"Then I won't bully you by asking questions, dear. I love you too much for that. I came the first moment I could when I got the button."
"What button?" she asked with the frankest innocence.
"What button!" he laughed. "A little bit of brass that said 'Come back'—that said 'I love you, Blackguard, though you are a bad lot.'"
"You are, you know."
"I was until I loved you, dear; but now—by the mercy that is in love—I'm good again. Do you know what is the loveliest thing God ever made?—Laughter and tears mixed up in a woman's face. And you've confessed you love me!"
"Don't be silly."
"That means, don't wait," and so he kissed her on the lips.
"I don't think I quite love you, after all; you've never put on your uniform yet when you've come to see me. I suppose I'm not worth all that trouble, though."
"I will next time," he said,—"for our wedding-day."
"Our what?"
"Sit down and I'll tell you."
"Won't your horse run away?"
"Who could run away when you're in sight, Violet?"
"That's quite nice. They say things like that in a novel."
She sat down beside him, and they two watched the black horse smelling the local grass with an air of disparagement.
"It's very silly of you to marry a Blackguard, Violet."
"I never said I would."
"They only say it in books. In life they mean it. Do you know, I've nothing to marry on but three pigs, a few boxes of cigars, one hundred dollars, and the chance of a job breaking horses? Now, I suppose you could do much better than that, eh?"
"A house in Park Lane," she said, "and dinners for City people in the evenings; but I mustn't interrupt him while he's busy."
Her hand stole into his, and he kissed it after the manner, perhaps, of the Spanish Court. Then he thought—after the manner of the Blackguard—that lips were not so cold, and more responsive.
They were.
"Do you know," she said, half frightened, "that this moss is very damp?"
"My lips are still very dry."
At that she sprang up, laughing. "Catch me," she cried; "catch me," and she ran for the woods.
Since the Blackguard's time had nearly expired, the Colonel sent for him.
"Sit down, La Mancha; I want a few words with you."
"Thank you, sir." The Blackguard removed his forage cap, and sat down on a camp-stool just within the tent.
"The Sergeant-Major tells me that you do not wish to 'take on' again. We have served together some years now, La Mancha."
"And jolly good years they were, sir."
The Colonel smiled. "Well, I don't grudge them—we've had a good mistress to serve, besides fine work to do for her, breaking in this rough young country; but perhaps it's just as well to think of the future."
"I hear, sir, that you've bought a big ranche near Macleod."
"Yes, I hope to serve as a citizen for the rest of my time. If ever you come that way I can promise you a welcome."
"Thank you, Colonel; I shall remember that."
"You see, La Mancha, all my best men have left me one by one. Two of them fell during the Rebellion, one shot himself, Peters died of mountain fever at Battleford, Buster Joe is ranching in Montana, Jones the Less writes to me from London, where he is doing well, and—but you know. One can't take such an interest in the recruits—shave-tails, you call them, and so forth; and now that things are settling tamely down, we're not so necessary as we were. New times, new manners—I don't blame you for taking your freedom. What are your plans, La Mancha?"
"First, I'm going to marry."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir, the Burrows girl up at the Throne. At first I hope to do something at breaking horses, then take land down the valley. Her life won't be rougher than it is now."
The Colonel smiled, because at last he knew the secret of La Mancha's reformation.
"May I congratulate you? I do most heartily, for I'm told that she's the nicest and prettiest girl in Kootenay."
"Will you come to the wedding, sir, on the twenty-fifth, at the Mission? The Padre says he'll be ready for me at noon."
"I would like to come very much," said the Colonel; "but among other details—mind I know you well—have you the young lady's consent?"
"She says I'm not half good enough for her—that looks all right, sir,—eh?"
The Colonel laughed. "I'll be there if I can."
"And give the bride away, sir?"
"But how about Burrows?"
"Hang Burrows—he'll have take a back seat."
"One thing more, La Mancha. In this particularly risky business has it occurred to you that you ought to have steady employment?"
"I'll have to turn 'road agent' otherwise."
"Rather than that, I'll give you a note to my friend General Buster, who, I know, is looking out for a good man. Ride down and see to-morrow, and while you're about it take a two weeks' furlough up to the date of your discharge. Why, that's the twenty-fifth, your wedding-day!"
"It's awfully good of you, sir."
"Don't mention it. I'll send you the letter by the Orderly Corporal. Ask him to step this way."
"Oh, you poor devils," said the Blackguard, lying at ease on his blankets, to half a dozen men at work in the tent cleaning their accoutrements for to-morrow's muster parade. "Sweat, you poor workers; ram your button-sticks down your throats for coolness."
One of the boys heaved a boot brush at him, which he caught deftly. "Now I'm richer," he said "by a brush. Gentlemen, this brush of solid squat root, bristled out of the Quartermaster's private beard, heavy with valuable blacking,—how much am I offered for this brush?"
"Damn you and your brush."
"One damn for the brush. Gentlemen, I am offered one for this priceless object of virtue—one damn I am offered,—going at one—going—going—positively thrown away!" and he flung it at the owner's head, making a bull's-eye.
The victim had not time to be resentful, but, wiping his eye with the back of the brush, went on polishing his boot-tops vindictively.
"Lick, spit and polish," laughed the Blackguard. "Every day has its dog; but I'm a free nigger to-morrow. No more parades, no more pack-drill, no more guards, no more cells, no more 'fatigues' save this bed-fatigue, which suits my temperament. I'm a free wolf, and it's my night to howl; I come from Bitter Creek—the higher up the worse the waters—and I'm from the source. Go it, you pigeon-livered shave-tails; clean your harness, you poor-souled recruities, you pemmican-eaters, you ravenous pie-biters, you ring-tailed snorters. This is my song of victory after five years without beer—five years h—l without benefit of clergy, five years everybody's dog on Government rations!
"The Blackguard was taken young and raised on hard tack, was full of skilly, beans, and sow-belly; sweated on parade, rode hell-for-leather after horse-thieves; but now he's going to have a good time being alive, and don't you forget it!"
By this time missiles were flying at him from all directions, but the Blackguard wriggled away, rolled out under the flap of the tent, and went off to chaff Dandy Irvine.
"Look here, Dandy," he burst into the next tent, but his chum was not there.
"Not there. Lord, how I shall miss him," thought the Blackguard, strolling miserably towards the river. "Ah, there he is, sitting just where we sat the night before I turned good. What a fool I was to do it."
He sat down beside the little Corporal.
"Did the Colonel give you a letter for me?"
"Yes—here it is. You have two weeks' leave from to-night."
La Mancha told him all that the Colonel had said.
"You're in luck, old chap."
"Now, don't you get mawkish," said the Blackguard roughly. "The Colonel was bad enough, but I won't stand any rot from you. After all these years,—ye gods, what a wrench it is! I'm as weak as a kitten, and all my bones feel sick. Come over to the lines—I'm going to take my horse these last two weeks, whether they like it or not."
"There'll be an awful row," said Dandy anxiously.
"So much the better. Trouble and I are twins, but I'll have my horse."
"I guess I can stand the racket," said Dandy, as they walked to the lines.
Last post was sounding while La Mancha saddled, and in the midst of his work he turned on Dandy.
"Don't look at me like that! It's all your fault for making me turn respectable. It's against Nature. What would the civilians think if all of you turned into brass-mounted saints like me? Why, they would be sending their sons into the Force for convent training, and adulterate the grandest cavalry in the world. There"—he loosed his horse and flung himself into the saddle. "Cut it short," for Dandy could not let go his hand. "Say good-bye to the boys for me. Good-night—good-bye, and be hanged to you."
So he rode out of the camp at a headlong gallop; but half a mile away drew rein, for "Lights out" was sounding. He took off his hat, and brushed his sleeve across his eyes, because there seemed to be a mist between him and the tents, while through his mind there swept the music of an old-time song which belongs to the Mounted Police—
"The sentry challenged at the open gate,Who pass'd him by, because the hour was late—'Halt! Who goes there?'—'A friend'—'All's well.''A friend, old chap!'—a friend's farewell,And I had pass'd the gate.And then the long last notes were shed,The echoing call's last notes were dead—And sounded sadly as I stood withoutThose last sad notes of all: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out!
Good-bye, you fellows! We have side by sideWatch'd history's lengthen'd shadows past us glide,And worn the scarlet, laughed at pain,And buried comrades lowly lain,And let the long years glide;And toil and hardship have we borne,And followed where the flag had gone—But all the echoes answ'ring round aboutHave bidden you to sleep: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out''
And never more for me the helmet's flash,The trumpet's summons—Oh, the crumbling ashOf life is hope's fruition: FallThe wither'd friendships, and they allAre sleeping! Fast awayThe fabrics of our lives decay,And change unseen and melt away—Ay, perish like the accents of a call,Like those last notes of all: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out!'"
The Blackguard was a terror to evil-minded horses, heavy enough when he chose to almost break their backs, strong enough to inflict most merciless punishment, alert to outwit all manner of devilry, because he had the gift of seeing things from the horse point of view. When they submitted, he could be gentle enough, but that they had to find out by surrendering first to his mastery. He had a wonderful way of disarming the fears and winning the confidence of frightened colts, so that, while the dangerous animals feared him, the gentler beasts found him the best of friends. There is no doubt that from the very start he was the best "buck hero" ever known in Kootenay. Too heavy for a cowboy, he was an excellent teamster, a fairly good hand with an axe, so that General Buster's only misgiving was the fear of losing him.
But he was not happy—a big tree hauled out by the roots cannot be expected to have a very joyful time just at first. Besides that, a thirty years' habit of being bad is stronger than a four months' habit of being good. It seemed now that to be virtuous was to lose all the fun. He would drift a little, and haul up with a jerk; he would rebuke with hard fists some champion of the cowboys; then, thinking that he had done something wrong, look up the Selkirk foothills as though he hoped for further guidance from the Throne. From the skin outwards this Blackguard was an epitome of hardened wickedness, inwardly like a big child. After being thirty years or so without a soul, he was bewildered with the new possession which had delicate little sympathies to be exercised, a kindliness toward men and beasts past all restraint, a weakness for Miss Violet Burrows far stronger than himself. So far as he could see, with limited powers of introspection, his internal anatomy consisted of love and whims. In his bewilderment he wrote to the Padre describing these symptoms, a letter which was received by the Curate with howls of laughter.
If the Blackguard's troubles were comic in the valley, Miss Violet's were tragic upon the mountain. Mr. Burrows had begun to fancy himself as a disciplinarian, confined Miss Violet to the house, and explained his views at great length every evening.
"I will have no more of this nonsense. Your business, Mr. Ramsay, is mining machinery, not the perpetration of matrimony. Matrimony, sir, is a nuisance—early matrimony an utter absurdity. I have always disapproved of"—
"I may mention," said the Tenderfoot, bristling, "that with your consent I am engaged to Miss Violet."
"Booh!" said Miss Violet softly all to herself, looking out upon these lords of creation from behind the sitting-room door. So far as Mr. Burrows knew, the wicked girl was locked up for the night in her own chamber, but then, Mr. Burrows knew very little about anything human, nor did he perceive the elementary facts about a woman. It never occurred to Miss Violet that she was other than very sleepy until he turned the key for her safe keeping. Then she became wide-awake, tried the door, poked about in the lock with a bent hairpin, and to her utter astonishment found that she could release the bolt. So, dressed like an angel in fluttering white, with bare pink feet and mane of streaming hair, she crept across the sitting-room, wondered what the men were plotting in the verandah, and took her station in the shadow behind the door. She stood on one leg timorously, thus leaving only five toes to be preyed upon by imaginary mice, the other foot being curled up because it was cold. Then, when the Tenderfoot announced himself to her Uncle as still engaged to be married, Miss Violet whispered "Booh!"
"Moreover," continued Mr. Ramsay loftily, "my immediate marriage was included in the terms of our agreement as to the mine."
"How dare you dictate to me?"
"You'll see how I dare. Look here, Burrows, your accounts, as I showed you to-day, are all botched up."
Mr. Burrows calmed down partially. "Bah! a trifling oversight like that is not of the slightest consequence. Besides, I would have you realise that I am no mere accountant."
"So I'm writing to the firm at home. They'll turn loose a mere actuary over there."
Mr. Burrows gasped. "To the best of my knowledge and belief"—
"You submit a false balance-sheet backed by an affidavit,—which is perjury in London, Burrows, perjury."
"Bosh! Of course, I must look over the figures before they are actually sent off."
"No, you don't," muttered Mr. Ramsay, who was not half such a fool as he looked.
"What do you say?"
"Oh, nothing. Have you another cigar with you?"
"Here; let me light it for you."
There was a pause for the ceremony.
"Yes," continued Mr. Burrows, "there is, as you say, much room for discussion on both sides. I cannot disguise from you my own anxiety as to the fate of my niece should this disreputable character succeed, as you anticipate, in"—
"A runaway match?" Mr. Ramsay pressed home his advantage. "Of course, you sneered and sneered, although I've warned you again and again that his plans are well-nigh completed. This must be prevented, Mr. Burrows."
"What do you suggest?"
"Well, this experimental mill of yours has got to be wrecked and abandoned anyway. On that the firm insists, and your excuses for delay are getting too thin, Burrows,—altogether too thin."
Mr. Burrows groaned.
"This business of yours, Burrows, must be reported as an utter failure, or we shall find the new ground held at fancy prices. We could have the mill burned to-night by accident, the wedding to-morrow at the Mission; then, you see, Miss Violet would be safe from the Blackguard."
Miss Violet had heard enough, in all conscience, yet for a moment she could not move. Her curled-up foot went boldly down among the imaginary mice upon the floor, for this was more exciting even than live rats. She shivered a little, partly in compliment to the autumn chill, but more with cold fright. Then her growing resentment made the warm blood race through her veins. She flushed with indignation, and in another minute, boiling over with rage, would have rushed out upon her enemies. But no; on second thoughts, she had a man to do her fighting, a big brave man, whose wickedness would be turned toward her adversaries, whose love toward herself.
"Blackguard," she whispered into the air,—"dear true Blackguard, you might be ever so bad, but you're not a coward like this Charlie."
Silently she crept across the room, in breathless terror unlocked the back door of the cabin and looked out. The chill struck her instantly. She glanced doubtfully at her bare feet, then, because she could hardly feel respectable even by starlight no better dressed than one of the angels, she stole to her bedroom for clothes. There panic seized her, so, grabbing up a cloak and a pair of slippers, she fled out into the solitude of the hills. Across the open she ran from cover to cover, from rock to rock, stopping at times, holding her breath as she looked back, lest some crackling twig should betray her. One slipper was lost already in a morass, but she went on, her poor bare foot bleeding with a cut from some stone. Her long hair caught among the branches when she had gained the wood, and all the shadows of the trees were full of awful eyes, of staring spectres, of nameless beasts who would spring out upon her if she looked. Down the long hills she fled, stumbling, falling, tearing her cloak, suffering agonies from thorns and stones, and greater agonies from things unseen. And so the poor child came sobbing to the Tough Nut cabin. The good prospectors would take a message for her; they need not see her, because she would hide, and when she had roused them with her cries would speak to them out of the very deep shadows.
But when she called and called there was no answer; when at last she dared come nearer, creeping up with many a start of sudden fright, she saw a padlock glimmering on the door. The cabin was empty, the prospectors were away.
"Shorty!" she cried. "Oh, Long Leslie, where are you? Help! Help!"
The silence sank down heavily upon the woods, all the spaces of the hills lay in a breathless slumber, from the black sky dead Alps looked down like ghosts, and the stars were so far away.
"What shall I do, dearest? How shall I bring you to me. Oh, my love, my love!"
She sank down sobbing upon the ground, the ground which was all covered with gleaming pine chips left by the miners' axes, the chips which they always used to kindle fires. To kindle fires? She looked up, wiping the tears away with her long hair. They used these scented chips to kindle fires, and she would kindle such a blaze that night that the news of it should go forth all over the valley. Then the Blackguard would come to see what was the matter.
So she set off along the hillside, racked with miserable cold, with bitter pain, the tears dried stiff upon her cheeks, and dragged herself to the mill, the mill which was to be burned in any case. There should be no doubt as to the mill. She opened the lower door, the office door—there upon the table were papers. He had been working there all day—had been very tired—had forgotten this once to put them into the safe. There was a bunch of matches beside them, and on the ground outside bushels of chips to make the fire burn up, and in the corner of the office a five-gallon can of lamp oil. So she piled up her fuel against the outer wall.
That night there was a blaze upon the mountains, the mill and the woods were all afire. So news went out along the valley.
The Blackguard, coming to the mill at high noon, found it a smouldering ruin, and the woods above a smoking waste, full of charred trunks. Going round by way of the Tough Nut Claim, he gained the upper moorland, wrapped in a choking dry mist, out of which rose the Throne cabins, gaunt, spectral, desolate. The doors were locked, the windows barred hastily across with a few rough planks, the stable empty. Down the hills he rode, his black horse lathered with sweat, his face haggard as he followed the trail of three riders. Ramsay had led, Miss Violet followed, Burrows taking the rear, all down the swaying curves of the steep places, and along the sinuous path through heavy timber. They had not stayed to even pack their clothes; they had not watered their horses at the spring; they had moved before daybreak, to judge by the blundering course, and Miss Violet had left here and there tokens, as though he needed any further incentive, shreds of white among fallen leaves, torn from a handkerchief.
At last the Blackguard drew rein at the foot of the mountains. He looked towards the camp where lay Arrapahoe Bill, tended by the Mexican, recovering from an interview with a grizzly bear; he looked along the trail toward the Mission, whither, to judge by the scraps of cambric, Miss Violet had been carried much against her will; and he looked across the valley to where the tents of the Mounted Police encampment glimmered white in the afternoon sun. It was useless to trouble the cowboys, useless to ride to the Mission unless he had some sort of authority for interference; better to get help from the camp. Trusting that the Padre would have sense enough to delay the travellers, he set off at a hand-gallop for Wild Horse Creek.
By mid-afternoon he gained the camp, an hour later rode out again on a fresh horse, accompanied by Dandy Irvine. Both men were armed, both in uniform, for they rode this time on Her Majesty's service.
"Do you know," said Dandy, while they splashed across the ford, "that this was to have been your wedding-day?"
"Was to have been? It is my wedding-day."
"Do you know that the Colonel went off alone this morning, bound for the Mission?"
"To give the bride away," said the Blackguard, grinning. "I knew he would keep his promise."
Gaining the top of the bench-land, they rode off at a canter across the valley, through meadows scathed with an early frost, by poplar bush, where the leaves hung sere and yellow, or fluttered dead to earth. The wind was keen from the north, the sky was overcast with wintry cloud, and distant woods loomed faint in a bluish haze.
"How do you know," asked Dandy, "that they fired the mill? It might have been accident."
"I'm not quite blind," answered the Blackguard. "There was a five-gallon can of kerosene lying outside the ruins."
"Well?"
"It was empty."
"What of that?"
"It was new, without a dint from being knocked about, or any dirt from having been used for filling lamps. Whoever burned the mill poured five gallons of oil over the kindlings, then chucked the empty can out through the door."
"What else?"
"Beside the can lay a half-burned torch of paper, thrown away as the blessed incendiary ran for his blessed life."
"Did you keep the torch and can?"
"Left them untouched for evidence. D'ye take me for a two-months' rootie?"
"No; but I'm just about half sorry for the great inventor."
Night had fallen when the two policemen rode up to the Mission-house. Within, Miss Burrows, the Colonel, and the Curate were playing an innocent game of cards; without, in the porch, sat Mr. Burrows and the Tenderfoot disputing hotly, but they brought their discussion to an abrupt close at the sight of Mounted Police.
"Good-evening, Mr. Irvine," said Burrows easily, as the Corporal dismounted, handing his rein to La Mancha. "You'll find your commanding officer inside the house, playing with my niece a game called animal grab."
The Tenderfoot was staring hard at La Mancha as he led the horses away.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Burrows,"—the Corporal produced two blue documents from his breast-pocket,—"the game I have come to play here is called human grab. You, Mr. Burrows, and you, Mr. Ramsay, are my prisoners."
"What?"
Dandy Irvine presented the warrants, but the violent expostulations of the prisoners brought the Curate and the Colonel hurriedly to the door.
"What's all this?" said the Colonel. "Why, Corporal Irvine, surely you've made some mistake?"
Dandy saluted. "Will you look at the warrants, sir?"
The Colonel took one, glanced at it by the lamplight within, and handed it back to Corporal Irvine. "This is very serious, Mr. Burrows,—a charge of arson cannot be lightly passed over, and Corporal Irvine has only carried out his orders."
The prisoners were loudly protesting their innocence, Mr. Burrows declaiming on points of law and usage; Mr. Ramsay almost in tears; but the Colonel required their silence.
"Are you alone, Irvine?"
"No, sir. Constable La Mancha is with me. He has taken the horses round to the corrall."
"Go, then, tell him to saddle the prisoners' horses and my own. I will be responsible till you return. Padre," he turned to the Curate, "may Miss Burrows remain as your guest?"
Constable La Mancha was at the back door embracing Miss Burrows when Dandy called him away. "Come, none of that," he said briefly; "I want you at the stables."
"All right, Corporal,"—La Mancha went on embracing Miss Burrows,—"be with you in a minute."
"Don't cry, dear, there's nothing to frighten you; but I had to get your Uncle out of the way."
"But he's innocent!" she cried. "You ought to take me to prison for burning the mill. It was me."
"The deuce!"
"You know, dear, I had to make some sort of signal."
"To bring me, eh? Well, I don't object to signalling—at least, not very much. Now, after we've gone, you make it all right with the Padre. Tell him the whole story, and get him up very early in the morning. I'll be back by sunrise for the wedding."
"By sunrise?" she blushed hotly; "I never said I'd marry you, though."
"No, I was much too big a blackguard, but now it's different, Miss Violet, quite different, you minx. I never burned my Uncle's mill. I was never half so wicked."
She laughed with delight at her own wickedness.
"Kiss me," he said, and that she did right heartily.
"Come, Blackguard," Dandy was quivering with impatience. "You fool, you're spoiling the whole game. Hurry up!"
So La Mancha was dragged away to the stables, where in due course the prisoners' horses were saddled, also the Colonel's grey charger. Then came the champing of horses' bits, the mounting of men, farewells, and the filing-off of a solemn procession into the night. But Miss Violet was left behind for safe keeping, who, with her humble confession, her tears, and a very few smiles, softened the Padre's heart.
Great was the stir and turmoil at Wild Horse Creek. Long before daylight, while all the gear was stiff with a rime of frost, tents were struck, kit bags loaded, blankets rolled; and after breakfast these, together with the Quartermaster's stores, mess kit, nosebags, and all the equipments of a summer camp, were bestowed upon the transport waggons. At noon the troop was to march on the first short stage of a journey across the Rocky Mountains by the Crow's Nest Pass to the winter station, the divisional headquarters on the Great Plains.
But the wheels of routine were jarred long before mid-day. The Colonel had, as a magistrate, to hear the charge of incendiarism brought against the prisoners, Burrows and Ramsay. Moreover, Regimental Number 1107, Constable La Mancha, on the expiration of his term of service, was to "turn in" his kit, to receive his discharge, and to be struck off the strength of the Force. But neither could the arson case be examined for lack of the chief witness, nor could La Mancha be discharged until he had surrendered his horse, arms, accoutrements, and clothing. And the Blackguard was absent without leave.
The Colonel was furious, reviled the Sergeant-Major, placed the Corporal of the Guard under arrest, also the picket for permitting La Mancha's midnight defection; the Sergeant-Major hurt the cook's feelings by the tone in which he ordered the unpacking of camp equipment for dinner; the men waited comfortless beside their horses; and all with one accord reviled the Blackguard. But when the culprit rode in at noon, accompanied by a lady whom he blandly presented to the Sergeant-Major as the Señora La Mancha, D Troop changed its mind, greeting the Blackguard with three rousing cheers. From the Colonel to the troop dog all realised that the presence of a lady in camp had changed the situation, particularly as the lady was obviously attractive—a maid so sweetly shy that everything must be done to set her at ease, to smooth the roughness of her surroundings, to show D Troop on its best behaviour.
Leaving his wife in charge of Dandy Irvine, as the most presentable man in the division, La Mancha went about the camp raking up ill-conditioned rags and worn-out garments to represent his kit, which was to be delivered over to the authorities, together with his arms and accoutrements. At another time the Quartermaster would have asked what scarecrow had been robbed, now he received the whole mess of rubbish with his blandest smile. Changing into his cowboy equipment, the Blackguard gave away his Government clothes to all who would accept them as his parting gift, reserving only a fine buffalo overcoat, a set of blankets, and some underwear for future use.
The Colonel hastily, sitting as magistrate, found means to discharge his prisoners on the ground of insufficient evidence. Then the Sergeant-Major presented La Mancha's discharge, filled in with the obvious falsehood that his character and behaviour were both, and had always been, "very good."
"Now, La Mancha," said the Colonel, "besides your pay you are entitled to transport and sustenance to your place of enlistment—Winnipeg. Will you have cash or a requisition?"
"Cash, sir."
The Colonel wrote out a cheque to cover the costs of this imaginary journey of twelve hundred miles, a second cheque for La Mancha's pay up to date, and a third in lieu of a wedding present from the officers of the division.
Dinner followed, Dandy and all the non-commissioned officers fighting among themselves for the right to serve the Señora La Mancha, who sat in state upon a buffalo coat near their camp fire, all smiles and blushes. This was her wedding breakfast, served under the frosty blue sky by a swarm of soldiers, who one and all would have offered with the beef and bread their hearts and hands, but for the prior claims of their comrade.
Meanwhile the Blackguard, respectfully declining invitations from the Officers' and Sergeants' Messes, dined for the last time with the troop, and afterwards, when pipes were lit before the saddling, accepted a wedding present from D Division which would materially help in his provision for married life.
Only Mr. Burrows and Mr. Ramsay, discharged from their arrest and welcomed by the Officers' Mess, were discontented with the wintry sunlight, the dry bright wind, the scent of the dying summer. Outwitted by the Blackguard, humiliated in their summary treatment by the law, their grievance received hilariously as a huge joke, they were only too glad to excuse themselves with a plea of pressing business at the Throne, while their crestfallen departure after dinner provoked the troop to a burst of ironical cheering.
But the Blackguard and his Señora, mounted on horses lent by the Sergeant-Major, rode out with the troop on its first stage down the valley, an adventure which Violet La Mancha will ever remember as the most delightful thing in her life. Indeed, it was a sight to stir one's blood, that march of frontier cavalry, to see the big bronzed men sitting their horses with careless grace, the tough, wiry bronchos walking sedately after a canter, the transport lumbering briskly in the midst, and all down the long double line of riders the gleam of blue rifle barrels, a glitter of belts, a glow of scarlet.
The valley reached away on every side in all its loveliness of bush and prairie, on either side hung white Alps above the misty blue of distant forest, and over all were soft little clouds like herds of driven sheep, while the sun raced westward to his setting through dim immensities of sky.
"See," said the Blackguard proudly to his wife, "yonder, right at the foot of the hills, I've built a cabin for you of great big logs, and the chinks are all filled in with moss to make it cosy. The hearth is in the snuggest corner, and all the furniture is made with an axe of clean red cedar, smelling ever so fresh, like pencils. You can look out among the pine trees down to the creek, which is full of trout for our supper, and I've chopped away the bush, so that when we sit by the door after sundown we can see right away across the valley to the great high peaks above the Crow's Nest Pass. Will you be contented, little one?"
"Yes, I shall always be content, because I have you, my great big Blackguard—and I love you."
Deep lay the snow in Kootenay. All across the prairies the great drifts were like ocean rollers frozen,—against the clumps of timber they were heaped like winter surf, around the cabin curled over to windward like a breaking wave. One could stand upon the comb of that wave, so solid was it; indeed, the Señora La Mancha had chosen the point of vantage from whence to search the trail for some sign of her husband's coming, because he was late afield after stray cattle, and it was long past supper time. Grey clouds were trailing across the moon, casting shadows down which might have been moving men or beasts among the timber; but when the light shone clear again on glittering frosty pines and dead white drifts, it left an aching emptiness as far as the eye could reach against the intense cold, for it was 30 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. The little Señora was guarded by a robe of beaver skins from her bed, but her head was uncovered, so that the moonlight caught her hair with an icy lustre, and her congealed breath was wafted back, filming over her rosy face with hoar frost. Despite her anxiety for the Blackguard, who might well have been delayed by a serious accident, she felt with every breath the racy intoxicating freshness of the air; so, when a frost-bite stabbed the tip of one ear like a red-hot needle, she only took some powdery snow in her mittened hand to rub the white place red again. After all, a frost-bite is nothing more serious than a sneeze in the hardy West, so Violet La Mancha danced a little dance on the snowdrift, then, warm again to her finger-tips, awaited her husband's coming.
He came at last, galloping up the trail with a lusty yell or so by way of greeting, and, waving her handkerchief in response, the housewife fled indoors to serve a steaming supper. Ten minutes afterwards, when he came floundering in from the stable, and shook the snow from his clothes like a big rough dog, he found the beef and tea set out on the table.
"Feed the brute," said he. "The Wolf could gobble up Mrs. Wolf for an after-thought. Wough, but it's cold,—and you should have heard me cursing the runaway steers."
"That's good, letting off the fireworks where they do no harm, in the open. Why, some men keep all that for the little wife. Sit down, Blackguard, we've got a lovely stew, and three real onions in it. Oh, I've been ever so lonely!"
"Serve you jolly well right for being a cowboy's wife. Lonely, you minx, you'd be lonelier still if I hadn't caught you in time three months ago."
"Three months! three whole big months flown like a dream. Only think! You've cheated me out of three long months of my life, you darling. Now pull those nasty icicles off your moustache, or how can I possibly kiss you?"
"Sweet little lover; we've spent three months in heaven, and only had fresh meat once in all that time."
"Love and fresh meat, 'that's what men are made of.'"
So they supped merrily, and washed up afterwards, both talking at once, and all the time of cattle and domestic details mixed; and then she filled and lit his pipe, he growling amiably of her manifest incompetence in these arts, she being a woman.
"Has the mail come?" he asked.
"Yes; only one wretched paper."
"Give me the wretched paper."
He read a little, while she set a bucket to peel potatoes, using hot water lest the ice should form under her knife.
"Here," he said, "I'm sleepy with the heat of that confounded stove. You take the paper. I'll keep awake best if I peel the potatoes for you."
She looked up, tears swimming in her eyes, "When I was up at the Throne, Mr. Ramsay liked to watch me peeling potatoes."
"What a cad! Well, he gets his deserts—wealth from the Burrows' inventions beyond the very dreams of avarice, and much good may it do him."
"And I have a log-cabin, a nest to keep warm for my big true Blackguard, and thanks to say on my knees to God for love. What does it matter all this stuff in the paper?" She laid it on her lap, watching his comic clumsiness at the peeling. "The world outside doesn't matter one little bit to us."
"Read anyway," he said, grinning, "or you'll drop into poetry next."
"'Horrible Murder,'" she read, yawning. "Oh, I wish it was bedtime. 'Suicide of a Vegetarian.' 'Fuss, Box, & Co. in Bankruptcy.' 'The Railroad Horror.' Hello, here, under the Cavalry heading, there's Dandy Irvine—Sergeant Irvine—got a commission. They've made him an Inspector."
"Good old Dandy! We'll drink his health next time I can buy the ingredients."
"I don't want ingredients," she said, pouting; "he's such a little dear, and you can never keep tidy, however I dust you and scrub. Must I read any more? Well, here's the British Empire column. 'London, February 6—Death of the Spanish Ambassador. We regret to say,'"—
The Blackguard whistled softly.
"Well," she looked up, "what's the matter? Did you know him?"
"Why, that's the Snob."
"The what?"
"My brother. I asked him once whether he'd have a long life or his habits. He had the habits, and I hope he enjoyed them. Poor Snob, I guess he's left me the reversion of his debts." The Blackguard finished peeling the last potato, and handed over the pan. "Will your Grace be pleased to put these potatoes away?"
"What do you mean?"
"Only, my little wife, that you are a Duchess now."
"A Duchess? What nonsense!" Coming across to his chair, she kissed him tenderly upon the forehead. "I'm nothing," she said, with a gay little laugh, "but Mrs. Blackguard."
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