.
"Then listen. When you start for Welland's, ride with the Sergeant-Major over that ridge there, in front of the shack. Tell Cranbrook to follow you, leaving the other horses hobbled for the time being. After you're over that ridge, make straight for Welland's, while Cranbrook will go back by a detour, under cover, to where he leaves the horses and wait till we come. I'll tell you why I want this done. The fellow in that shack only knows that there are three of us—the S.-M. and myself, because he saw us, and someone else who fired at the house while I brought the S.-M. back. So when he sees three of you, one wounded, ride back over that ridge, he'll think you the whole party—that we've all gone off. Then he'll come out or get careless and we can surprise him. Savvy?"
"You're a corker, Hec'!" said Bland.
Hector's instructions were carried out precisely. In half an hour he saw three horsemen move slowly over the ridge, one supported by a rider on each side. They were in full view from the barricaded windows and their scarlet coats could be seen.
But the garrison of the shack was in no hurry to emerge. An hour passed—two—three. Hunger dug its claws into Hector. Nevertheless, he decided to wait till doomsday. Patience, he knew, would decide this battle. The force that held out longest would win.
If only 'Red-hot' Dan and his colleagues—if he had any—would show their noses for just a minute, the whole thing would be over. Hector's game was to hold them up, keeping under cover himself and to shoot them out of hand if they resisted. Dan, however, was too sly a bird. The afternoon wore on and still no sign of him was seen. Either he feared a trap or was perfectly content to spend the day indoors.
It was when his patience was exhausted that Hector evolved his second scheme. Pondering the situation, it came to him in a flash of inspiration. He confided in Martin. The interpreter's patience was inexhaustible and, knowing that the waiting game was the sure game, he had not troubled to seek out any other. But now he vowed that the little tenderfoot was a clever little fellow and threw himself whole-heartedly into the plan.
Hector, taking off his boots, crawled up behind the shack and so to the roof, taking pains to make no noise. Then he awaited developments.
In time another actor came upon the scene, but from the front and marching openly forward. He was a half-naked Indian carrying a rifle in his hand. He knocked at the door. Hector's spirits leaped. The first sound of a human voice from within came floating gruffly upward:
"Who's there?"
The Indian, in Blackfoot, demanded fire-water. A panel in the door was opened and a face looked out cautiously. The moment, now, was at hand. Would the trader open the door?
'Red-hot' Dan, the Police forgotten, emerged, a cupful of liquor in his hand. The Indian raised his eyes—the signal meaning they had only one man to conquer. Straight and true, with deadly force and swiftness, Hector launched himself full upon the trader. The Blackfoot dropped his rifle, too. Their enemy resisted desperately, the atmosphere electric with his fair round oaths. But Hector's weight and strength and Martin's powerful aid—the Blackfoot was only Martin, undressed for the occasion—were far too much for him. In half a minute all was over. Hector had the handcuffs on his victim and 'Red-hot' Dan, terror of the plains, fiercest whiskey-trader in the country, lay sprawling beneath him, a hoodwinked prisoner.
IV
The Assistant-Commissioner promoted Hector to corporal for that day's capture, and set his feet on the long, steep road to victory.
I
From beneath the skirt of the teepee a young prairie chicken emerged—no ordinary prairie chicken, but an absurd thing dressed in a little pair of trousers and a scrap of scarlet blanket. Hector grinned. The chicken stood irresolute, looking wildly 'round for a favourable avenue of escape. While it hesitated, two small brown hands and arms appeared from under the teepee and frantically searched the air. The chicken danced away. A dishevelled head next wriggled its way into the open air, two bright black eyes flashed a pitiful appeal to Hector, a soft voice cried:
"Oh, pony-soldier, please, pony-soldier—catch my prairie chicken—catch my baby!"
Burly Corporal MacFarlane, Hector's companion in this stroll through the Assiniboine encampment, smiled heavily but made no move. Hector started off in pursuit.
The ground was rough, his boots and spurs were very heavy, the agility of the baby was amazing and the crowded teepees were serious obstacles. Hector dashed 'round and 'round, close behind. He tripped, scraped his hands, stumbled up, heard MacFarlane's encouraging "For'ard on!" made another desperate effort, crashed over a box and emerged from the wreckage triumphant, the baby shrilling in his arms.
"Got him, Mac!" he called. "Now, where's the owner of this independent bird?"
He was at the teepee in a moment, but of the owner nothing could be seen. Two years and more had taught him that most Indian women were intensely shy with white men. He had learnt something of their languages from Martin Brent—the knowledge was useful in his work—and by this time could speak them fairly fluently. The little squaw had been overcome by shyness but was not far away.
He summoned her in her own tongue:
"Here is your prairie chicken, O chieftain's daughter! Come and get your prairie chicken!"
No answer came.
"O chieftain's daughter," he cooed seductively, "do not keep the poor pony-soldier waiting. And your baby!"
The charm brought results in time. Two hands were thrust from the door of the teepee, the fingers stretched to take the bird, but of the lady herself nothing was visible.
Hector was disappointed.
"Why don't you come out?" he coaxed. "Surely you will thank the pony-soldier—the poor pony-soldier who ran so far to bring your baby back?"
She came.
Hector had leisure now to confirm first impressions. She was very pretty, in her Indian way. Her gentle eyes, clear and limpid as a fawn's, glanced shyly upward at his own. Her lips, on which the smiles were trembling, were red petals from the prairie rose. The two thick plaits in which her hair was braided were of that rich blue-black which is the exclusive birthright of Indians and Latins. She wore an elaborately beaded buckskin dress, which truly marked her as the daughter of a chief. The rare beauty of her body, unspoilt by heavy work, the looseness of her dress could not conceal. Hector could not place her age, but she was delightfully young; and that was good enough.
"Take it," he said gravely, handing her the bird.
Taking it, her small fingers mingling with his, she spoke at last, a swift smile bringing light to her face, like a rainbow in sad skies.
"Thank you, pony-soldier, for catching my baby."
Serious, then, both were, till all at once the humour of the situation struck her and her smile flashed back to break in little rills of laughter. She laughed like a child, with her whole body. Hector burst out laughing, too, his spirit echoing back her mood. MacFarlane, behind, growled peevishly. A moment more and her shyness was back again. Her pet on her breast, a final word of thanks on her lips, she vanished, leaving Hector standing there.
"You laugh with my daughter, my son? That is good—for to laugh is to be happy."
Hector turned, surprised.
Before him stood a chief—a minor chief, as chiefs went, but as fine a figure as the plains could boast of, the very soul of chieftainship. He was tall and spare, straight and majestic as a pine, dressed in a barbaric splendor which became him to perfection. But his greatness was written mainly in his face. The wisdom of a hundred medicine men, made rich by long years of life, was in it, with strength, true strength—which is utterly devoid of arrogance or vanity—the calmness of a meditative mind, vast dignity and high authority. And his long white hair and mighty war-bonnet framed it all with glory.
"You laugh with her—is it not so?" he said.
"She has a cheerful heart," Hector answered, finding his voice.
"And you," the chief asserted, "you have one, too. But kind also—few white men would run to catch the pet belonging to a little squaw." He smiled. "You are interested in us? So you walk through the camp to see us?"
"Yes," said Hector.
"That is good, for we are brothers, you and I, though I call you 'son.' You must come and see us when you will. We are—you know it?—of the Assiniboines. My name is Sleeping Thunder, and my daughter's name is Moon-on-the-Water. So you will find us."
Moon-on-the-Water! She was like her name.
"I will come and see you soon, Sleeping Thunder," replied Hector.
As they walked away, MacFarlane threw in a ponderous comment.
"Funny old man! Girl's pretty, though—for an In'jun. You made a hit there, Hec'!"
II
Sleeping Thunder's camp was only one of many gathered together that day in the Fort Macleod country, where the Indians were to meet the Queen's officials to make a treaty. Hector's division was there on escort duty.
The years had brought swift and sweeping changes. To-day Hector was a senior sergeant, though still in the early twenties, knowing his work inside out, intimate with the red men, an expert catcher of criminals and particularly of whiskey-traders, his special game. Honest, hard, dangerous work had put the triple chevrons on his arm. And drawing nearer every day, though still a dreary distance off, the first faint flashes of the higher light he sought were slowly opening before his eyes.
The Police had wrought great things in the few years behind them. The whiskey traffic had been much reduced and the old system of trading posts was gone, entirely and forever. The effect had been to convert the Indian to ways of peace. This in turn had brought the settler in who, up till now, had barely dared to show a timid nose in the country south of the Red Deer. Already the plains were dotted with homesteads, and cattle roamed along the grass lands soon to become tenanted by the immense herds of prosperous ranches. More settlers and more settlers were pouring out from the East. Before they could be accommodated, some title to the lands they wanted must be given them. The red men claimed the whole of the Northwest Territories. They were willing to relinquish them in return for certain privileges. So treaties were made with the great tribes in turn. And now the tribes of the Macleod district had come together to make their treaty too.