The Luck of the Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police (2024)

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Title: The Luck of the Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

Author: Ralph S. Kendall

Release date: May 30, 2005 [eBook #15940]
Most recently updated: December 14, 2020

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LUCK OF THE MOUNTED: A TALE OF THE ROYAL NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE ***

E-text prepared by Al Haines

A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

by

SERGEANT RALPH S. KENDALL

Ex-Member of the R.N.W.M.P.

Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York

1920

This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt,
That truest of adages—"Murder will out!"
In vain may the blood-spiller "double" and fly,
In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try:
Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by
He'll be sure to be caught by a Hue and a Cry!
—THE INGOLDSBY LEGEND

TO

MY OLD COMRADES

PRESENT, AND EX-MEMBERS OF THE

R.N.W.M. POLICE

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED WITH EVERY KIND THOUGHT

O sing us a song of days that are gone—
Of men and happenings—of war and peace;
We love to yarn of "th' times that was"
As our hair grows gray, and our years increase.
So—revert we again to our ancient lays—
Fill we our pipes, and our glasses raise—
"Salue! to those stirring, bygone days!"
Cry the old non-coms of the Mounted Police.

MEMORIES

All day long the blizzard had raged, in one continuous squalling moaningroar—the fine-spun snow swirling and drifting about thebarrack-buildings and grounds of the old Mounted Police Post of L.Division. Whirraru!-ee!—thrumm-mm! hummed the biting nor'easter throughthe cross-tree rigging of the towering flag-pole in the centre of thewind-swept square, while the slapping flag-halyards kept up an infernal"devil's tattoo." With snow-bound roof from which hung huge icicles,like walrus-tusks, the big main building loomed up, ghostly andindistinct, amidst the whirling, white-wreathed world, save where, fromthe lighted windows broad streamers of radiance stabbed the surroundinggloom; reflecting the driving snow-spume like dust-motes dancing in asunbeam.

Enveloped in snow-drifts and barely visible in the uncertain light thereclustered about the central structure the long, low-lying guard-room,stables, quartermaster's store, and several smaller adjacent buildingscomprising "The Barracks." It was a bitter February night in SouthAlberta.

From the vicinity of the guard-room the muffled-up figure of a man, withhead down against the driving blizzard, padded noiselessly withmoccasined feet up the pathway leading to the main building. Soonreaching his destination, he dived hastily through the double storm-doorsof the middle entrance into the passage, and banged them to.

Flanking him on either side, in welcome contrast to the bitter worldoutside, he beheld the all-familiar sight of two inviting portals, eachradiating light, warmth, and good fellowship—the one on his right handparticularly. A moment he halted irresolutely between regimental canteenand library; then, for some reason best known to himself, he steadilyignored both, for the time being, and passing on began slowly to mount ashort flight of stairs at the end of the passage.

Sweet music beguiled each reluctant step of his ascent: the tinkle of apiano accompaniment to a roaring jovial chorus from the canteen assuringhim with plaintive, but futile insistence just then, that—

Beer, beer! was glorious beer, etc.

Reaching the landing he paused for a space in an intent listeningattitude outside the closed door of a room marked No. 3. From withincame the sounds of men's voices raised in a high-pitched, gabblingaltercation.

Turning swiftly to an imaginary audience, his expressive youngcountenance contorted into a grimace of unholy glee, the listener flungaloft his arms and blithely executed a few noiseless steps of animpromptu war-dance.

"They're at it again!" he muttered ecstatically.

Some seconds he capered thus in pantomime; then, as swiftly composing hisfeatures into a mask-like expression, he turned the handle and entered.On the big thermometer nailed outside the Orderly-room the mercury mayhave registered anything between twenty and thirty below zero, but insideBarrack-room No. 3 the temperature at that moment was warm enough.

Two men, seated at either end Of a long table in the centre of the room,busily engaged in cleaning their accoutrements, glanced up casually athis entrance; then, each vouchsafing him a preoccupied salutory mumble,they bent to their furbishing with the brisk concentration peculiar to"Service men" the world over. As an accompaniment to their labours, indesultory fashion, they kept alive the embers of a facetious wranglingargument—their respective vocabularies, albeit more or less ensanguined,exhibiting a fluent and masterly range of quaint barrack-room idiom andinvective.

Both were clad in brown duck "fatigue slacks," the rolled-up sleeves oftheir "gray-back" shirts disclosing the fact that the sinewy forearms ofboth men were decorated with gay and fanciful specimens of the tattooartist's genius. A third man, similarly habited, lay stretched out,apparently sleeping on one of the cots that were arranged around theroom. Opening his eyes he greeted the newcomer with a lethargic "'Lo,Redmond!"; then, turning over on his side, he relapsed once more into thearms of Morpheus—his nasal organ proclaiming that fact beyond doubt.

The orderly aspect of the room bore mute evidence of regimentaldiscipline. The blankets—with the sheets placed in the centre—werestrapped into a neat roll at the head of each tartan-rugged cot, at thefoot of which lay a folded black oil-sheet. Above, on a small shelf,were the spare uniform and Stetson hat, flanked on either side by a pairof high brown "Strathcona" riding-boots, with straight-shanked"cavalry-jack" spurs attached. On pegs underneath hung the regulationside-arms,—a "Sam Browne" belt and holster containing the Colt's .45Service revolver. A rifle-rack at the end of the room contained itsquota of Winchester carbines.

The last arrival, whom the sleeper had designated "Redmond," proceeded todivest himself of his short fur coat and, after dashing the snow from itand his muskrat-faced cap, unbuckled his side-arms, and hung all up atthe head of his own particular cot.

Flashing across our retrospective mind-screens, as at times we dreamilydelve into the past, beloved faces come and go. Forever in the memory ofthe writer, as his ideal conception of healthy, virile splendid Youthpersonified, will stand the bronzed, debonair, clean-shaven young face ofGeorge Redmond—or "Reddy," as he was more familiarly dubbed by hiscomrades of L. Division.

Handsome his countenance could not have been termed—the features weretoo strongly-marked and roughly-hewn. But it was an undeniably open,attractive and honest one—the sort of face that instinctively invitedone's "Hail, fellow, well met!" trust at first sight. His hair was darkauburn in colour, short and wavy, with a sort of golden tinge in it; hisforehead was broad and open, and below it were two uncommonly waggishblue eyes. His habitual expression was a mixture of nonchalant goodhumour and gay insouciance, but the slightly aquiline, prominent nose andthe set of the square aggressive jaw belied in a measure the humourouscurl of the lips.

Those who knew his disposition well were fully aware how swiftly themocking smile could vanish from that indolent young face on occasion—howunpleasantly those wide blue orbs could contract beneath scowling browsinto mere pin-points of steel and ice. Slightly above middle height,well-set-up and strongly, though not heavily made, the lines of hisclean-built figure suggested the embodiment of grace, strength andactivity.

He was dressed in the regulation winter uniform of the Force, consistingof a scarlet-serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding breeches with the broadyellow stripe down the side, thick black woollen stockings reaching tothe knee, and buckskin moccasins with spurs attached. Over thestockings, and rolled tightly down upon the tops of the moccasins assnow-excluders, were a pair of heavy gray socks.

Wriggling out of his tightly-fitting red serge he carelessly flung thatarticle onto the next cot; then, filling and lighting a pipe, hestretched out comfortably upon his own. With hands clasped behind hishead he lazily watched the two previously-mentioned men at their cleaningoperations, his expressive face registering indolent but mischievousinterest, as he listened to their wrangling.

"No!" resumed one of the twain emphatically, apropos of some previouscontention, "No, by gum! this division ain't what it used to be in themdays."

He gave vent to a reminiscent sigh as he spat upon and rubbed up somepowdered brick-dust.

"Billy Herchmer was O.C., Fred Bagley was Sergeant-Major—and there wasHarry Hetherington, Ralph Bell, De Barre, Jeb Browne, Pennycuik, and allthem old-timers. Eyah! th' times that was! th' times that was! Force'sall filled up now mostly with 'Smart Aleck' kids, like Reddy, here,an'"—he shot a glance of calculating invitation at his vis-a-vis,Hardy—"'old sweats' from the Old Country Imperials."

Artfully to start some trivial but decidedly inflammable barrack-roomargument was one of Corporal Dave McCullough's pet diversions. At thissomewhat doubtful pastime he would exhibit a knowledge of human natureand an infinite patience worthy of a better object. From some occultreasoning of his Celtic soul the psychological moment he generally choseas being likely the most fruitful of results was either a few minutesbefore, or after "Lights Out."

When the ensuing conflagration had blazed to the desired stage he wouldquietly extinguish his own vocal torch and lie back on his cot with asort of "Mark Antony" "Now let it work!" chuckle. "Getting their goats"he termed it. Usually though, when the storm of bad language and bootshad subsided, his dupes, too, like those of "Silver Street" were wont toscratch their heads and commune one with another:—

begod, I wonder why?

He was a heavy-shouldered man; middle-aged, with thick, crisp iron-grayhair and moustache and a pair of humourous brown eyes twinkling in alined, weather-beaten face. His slightly nasal voice was dry andpenetrating to the point of exasperation. For many years he had acted as"farrier" to L. Division.

George warily accepted the share of the pleasantry extended to him with ashrug, and a non-committal grin. But Hardy chose to regard it as adistinct challenge, and therefore a promising bone of contention. Hegloated over it awhile ere pouncing.

A medium-sized, wiry, compactly-built man bodily, Hardy bore lightly theweight of his forty-five years. His hair was of that uncertain sandycolour which somehow never seems to turn gray; the edges of thecrisply-curling forelock being soaped, rolled and brushed up into thatapproved tonsorial ornament known in barrack-room parlance as a "quiff."His complexion was of that peculiar olive-brown shade especiallynoticeable in most Anglo-Indians. In his smart, soldierly aspect,biting, jerky Cockney speech and clipped, wax-pointed moustache hebetrayed unmistakably the ex-Imperial cavalry-man.

"Old sweats!" he echoed sarcastically—he pronounced it "aoweld"—"Yas!you go tell that t' th' Marines, me lad! . . . Took a few o' th' sime'old sweats' t' knock ''Ay Leg!' 'Straw Leg' inter some o' you mossbacksat th' stort orf. Gee! Har! oh, gorblimey, yas!" He illustrated histrenchant remarks in suggestive pantomime.

"Ah!" quoth McCullough blithely, "Yu' know th' sayin'—'Old soldier—oldstiff?' . . ."

His adversary burnished a spur viciously. "Old pleeceman—old son ofa—" he retorted with a spiteful grin. "W'y, my old Kissiwasti hereknows more abaht drill'n wot you do." He indicated a ratherdisreputable-looking gray parrot, preening itself in a cage which stoodupon a cot nearby.

At the all-familiar sound of its name the bird suddenly ceased itsmonotonous beak and claw gymnastics for a space, becoming on the instantalertly attentive. There came a preliminary craning of neck and winkingof white-parchment-lidded eyes, and then, in shockingly human fashion itproceeded to give voluble utterance to some startling samples ofbarrack-room profanity. Its shrill invective would have awakened thedead. The whistling, regular snores of the sleeper suddenly wound upwith a gasping gurgle; he opened his eyes and, in a strong cereal accentgave vent to a somnolent peevish protest.

"Losh! . . . whot wi' you fellers bickerin' an' yon damn birrd currsin' Icanna sleep! . . . gie th'—"

But Hardy silenced him with a warning finger.

"Sh-sh! McSporran!" he hissed in a loud eager whisper, "Jes' 'awk t'im? . . . gort th' real reg'mental tatch 'as old Kissiwasti! ain'the?"—his face shone with simple pride—"d' yer 'ken' that? sh-sh! listennow! . . . Yer shud 'ear 'im s'y 'Oot, mon!' . . . 'Awk t'im up an'tellin'yer w'y th' Jocks wear th' kilts."

Awhile McSporran listened, but with singular lack of enthusiasm.Presently, swinging his legs over the side of the cot with a weary sigh,he proceeded to fill his pipe. He was a thick-set, grey-eyed fair manabout thirty, with a stolid, though shrewd, clean-shaven face.

"Best ye stickit tae wha' ye ca' 'English,' auld mon!" he remarkedirritably, "Baith yersel' an' yer plurry pairrut. . . . Ou ay, Iken!—D'ye ken John Peel?—"

And, in derision he hummed a few lines of a rather vulgar parody of thatancient song that obtained around Barracks.

"Say, by gad, though! that bird is a fright!" ejaculated George suddenly,"Holy Doodle! just listen to what he said then? . . . If ever he startsin to hand out tracts like that when the O.C.'s up here inspecting he'llget invested with the Order of the 'Neck-Wring' for usurping his petprivilege. You'd better let Brankley the quartermaster have him. He wasup here the other day and heard him. He was tickled to death—said he'dlike to buy him off you, and 'top him off'—finish his education."

"Oh, 'e did, did 'e?" growled Hardy mutinously, but with ill-concealedinterest, "Well, 'e ain't a-goin' t' 'ave 'im!" He breathed hard upon abuckle and polished it to his satisfaction. "Brankley is some connosserI will admit," he conceded grudgingly, "but Kissiwasti's got orl th''toppin orf wot's good fur 'im—dahn Regina—'e went through a reg'larcourse dahn there—took 'is degree, so t' speak. . . . I uster tike an''ang 'is kydge hup in that little gallery in th' ridin school of amornin'—when Inspector Chappell, th' ridin' master wos breakin' in abunch o' rookies—'toppin' orf,' wot? . . ."

"Tchkk!" clucked McCullough wearily. "What is the use of arguin' with anold sweat like him? . . . Hardy'll be happy enough in Hell, so long ashe can have his bloomin' old blackguard of a parrot along with him. Ifhe can't there will be a pretty fuss."

"Bear up, Hardy!" comforted George. "When you've got that 'quiff' ofyours all fussed up, and those new 'square-pushin'' dress-pants on you'resome 'hot dog.' . . . Now, if I thought you could 'talk pretty' andbehave yourself I'd—"

The old soldier grinned diabolically. "Sorjint?" he broke in mincingly"c'n I fall out an' tork t' me sister?—garn, Reddy! wipe orf yerchin! . . . though if I did 'appen t' 'ave a sister she might s'y th'sime fing abaht me, now, as she might s'y abaht you—to a lydy-fren' o''er's, p'raps. . . ."

"Say what?" demanded George incautiously.

Hardy chuckled again, "'Ere comes one o' them Mounted Pleecemen, medear,—orl comb an' spurs,—mark time in front there. . . !" And heemitted an imitation of a barnyard cackle.

McCullough shot a glance at Redmond's face. "Can th' grief" he remarkedunsympathetically, "you're fly enough usually . . . but you fairly askedfor it that time."

Hardy spat into a cuspidor with long-range accuracy. He beamed withcheerful malevolence awhile upon his tormentors; then, uplifting acracked falsetto in an unmusical wail, to the tune of "London Bridge isFalling Down," assured them that—

"Old soweljers never die, never die, never die, Old soweljers never—"

With infinite mockery Redmond's boyish voice struck in—

"Young soldiers wish they would, wish they—"

"'Ere!" remonstrated Hardy darkly, "chack it, Reddy! . . . You know wot'appens t' them as starts in, a-guyin' old soweljers?—eh?—Well, I tellyer now!—worse'n wot 'appened t' them fresh kids in th' Bible wot mockedth' old blowke abaht 'is bald 'ead."

"Isch ga bibble! I don't care!" bawled the abandoned George; "can't bemuch worse than doing 'straight duty' round Barracks, here!—same thing,day in, day out—go and look at the 'duty detail' board—RegimentalNumber—Constable Redmond, 'prisoner's escort'—punching gangs ofprisoners around all day long, on little rotten jobs about Barracks—and'night guard' catching you every third night and—"

"Oyez! oyez! oyez! you good men of this—"

"Oh, yes! you can come the funny man all right, Mac—you've got a 'staff'job. Straight duty don't affect you. Why don't they shove me out ondetachment again, and give me another chance to do real policework? . . . I tell you I'm fed up—properly. . . . I wish I was out ofthe blooming Force—I'm not 'wedded' to it, like you."

"'Ear, 'ear!" chimed in Hardy, with a sort of miserable heartiness.McSporran's contribution was merely a dour Scotch grin. In the moment'ssilence that followed a tremendous bawling squall of wind rocked thebuilding to its very foundations. The back-draught of it sucked open thedoor, and, borne upon its wings, the roaring, full-chorused burst of apopular barrack-room chantey floated up the stairs from the canteenbelow—

"Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he—
He called for his pipe, and he called for his glass,
And he called for his old M.P.
"

Outside the blizzard still moaned and howled; every now and then, betweenlulls, screeching gusts of sleet beat upon the windows. The parrot,clinging upside down to the roof of its cage, winked rapidly withSphinx-like eyes and inclined its head sideways in an intent listeningattitude.

"Eyah! but th' Force's a bloomin' good home to some of you, all th'same," growled McCullough. "Listen to that 'norther'? . . . How'd youlike to be chucked out into th' cold, cold world right now?—You, Hardy!that's never done nothin' but 'soldier' all your life—you, Reddy! withyour 'collidge edukashun'?"

George, unmoved, listened respectfully awhile, lying on his stomach withhis chin cupped in his hands. "Must have been a great bunch of fellowswhen you first took on the Force, Dave?" he queried presently.

From sheer force of habit the old policeman glanced at his interlocutorsuspiciously. But that young gentleman's face appearing open and serene,merely expressing naive interest, he grunted an affirmative "Uh-huh!" andbacked his conviction with a cheerful oath.

"Ah, they sure was. But where are they all now?" he rambled on ingarrulous reminiscence, "some of 'em rich—some of 'em broke—an' many of'em back on th' old Force again, an' glad to get their rations. Therewas some that talked like you, Mister Bloomin' Reddy!—fed up, an' goin'to quit—an' did quit—for a time. There was Corky Jones, I mind. Himthat used to blow 'bout th' wonderful jobs he'd got th' pick of when hewas 'time-ex.' All he got was 'reeve' of some little shi-poke burg downsouth. Hooshomin its real name, but they mostly call it Hootchthereabouts. A rotten little dump of 'bout fifty inhabitants. They'redrunk half th' time an' wear each other's clothes. Ugh! filthybeggars! . . . He's back on th' Force again. There was Gadgett Malone.Proper dog he was—used to sing 'Love me, an' th' World is Mine.' He gotall balled up with a widder, first crack out o' th' box, an' she shookhim down for his roll an' put th' skids under him in great shape insideof a month. He's back on th' Force again. There was Barton McGuckin.When he pulled out he shook hands all around, I mind. Yes, sir! withtears in his eyes he did. Told us no matter how high he rose in th'world he'd never forget his old comrades—always rec'gnize 'em on th'street an' all that. On his way down town he was fool enough to go intoone o' these here Romany Pikey dives for to get his fortune told. Thisgypsy woman threw it into him he was goin' to make his fortune in th'next two or three days by investin' his dough in a certain brand of oilshares. . . ."

McCullough paused and filled his pipe with elaborate care, "Th' last timeI see him he was in th' buildin' an' contractin' line—carryin' a hod an'pushin' an Irishman's buggy . . . There's—but, aw hell! what's th' useo' talkin'?" he concluded disgustedly. "No! times ain't what they was,by gum!—rough stuff an' all things was run more real reg'mental themdays—not half th' grousin' either."

"Reel reg'mental?" echoed Hardy mincingly, "aowe gorblimey! 'awk t'im?well, wot abaht it? I've done my bit, too!—in Injia. See 'ere; look!"

He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg. On the outside of thehairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzaggedfrom knee to ankle.

"Paythan knife," he informed them briefly, "but I did th' blowke in wotgive it me." He launched into a lurid account of a border hill-scufflethat his regiment had been engaged in relating all its ghastly detailswith great gusto. "Cleared me lance-point ten times that d'y," heremarked laconically. "Flint was aour Orf'cer Commandin'—Old 'DoolallyFlint'—'ard old 'ranker' 'e wos. 'E'd worked us sumphin' crool thatweek. Night marches an' wot not. I tell yer that man 'ad no 'eart formen or 'orses. An' you tork ababt bein' reel reg'mental, Mac! . . . 'ewos a reg'mental old soor if yer like! . . . Fit to drop we wos—wot wosleft o' us, an' th' bloody sun goin' down an' all. But no! 'e give us norest—burial fatigue right away. Free big trenches we buried aour porefellers in—I can see 'em now. . . ."

For some few seconds he ceased polishing his glossy, mahogany-shaded "SamBrowne" belt, and, chin in hand, stared unseeingly straight in front ofhim. His audience waited. "Arterwards!" he cleared his throat,"arterwards—w'en we'd filled in 'e made us put th' trimmin's on—line'em out 'ead an' foot wiv big bowlders. I mind I'd jes kern a-staggerin'ap wiv a big stowne for th' 'ead o' Number Free trench, but Doolally kepme a-markin time till 'e wos ready. 'Kem ap a bit, Private 'Ardy,' 'esez, 'kem ap a bit! you're aht o' yer dressin'!' 'e sez. 'Arry Wagstaff,as wos in Number Two Squordron 'e pulls a bit o' chork aht of 'is pocket,an' 'e marks on 'is bowlder in big, fat letters 'Lucky soors—in bedev'ry night'—but old Doolally 'appened to turn rahnd an' cop 'im at it.Drum-'ead coort-martial 'Arry gort for that, an' drew ten d'ys Number OneField Punishment. But that wos old Doolally all over . . . yer might s'y'e 'adn't no sense o' 'umor, that man. Down country we moves next d'y,for Peshawur, where th' reg'ment lay. We'd copped a thunderin' lot o'prisoners—th' Mullah an' all."

"Wha' d'ye ca' a Mullah?" queried McSporran, with grave interest.

Hardy, carbine-barrel between knees—struggled with a "pull-through."
"Mullah? well, 'e's a sorter—sorter 'ead blowke," he mumbled lamely.

"Kind of High Priest?" ventured George.

The old soldier beamed upon him gratefully, "Ar, that's wot I meant. 'Estunk that 'igh th' Colonel 'e sez—"

The storm doors banged below. "Redmond!—oh, Redmond!" The great,booming, bass voice rang echoing up the stairway. Involuntarily they allsprang to an attitude of alert attention. Rarely did Tom Belcher have tospeak twice around Barracks.

"There's the S.M.!" muttered George. Aloud he responded "Coming,Sergeant-Major!" And he swung downstairs where a powerfully-built man ina snow and ice-incrusted fur coat awaited him.

"The O.C.'s orders, Redmond!—get your kit packed and hold yourself inreadiness to pull out on the eleven o'clock West-bound to-morrow. You'retransferred to the Davidsburg detachment. I'll give you yourtransport-requisition later."

The storm doors banged behind him, and then, Redmond, not without design,forced himself to saunter slowly—very slowly—upstairs again, whistlingnonchalantly the while.

Expectant faces greeted him. "What's up?" they chorused. With a fineassumption of indifference he briefly informed them. McSporran receivedthe news with his customary stolidity, only his gray eyes twinkled and hechuntered something that was totally unintelligible to anyone savehimself. But its effect upon McCullough and Hardy was peculiar, not tosay, startling in the extreme. With brush and burnisher clutched intheir respective hands they both turned and gaped upon him fish-eyed forthe moment. Then, as their eyes met, those two worthies seemed toexperience a difficulty of articulation.

Dumfounded himself, George looked from one to the other, "What thedevil's wrong with you fools?" he queried irritably.

Thereupon, McCullough, still holding the eyes of the Cockney, gasped outone magical word—"Yorkey!"

The spell was broken. "W'y, gorblimey!" said Hardy, "Ain't thatqueer?—that's jes' wot I wos a-thinkin' . . . Well, Gawd 'elp SorjintSlavin now!" With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternalpolishing.

"Amen!" responded the farrier piously, "Reddy, here, an' Yorkey on th'same detachment. . . . What th' one don't know t'other'll teachhim. . . . You'd better let 'em have th' parrot, too."

McSporran, back on his cot with hands clasped behind his head, gobbled anowlish "Hoot, mon! th' twa o' them thegither! . . . Losh! but that beatsa' . . . but, hoo lang, O Lard? hoo lang?"

From various sources George had picked up the broken ends of many strangerumours relating to the personality and escapades of one Constable Yorke,of the Davidsburg detachment, whom he had never seen as yet. A hinthere, a whisper there, a shrug and a low-voiced jest between thesergeant-major and the quartermaster, overheard one day in the Matter'sstore. To Redmond it seemed as if a veil of mystery had always envelopedthe person and doings of this man, Yorke. The glamour of it now arousedall his latent curiosity.

"Why, what sort of a chap is this Yorke?" he inquired casually.

McCullough, busily burnishing a bit, shrugged deprecatingly and laughed.
Hardy, putting the last touches to his revolver-holster, made answer,
George thought, with peculiar reticence.

"Wot, Yorkey? . . . oh, 'e's a 'oly terror 'e is. . . . You arstCrampton," he mumbled—"arst Taylor—they wos at Davidsburg wiv 'im.Slavin's orl right but Yorkey!". . . He looked unutterable things."Proper broken down Old Country torff 'e is, too. 'E's right there wivth' goods at police work, they s'y, but 'e's sure a bad un to 'ave tolive wiv. Free weeks on'y, Crampton stuck it afore 'e applied for atransfer—Taylor, 'e on'y stuck it free d'ys."

Redmond made a gesture of exasperation. "Ah-h! come off the perch!" hesnarled pettishly, "what sort of old 'batman's' gaff are you trying to'get my goat' with?"

His display of irritation drew an explosive, misthievous cachinnationfrom the trio.

"Old 'batman's' gaff?" echoed the Cockney grinning, "orl right, my freshcove—this time next week you'll be tellin' us wevver it's old 'batman's'gaff, or not."

Outside, the blizzard still moaned and beat upon the windows, packing thewind-driven snow in huge drifts about the big main building. Inside, thecanteen roared—

"Then—I—say, boys! who's for a drink with me? Rum, tum! tiddledy-um! we'll have a fair old spree!"

McSporran slid off his cot with surprising alacrity. "Here's ane!" heannounced blithely. Hardy, carefully hanging up his spotless, glossyequipment at the head of his cot, turned to the farrier who was likewiseengaged in arranging a bridle and a pipe-clayed headrope.

"Wot abaht it, Mac?" he queried briskly.

McCullough, in turn looked at Redmond. "All right!" responded that younggentleman with a boyish shrug and grin, "come on then, you bloomin' oldsponges! let's wet my transfer. I'll have time to pack my kit to-morrow,before the West-bound pulls out."

Upon their departing ears, grown wearily familiar to itsmonotonous repetition, fell the parrot's customary adieu, as thatdisreputable-looking bird swung rhythmically to and fro on its perch.

"Goo' bye!" it gabbled, "A soldier's farewell' to yeh! goo' bye! goo'bye!"

CHAPTER II

Homeless, ragged and tanned,
Under the changeful sky;
Who so free in the land?
Who so contented as I?
.
THE VAGABOND

The long-drawn-out, sweet notes of "Reveille" rang out in the frostydawn. Reg. No. —— Const George Redmond, engaged at that moment inpulling on his "fatigue-slacks" hummed the trumpet-call's time-honouredvocal parody—

"I sold a cow, I sold a cow, an' bought a donk-ee—' Oh—what—a silly old sot you were!"

The room buzzed like a drowsy hive with hastily dressing men. Breathinghotly on the frosted window-pane next his cot, George rubbed a clearpatch and glued his eye to it. The blizzard had died out during thenight leaving the snow-drifted landscape frosty, still and clear. Arapidly widening strip of blended rose and pale turquoise on the easternhorizon gave promise of a fine day.

He turned away with a contented sigh and, descending the stairs, fell inwith the rest of the fur-coated, moccasined men on "Morning StableParade."

Three hours later, breakfast despatched, blankets rolled and kit anddunnage bags packed, he received a curt summons from the sergeant-majorto attend the Orderly-room. To the brisk word of command he was"quick-marched" "left-wheeled," and "halted" at "attention" beforethe desk of the Officer Commanding L. Division.

"Constable Redmond, Sir!" announced the deep-throated, rumbling bass ofthe sergeant-major; and for some seconds George gazed at the silvery hairand wide bowed shoulders of the seated figure in front of him, whocontinued his perusal of some type-written sheets of foolscap, as ifunaware of any interruption. Elsewhere have the kindly personality andeccentricities of Captain Richard Bargrave been described; "but that," asKipling says, "is another story."

Presently the papers were cast aside, the bowed shoulders in thesplendidly-cut blue-serge uniform squared back in the chair, and Redmondfound himself being scrutinized intently by the all-familiar bronzed oldaristocratic countenance, with its sweeping fair moustache.Involuntarily he stiffened, though his eyes, momentarily overpowered bythe intensity of that keen gaze, strayed to the level of his superior'sbreast and focussed themselves upon two campaign ribbons there,"North-West Rebellion" and "Ashantee" decorations.

Suddenly the thin, high, cultured voice addressedhim—whimsically—sarcastic but not altogether unkindly:

"The Sergeant-Major"—the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to anelevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirledpensively—"the Sergeant-Major reports that—er—for the past six monthsyou have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair average"—thesuave tones hardened—"that you have wisely refrained from indulging youryouthful fancies in any more such—er—dam-fool antics, Sir, ascharacterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen detachment,so—er—I have decided to give you another chance. I have here"—hefumbled through some papers—"a request from Sergeant Slavin for anotherman at Davidsburg. I am transferring you there. Slavin—er—damn theman! damn the man! what's wrong with him, Sergeant-Major? . . . Two menhave I sent him in as many months, and both of 'em, after a few daysthere, on some flimsy pretext or another, applied for transfers to otherdetachments. Good men, too. If this occurs again—damme!"—he glared athis subordinate—"I'll—er—bring that Irish 'ginthleman' into the Postfor a summary explanation. Wire him of this man's transfer! . . . Allright, Sergeant-Major!"

"About-turrn!—quick-march!" growled again the bass voice of the seniornon-com; and he kept step behind George into the passage. "Here's yourtransport requisition, Redmond. Now—take a tumble to yourself, mylad—on this detachment. You're getting what 'Father' don't give tomany—a second chance. Good-bye!"

George gripped the proffered hand and looked full into the kindly,meaning eyes. "Good-bye, S.M.!" he said huskily, "Thanks!"

Westward, the train puffed its way slowly along a slight, but continualup-grade through the foothills, following more or less the winding courseof the Bow River. Despite the cold, clear brilliance of the day, seenunder winter conditions the landscape on either side of the trackpresented a rather forlorn, dreary picture. So it appeared to George,anyway, as he gazed out of the window at the vast, spreading,white-carpeted valley, the monotonous aspect of which was onlyoccasionally relieved by sparsely-dotted ranches, small wayside stations,or when they thundered across high trestle bridges over thepartly-frozen, black, steaming river.

Two summers earlier he had travelled the same road, on a luxurious tripto the Coast. The memory of its scenic splendor then, the easy-goingstages from one sumptuous mountain resort to another, now made him feelslightly dismal and discontented with his present lot. Eye-restfulsolace came however with the sight of the ever-nearing glorioussun-crowned peaks of the mighty "Rockies," sharply silhouetted againstthe dazzling blue of the sky.

Children's voices behind him suddenly broke in upon his reverie.

"That man!" said a small squeaking treble, "was a hobo. He was sittingin that car in front with the hard seats an' I went up to him an' I said,'Hullo, Mister! why don't you wash your face an' shave it? we've allwashed our faces this morning' . . . . We did, didn't we, Alice?—an'washed Porkey's too, an' he said 'Hullo, Bo! wash my face?—I don't haveto—I might catch cold.'"

"But Jerry!" said another child's voice, "I don't think he could havebeen a real hobo, or he'd have had an empty tomato-can hanging around hisneck on a string, like the pictures of 'Weary Willie' an' 'Tired Tim' inthe funny papers."

Then ensued the sounds as of a juvenile scuffle and squawk. Master Jerryapparently resented having his pet convictions treated in this "DoubtingThomas" fashion, for the next thing George heard him say, was:

"Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy! . . . No! he hadn't got a tomato-can,silly! but he'd got a big, fat bottle in his pocket an' he pulled thecork out of it an' sucked an' I said 'What have you got in your bottle?'an' he said 'Cold tea' but it didn't smell a bit like cold tea. There'sa Mounted Policeman sitting in that seat in front of us. Let's ask him.Policemen always lock hoboes up in gaol an' kick them in the stomach,like you see them in the pictures."

The next instant there came a pattering of little feet and two smallfigures scrambled into the vacant seat in front of Redmond. His gazefell on a diminutive, red-headed, inquisitive-faced urchin of some eightyears, and a small, gray-eyed, wistful-looking maiden, perhaps about ayear younger, with hair that matched the boy's in colour. Under onedimpled arm she clutched tightly to her—upside-down—a fat, squirmingfox-terrier puppy. Hand-in-hand, in an attitude of breathless,speculative awe, they sat there bolt upright, like two small gophers;watching intently the face of the uniformed representative of the Law, asif seeking some reassuring sign.

It came presently—a kind, boyish, friendly smile that gained theconfidence of their little hearts at once.

"Hullo, nippers!" he said cheerily.

"Hullo!" the two small trebles responded.

"What's your name, son?"

"Jerry!"

"Jerry what?"

An uneasy wriggle and a moment's hesitation then—"Jeremiah!" came asmall—rather sulky—voice.

Breathing audibly in her intense eagerness the little girl now came tothe rescue.

"Please, policeman?" she stopped and gulped excitedly—"please,policeman?—he doesn't like to be called that. . . . It isn't hisfault. He always throws stones at the bad boys when they call him that.Call him just 'Jerry.'"

That gamin, turning from a minute examination of Redmond's spurredmoccasins, began to swing his chubby legs and bounce up and down upon thecushioned seat.

"Her name's Alice," he volunteered, with a sidelong fling of hiscarrot-tinted head. "Yes! she's my sister"—he made a snatch at the pupwhose speedy demise was threatened, from blood to the head—"don't holdPorkey that way, Alice! his eyes'll drop out."

But his juvenile confrere shrugged away from his clutch. "Stupid!" sheretorted, with fine scorn, "no they won't . . . . it's on'y guinea pigsthat do that!—when you hold them up by their tails." Nevertheless shepromptly reversed that long-suffering canine, which immediatelydemonstrated its gratitude by licking her face effusively.

The all-important question of the hobo was next commended to hisattention, with a tremendous amount of chattering rivalry, and, withintense gravity he was cogitating how to render a satisfactory finding toboth factions when steps, and the unmistakable rustle of skirts, soundedin his immediate rear. Then a lady's voice said, "Oh, there you are,children! . . . I was wondering where you'd got to."

The two heads bobbed up simultaneously, with a joyful "Here's Mother!"and George, turning, glanced with innate, well-bred curiosity at a stout,pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman who stood beside them.

"I hope these young imps haven't been bothering you?" she said. "We werein that car behind, but I was reading and they've been having a greattime romping all over the place. Oh, well! I suppose it's too much toexpect children to keep still on a train."

With a fond motherly caress she patted the two small flaming heads thatnow snuggled boisterously against her on either side.

"Come now! Messrs. Bubble and Squeak!" she urged teasingly,"march!—back to our car again!"

"Bubble and Squeak" seemed appropriate enough just then, to judge by themany fractious objections immediately voiced by those two smallmutineers. They were loth to part with their latest acquaintance andweren't above advertising that fact with unnecessary vehemence. Even thepuppy raised a snuffling whine.

"Boo-hoo!" wailed Jerry, "don't want to go in the other car—me an' Alicewant to stay here—the policeman's goin' to tell us all abouthoboes—he—"

"Oh, dear!" came a despairing little sigh, "whatever—"

Their eyes met and, at the droll perplexity he read in hers, Georgelaughed outright. An explosive frank boyish laugh. He rose with acourteous gesture. "I'm afraid it's a case of 'if the mountain won'tcome to Mahomet,'" he began, with gay sententiousness. "Won't you sitdown?"

The matron's kindly eyes appraised the bold, manly young face a moment,then, with a certain leisurely grace, she stepped in between the seatsand, seating herself, lugged her two small charges down beside her.

"I suppose, under the circumstances, an old woman like me can discard theconventionalities?" she remarked smilingly.

Jerry and Alice leered triumphantly at their victim. "Now!" Jerryshrilled exactingly "tell us all about hoboes!"

"They do carry empty tomato-cans, don't they?" pleaded Alice.

It was now their guardian's turn to laugh at his dismay. "You see whatyou've let yourself in for now?" she remarked.

"Seems I am up against it," he admitted, with a rueful grin, "well! mustmake good somehow, I suppose?"

With an infinitely boyish gesture he tipped his fur cap to the back ofhis head and leaned forward with finger-tips compressed in approvedstory-telling fashion.

"Once upon a time!—" a breathless "Yes-s"—those two small facesreminded him much of terriers watching a rat-hole—"there was a hobo."He thought hard. "He was a very dirty old hobo—he never used to washhis face. He was walking along the road one day when he heard a littlewee voice call out 'Hey!'. He looked down and he saw an empty tomato-canon a rubbish heap. Tomato-cans used to be able to talk in those days andthe hoboes were very good to them—always used to drink out of them andcarry them to save them from walking. This can had a picture of its bigred face on the outside. 'Give us a lift?' said the can. 'Where to?'said the old hobo. 'Back to California, where I came from,' said thecan. 'All right!' said the old hobo, 'I'm goin' there, too.' And hepicked the can up and hung it round his neck and kept on walking tillthey came to a house. The window of the house was open and they couldsee a big fat bottle on a little table. 'Ah!' said the old hobo 'here'san old friend of mine!—he's comin' with us, too,' And he shoved his armthrough the window and put the bottle in his pocket. By and by they cameto a river—'Hey!' said the can, again—'What's up?' said the oldhobo—'I'm dry,' said the can—'So am I,' said the hobo; and he dippedthe can in the water and gave it a very little drink. 'Hey!' said thecan, 'give us a drop more!'—'Wait a bit!' said the old hobo, and hepulled the cork out of the bottle. 'Don't you pour any of that fellerinto me!' said the can, 'he'll burn my inside out—an' yours—if you pourhim into me I'll open my mouth where I'm soldered and let him run out,and you won't be able to drink out of me any more. Chuck him into theriver!—he's no good.'

"'You shut your mouth!' said the old hobo, 'or I'll chuck you into theriver!' And he poured some of the stuff out of the bottle into the can—"

At this exciting point poor George halted for breath and mopped hisforehead. He felt fully as thirsty as the tomato-can. But the childrenwere upon him, clutching his scarlet tunic:

"What did he do then?" howled Jerry.

"Eh?" gasped the young policeman,—"oh, he opened his mouth where he wassoldered and let the stuff run out. So the old hobo threw him into theriver. That's why hoboes always pack a bottle with them now instead of atomato-can."

He leaned back with a sigh and, thrusting his hands deep into hispockets, smiled wanly at his vis-à-vis.

"There!" he said, with feeble triumph, "I've carried out the sentence."

And it did him good to drink in her mirthful, waggish laugh.

"Yes!" she conceded gaily, "you certainly did great execution, though youlook more like a prisoner just reprieved."

Jerry, screwing up his small snub nose leered triumphantly across her lapat Alice. "Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy!" he squeaked, "that man was areal hobo."

His grimace was returned with interest. Alice hugged her puppy awhilecontentedly, murmuring in that canine's ear, "What a silly old thing thattomato-can must have been. If I'd been him I'd have kept my mouth shut."

"Cow Run!" intoned the brakeman monotonously, passing through thecoaches, "Cow Run next stop!" His eye fell on Redmond. "Wish I'd seenyou before, Officer!" he remarked, "I'd have had a hobo for you. Beggarstole a ride on us from Glenbow, back there. The con's goin' to chuckhim off here—do you want him?"

"No!" said Redmond shortly, "let the stiff go—I'm going on to
Davidsburg—haven't got time to get messing around with 'vags' now."

The train began to slow down and presently stopped at a small station.Mechanically the quartette gazed through the window at the few shiveringplatform loungers, and beyond them to the irregular, low-lying facade ofsnow-plastered buildings that comprised the dreary main street of thelittle town.

Suddenly the children uttered a shrill yelp.

"There he is!" cried Alice, darting a small finger at the window-pane.

"I saw him first!" bawled Jerry.

And, slouching past along the platform, all huddled-up with hands inpockets, George beheld a ragged nondescript of a man whose appearanceconfirmed Master Jerry's previous assertion beyond doubt.

The children drummed on the window excitedly. Glancing up at the twosmall peering faces the human derelict's red-nosed, stubble-coated visagecontorted itself into a friendly grimace of recognition; at the sametime, with an indescribably droll, swashbuckling swagger he doffed ashocking dunghill of a hat.

Suddenly though his jaw dropped and, replacing his battered headpiece,with double-handed indecent haste the knight of the road executed anincredibly nimble "right-about turn" and vanished behind thestation-house. Just then came the engine's toot! toot!, the conductor'swarning "All aboar-rd!" and the train started once more on its journeywestward.

Smiling grimly to himself, the policeman settled back in his seat againand glanced across at the lady. She was shaking with convulsive laughter.

"Oh!" she giggled hysterically "he—he must have seen your red coat!"another spasm of merriment, "it was as good as a pantomime," she murmured.

Evincing a keen interest in his soldierly vocation, for awhile shesubjected him to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties andlife of a Mounted Policeman. In this agreeable fashion the time passedrapidly and it was with a feeling of regret that he heard the brakemanannounce his destination and rose to take leave of his pleasantcompanion. The children insisted on bidding their late chum a cuddling,osculatory farewell—Alice tearfully holding up the snuffling Porkey forhis share. The train drew up at the Davidsburg platform, there came achorus of "Good-byes" and a few minutes later George was left alone withhis kit-bags on the deserted platform.

CHAPTER III

St. Agnes' Eve. Ah! bitter chill it was.
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped, trembling, through the frozen grass;
And drowsy was the flock in woolly fold
.
ST. AGNES' EVE

Edmond did not have to wait long. Sounding faint and far off came thesilvery ring of sleigh-bells, gradually swelling in volume until, with ameasured crunch! crunch! of hoofs on packed snow, a smart Police cutter,drawn by a splendid bay team, swung around a bend of the trail and pulledup at the platform. Redmond regarded with a little awe the huge,bear-like, uniformed figure of the teamster, whom he identified at oncefrom barrack gossip.

"Sergeant Slavin?" he enquired respectfully, eyeing the bronzed,clean-shaven face, half hidden by fur cap and turned-up collar.

"Meself, lad!" came a rich soft brogue, "I was afther gettin' a wire fromth' O.C., tellin' me he was thransfering me another man. Yer name'sRidmond, ain't it?—-Whoa, now! T an' B!—lively wid thim kit-bags,son!—team's pretty fresh an' will not shtand."

They swung off at a spanking trot. George surveyed the white-washedcattle-corrals and few scattered shacks which seemed to comprise thehamlet of Davidsburg.

"Not a very big place, Sergeant?" he remarked, "how far's the detachmentfrom here?"

"On'y 'bout a mile" grunted the individual, squirting a stream oftobacco-juice to leeward, "up on the high ground beyant. Nay! 'tis justa jumpin' off place an' shippin' point for th' ranches hereabouts.Business is mostly done at Cow Run—East. Ye passed ut, comin'. Greatdoin's there—whin th' cowpunchers blow in. Some burg!"

"Sure looked it!" Redmond agreed absently, thinking of the casual glimpsehe had got of the dreary main street.

They were climbing a slight grade. The sun-glare on the snow wasintense; the cutter's steel runners no longer screeched, and the team'shoofs began to clog up with soft snow.

"They're 'balling-up' pretty bad, Sergeant!" remarked Redmond. And, ashe spoke the "off" horse suddenly slipped and fell, and, plunging to itsfeet again, a leg slid over the cutter's tongue.

"Whoa, now! whoa!" barked Slavin, with an oath, as the mettled,high-strung animal began to kick affrightedly. Slipping again it sankdown in the snow and remained still for some tense moments.

Like a flash Redmond sprang from the cutter, and rapidly and warily heunhooked the team's traces. This done he crept to their heads andslipped the end of the tongue out of the neck-yoke ring. Slavin by thistime was also on his feet in the snow, with the situation well in hand.He clucked softly to his team, the fallen horse plunged to its feet againand the next moment all was clear. George, burrowing around in the snowunearthed a big stone, with which he proceeded to tap the team's shoesall round until the huge snow-clogs fell out. In silence the two menhooked up again and were soon on their way.

"H-mm!" grunted the big Irishman at last, eyeing his subordinate with asidelong glance of approval, "h-mm! teamster?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sergeant" responded Redmond deprecatingly, "of courseI've been around teams some—down East, on the old man's farm. . . Idon't know that I can claim to be a real teamster—as you judge them inthe Force."

"H-mm!" grunted Slavin again, "ye seem tu have th' makin's anyway." Heexpectorated musingly. "Wan time—down at Coutts 'twas—a young fellerwas sint tu me for tu dhrive. Mighty chipper gossoon, tu. 'Teamster?'sez I—'Some!' sez he, as if he was a reg'lar gun at th' business—'butI'm gen'rally reckoned handier wid a foursome 'n a single team.'"

"'Oh!' sez I, 'fwhere?' An' he tould me—Regina. Sez I thin ''tis
Skinner Adams's undershtudy ye must have bin?—for he was Reg'mentil
Teamster Sarjint there, an' sure fwas a great man wid a four-in-hand
team.'"

"'Fwat, ould Skinner Adams?' sez me bould lad, kind av contempshus-like,'Humph! at shtringin' out four I have Skinner Adams thrimmed tu a peak.'We was dhrivin' from th' station tu th' detachmint—same like tu we'redoin' now. Whin we gits in I unhitches an' puts up th' team. 'Give us ahand tu shling th' harniss off!' sez I tu him—an' me shmart Aleck makesa shtab at ut wid th' nigh horse. He was not quite so chipper—thin, an'I noticed his hands thremblin', an' he was all th' time watchin' me closehow I did wid th' off harse. I dhraws off wid th' britchin' on mearrum—'Come!' sez I—an' he shtarts in—unbucklin' th' top hame-shtrap.

"'As ye were!' sez I 'that's enough! I'm thinkin' th' on'y 'four' youiver shtrung out me young flapdhoodle was a gang av prisoners, an'blarney me sowl! ye shall go back tu th' Post right now, an' duprisoner's escort agin for awhile.'"

They had now reached the top of the grade where the trail swung due east,and faced a dazzling sun and cutting wind which whipped the blood totheir cheeks and made their eyes water.

"Behould our counthry eshtate!" said Sergeant Slavin grandiloquently,with an airy wave of his arm, "beyant that big pile av shtones on th'road-allowance."

He chirped to his team which broke into an even, fast trot, and presentlythey drew up outside a building typical in its outside appearance of theusual range Mounted Police detachment. It was a fairly large dwelling,roughly but substantially-built of squared logs, painted in customaryfashion, with the walls—white, and the shingled roof—red. Astrongly-guyed flagstaff jutting out from one gable, and copies of the"Game" and "Fire Acts" tacked on the door gave the abode an unmistakableofficial aspect. Over the doorway was nailed a huge, prehistoric-lookingbuffalo-skull, bleached white with the years—the time-honoured insigniaof the R.N.W.M.P. being a buffalo-head, which is also stamped on theregimental badge and button.

Dumping off the kit-bags, the two men drove round to the stable in therear of the main dwelling, where they unhitched and put up the team. Thesergeant led the way into the house. Passing through a small store-houseand kitchen they emerged into the living room. On a miniature scale itwas a replica of one of the Post barrack-rooms, except that the tableboasted a tartan-rugged covering, that two or three easy chairs werescattered around, and some calfskin mats partially covered the paintedhardwood floor. The walls, for the most part were adorned with manyunframed copies of pictures from the brush of that great Western artist,Charles Russell, and black and white sketches cut from variousillustrated papers. Three corners of the room contained cots, one ofwhich the sergeant assigned to Redmond. The room, with its big stove, ina way looked comfortable enough, and was regimentally neat and clean andhomelike.

George peered into the front room beyond which bore quite a judicialaspect. At one end of it a small dais supported a severe-lookingarm-chair and a long flat desk, on which were piled foolscap, blank legalforms, law-books, and the Bible. In front was a long, form-like bench,with a back to it. At the rear of the room were two strongly-builtcells, with barred doors. Around the walls were scattered a double rowof small chairs and, on a big, green-baize-covered board next the cellshung a brightly burnished assortment of handcuffs and leg-irons.

"'Tis here we hould coort," Slavin informed him, "whin we have anyshtiffs tu be thried."

Opening the front door George lugged in his bedding and kit-bags and,depositing them on his cot, flung off his fur coat, cap, and serge.Slavin divested himself likewise and, as the burly, bull-necked man stoodthere, slowly filling his pipe, Redmond was able to scan the face andmassive proportions of his superior more closely.

Standing well over six feet, for the presentment of vast, thoughperchance clumsy, gorilla-like strength, George reflected with slight awethat he had never seen the man's equal. His wide-spreading shoulderswere more rounded than square; his deep, arching chest, powerful, stockynether limbs and disproportionately long, huge-biceped arms seeming tofit him as an exponent of the mat rather than the gloves. Truly adaunting figure to meet in a close-quarter, rough-and-tumble encounter!thought Redmond. The top of his head was completely bald; his thick,straight black brows indicating that what little close-cropped iron-grayhair remained must originally have been coal-black in colour. HisIrish-blue eyes, alternately dreamy and twinklingly alert, were deeplyset in a high-cheeked-boned, bronzed face, with a long upper-lipped,grimly-humorous mouth. Its expression in repose gave subtle warning thatits owner possessed in a marked degree the strongly melancholic,emotional, and choleric temperament of his race. There was nomoroseness—no hardness in it, but rather the taciturnity that invariablysettles upon the face of those dwellers of the range who, perforce, livemuch alone with their thoughts. Sheathed in mail and armed, that faceand bulky figure to some imaginations might have found its prototype insome huge, grim, war-worn "man-at-arms" of mediaeval times. Redmondjudged him to be somewhere in his forties; forty-two was his exact age ashe ascertained later.

In curious contrast to his somewhat formidable exterior seemed his mild,gentle, soft-brogued voice. And with speech, his taciturn face relaxedinsensibly into an almost genial expression, George noted.

Attracted by a cluster of pictures and photographs above and around thecot in the corner opposite his own, the young fellow crossed over andscanned them attentively. Tacked up with a random, reckless hand, thebizarre collection was typically significant of someone's whimsical,freakish tastes and personality. From the sublime to the ridiculous—andworse—subjects pious and impious, dreamily-beautiful and lewdly-vulgar,comic and tragic, also many splendid photographs were all jumbledtogether on the walls in a shockingly irresponsible fashion. Many of thepictures were unframed copies cut apparently from art and other journals;from theatrical and comic papers.

George gazed on them awhile in utterly bewildered astonishment; then,with a little hopeless ejaculation, swung around to the sergeant who methis despairing grin with benign composure.

"Whose cot's—"

"'Tis Yorke's," said Slavin simply. It was the first time he hadmentioned that individual's name. He struck a match on the seat of hispants and standing with his feet apart and hands clasped behind his backsmoked awhile contentedly.

"Saw ye iver th' like av that for divarsiment?" he continued, with a waveof his pipe at the heterogeneous array, "shtudy thim! an', by an' largeye have th' man himsilf. He's away on pay-day duty at th' Coalmore mineswest av here—though by token, 'tis Billy Blythe at Banff shud be doin'ut, 'stead av me havin' tu sind a man from here. He shud be back onNumber Four th' night."

His twinkling orbs under their black smudge of eyebrow appraised thejunior constable with faint, musing interest. "A quare chap is Yorkey,"he continued gently—shielding a match-flame and puffing with noisyrespiration—"a good polisman—knows th' Criminal Code from A tu Z—eyah!but mighty quare. I misdoubt how th' tu av yez will get along." Hesighed deeply, muttering half to himself, "I may have tu takeshteps—this time! . . ."

A rather ominous beginning, thought George. But, curbing his naturalcuriosity, he resolutely held his peace, awaiting more enlightenment.This not being forthcoming—his superior having relapsed once more intotaciturn silence—he turned again to Yorke's exhibits with ponderinginterest. Sounding far-off and indistinct in the frosty stillness of thebleak foothills came the faint echoes of a coyote's shrill"ki-yip-yapping"—again and again, as if endeavouring to convey someinsidious message. George continued to stare at the pictures. Gad! whata strange fantastic mind the man must have! he mused—what rotten,erratic desecration to shove pictures indiscriminately together likethat! . . . Lack of space was no excuse. Millet's "Angelus," "AllySloper at the Derby," a splendid lithograph of "The Angel of Pity at theWell of Cawnpore," Lottie Collins, scantily attired, in her song anddance "Tara-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," Sir Frederick Leighton's "Wedded," agruesome depiction of a Chinese execution at Canton, an old-fashionedengraving of that dashing, debonair cavalry officer, "Major Hodson," ofIndian Mutiny fame, George Robey, as a nurse-maid, wheeling Little Tichin a perambulator, the grim, torture-lined face of Slatin Pasha, aridiculously obscene picture entitled "Two coons scoffing oysters for awager," that glorious edifice the "Taj Mahal" of India, and so on."Divarsiment" indeed!

To this ill-assorted admixture three exceptions only were grouped withany sense of reason. The central picture was a beautifully colouredreproduction of Sir Hubert Herkomer's famous masterpiece "The LastMuster." Lovers of art subjects are doubtless familiar with thisimmortal painting. It depicts a pathetic congregation of old,white-haired, war-worn pensioners attending divine service in the chapelof Old Chelsea Hospital, with the variegated lights from thestained-glass windows flooding them with soft gentle colours. Flankingit on either side were portraits of the original founders of thishistorical institution in 1692—Charles II (The Merry Monarch) and hiskindly-hearted "light o' love" Sweet Nell Gwynn of Old Drury.

With curiously mixed feelings George finally tore himself away fromYorke's pathetically grotesque attempt at wall-adornment. Strive as hewould within his soul to ridicule, the pictures seemed somehow almost toshout at him with hidden meaning. As if a voice—a drunken voice, butgentlemanly withall—was hiccuping in his ear: "Paradise Lost, old man!(hic) Paradise Lost!"

And, mixed with it, came again out of the silence of the foothills thecoyote's faintly persistent mocking wail—its "ki-yip-yap" soundingalmost like "Bah! Yah! Baa!" . . . Some lines of an old quotation,picked up he knew not where, wandered into his mind—

Comedy, Tragedy, Laughter and Tears! Thou'rt rolled as one in the Dust of Years!

With a sigh he turned to his own cot and began to unpack and arrange hiskit; in regulation fashion, and with such small faddy fixings customaryto men inured to barrack life. Thus engaged the time passed rapidly.Later in the day he assisted the sergeant in making out the detachment's"monthly returns" and diary. This task accomplished, in the gatheringdusk he attended "Evening Stables." There were two saddle-horses besidethe previously-mentioned team. A splendid upstanding pair, Georgethought them. He was good with horses; possessing the faculty ofhandling them that springs only from a patient, kindly, instinctive loveof animals.

"Nay! I dhrive mostly," Slavin was telling him, "buckboard an' team'saway handier for a man av weight like meself. Eyah!" he sighed, "tho'time was whin I cud throw a leg over wid th' best av thim. Yorke—hegen'rally rides th' black, Parson, so ye'll take th' sorrel, Fox, for yehpathrols. He's a good stayer, an' fast. Ye'll want tu watch him atmounthin' tho'—he's not a mane harse, but he has a quare thrick avturnin' sharp tu th' 'off'—just as ye go tu shwing up into th' saddle.Many's th' man he's whiraroo'd round wid wan fut in th' stirrup an' leftpickin' up dollars off th' bald-headed.' Well! let's tu supper."

With the practised hand of an old cook he prepared a simple but heartyrepast, upon which they fell with appetites keenly edged with the coldair.

"Are ye anythin' av a cuk?"

Redmond grinned deprecatingly and then shook his head.

"Eyah!" grumbled Slavin, "seems I cannot hilp bein' cuk an' shtandin'orderly-man around here. I thried out Yorkey. . . . Wan day on'ytho'—'tis th' divil's own cuk he is. 'Sarjint!' sez he, 'I'm nobowatchee'—which in Injia he tells me means same as cuk. An' he touldth' trute at that."

Some three hours later, as they lay on their cots, came to them thefaint, far-off toot! toot! of an engine, through the keen atmosphere.

"That's Number Four from th' West," remarked Slavin drowsily, "Yorkeyshud be along on ut. Well! a walk will not hurt th' man if—"

He chuntered something to himself.

Half an hour elapsed slowly—three quarters. Slavin rolled off his cotwith a grunt and strode heavily to the front door, which he opened.Redmond silently followed him and together the two men stepped out intothe crisply-crunching hard-packed snow. It was a magnificent night.High overhead in the star-studded sky shone a splendid full moon, itsclear cold rays lighting up the white world around them with a sort ofphosphorescent, scintillating brilliance.

Though not of a particularly sentimental temperament, the calm, peaceful,unearthly beauty of the scene moved George to murmur—half to himself:

"Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot, alas!
As benefits forgot
."

To his surprise came Slavin's soft brogue echoing the last lines of theold Shakespearian sonnet, with a sort of dreamy, gentle bitterness: "Asbinifits forghot—forghot!—as binifits forghot! . . . . Luk tu thatnow! eyah! 'tis th' trute, lad! . . . . for here—unless I am mistuk,comes me bould Yorkey—an' dhrunk as 'a fiddler's —— again. Tchkk! an'me on'y just afther warnin' um. . . ."

And, a far-away black spot as yet, down the moonlit, snow-banked trail,indistinctly they beheld an unsteady figure slowly weaving its waytowards the detachment. At intervals the night-wind wafted to themsnatches of song.

"Singin', singin'," muttered Slavin, "from break av morrn 'till jewyeve! . . . Misther B—— Yorke! luks 'tis goin' large y'are th' night."

Nearer and nearer approached the stumbling black figure, weaving aneccentric course in and out along the line of telephone poles; and, totheir ears came the voice of one crying in the wilderness:—

"O, the Midnight Son! the Midnight Son! (hic)
You needn't go trottin' to Norway—
You'll find him in ev'ry doorway—
"

A sudden cessation of the music, coupled with certain slightlyindistinct, weird contortions of the vocalist's figure, apprised thewatchers that a snow-bank had momentarily claimed him. Then, suddenlyand saucily, as if without a break, the throbbing, high-pitched tenorpiped up again—

"You'll behold him in his glory
If you on'y take a run (hic)
Down the Strand—that's the Land
Of the Midnight Son
."

Dewy eve indeed!—a far cry to the Strand! . . . How freakish soundedthat old London variety stage ditty ridiculing the nightly silence of thegreat snow-bound Nor' West. Redmond could not refrain an explosive,snorting chuckle as he remarked the erratic gait of the slowlyapproaching pedestrian. As Slavin had opined, he was "going large." Hisvocal efforts had ceased temporarily, and now it was the juniorconstable's merriment that broke the frosty stillness of the night.

But Slavin did not laugh. Watchfully he waited there—curiously still,his head jutting forward loweringly from between his huge shoulders.

"Tchkk!" he clucked in gentle distaste—"In uniform . . . an' just afthercomin' off the thrain! . . . th' like av that now 'tis—'tisscandh'lus! . . ."

Suddenly Redmond shivered, and his mirth died within him. The air seemedto have become charged with a tense, ominous something that filled himwith a great dread—of what? he knew not. He felt an inexplicableimpulse to cry out a warning to that ludicrous figure, whose crunchingmoccasins were now the only sounds that broke the uncanny stillness ofthe night. To him, the whole scene, bathed in the cold brilliance of itsmoonlit setting, seemed ghostly and unreal—a disturbing dream of comedyand tragedy, intermingled.

Inwards, between the telephone poles, the man came stumbling along,gradually drawing nigh to the motionless watchers. Halting momentarily,during his progress he made a quick stooping action at the base of one ofthe poles, as if with vague purpose, which action was remarked at leastby Redmond.

Then, for the first time, he seemed to become aware of their presence,and making a pitiful attempt to dissemble his condition and assume asmart, erect military carriage he waved his riding-crop at them by way ofsalutation. Something in his action, its graceful, airy mockery, trivialthough it was, impressed the gestures firmly in Redmond's mind. Hebecame cognizant of a flushed, undeniably handsome face with recklesseyes and mocking lips; a slimly-built figure of a man of medium height,whose natural grace was barely concealed by the short regimental fur coat.

Halting unsteadily within the regulation three paces pending salute, hestruck an attitude commonly affected by Mr. Sothern, in "Lord Dundreary,"and jauntily twirled his crop, the while he declaimed:—

"Waltz me round again, Willie, Willie, Round and round and—"

"Round!" finished Slavin, with a horrible oath. There seemed somethingshockingly aboriginal—simian—in the swift, gorilla-like clutch of hishuge dangling hands, as they fastened on the throat and shoulder of thedrunken man and whirled him on his back in the snow—something deadly andmenacing in his hard-breathing, soft-brogued invective:

"Yeh bloody nightingale! come off th' perch! . . . I'm fed up widyeh!—I'll waltz yeh!—I'll tache yeh tu make a mock av Burke Slavin,time an' again! I'll—"

Redmond interposed, "Steady, Sergeant!" he implored shakily, his hand onhis superior's shoulder, "For God's sake—"

But Slavin, in absent fashion, shoved him off. He seemed to put noeffort in the movement, but the tense muscular impact of it sent Redmondreeling yards away.

"Giddap, Yorkey! God d——n ye for a dhrunken waster!—giddap! or I'llput th' boots tu yeh!" Terrible was the menace of the giant Irishman'sface, his back-flung boot and his snarling, curiously low-pitched voice.

"No! not Burke, old man! . . . ah, don't!" gasped the rich tenor voicepleadingly from the snow—"ah, don't, Burke! . . . remember,remember . . . St. Agnes' Eve—

"St. Agnes' Eve. Ah! bitter chill it was,
The—"

It broke—that throbbing voice with its strange, impassioned appeal. Faraway over the snow the faint, silvery ring of a locomotive gong fell uponthe ears of the trio almost like the deep, solemn tolling of bells.

Then slowly, and seemingly in pain, the prostrate man arose.

And yet! Redmond mused, sorry a figure as he cut just then, minusfur-cap and plastered with snow, alone with the shame which was his, hehad an air, a certain dignity of mien, this man, Yorke, which stamped himfar above the common run of men.

The junior constable, as he noted the dark hair, silvering and worn awayat the temples, adjudged him to be somewhere between thirty andforty—thirty-five was his exact age as he ascertained later.

Now, with the air of a fallen angel, he stood there in the cold,snow-dazzling moonlight; his face registering silent resignation as towhatever else might befall him. The sergeant had stepped forward.Redmond looked on, in dazed apprehension. A solemn hush had fallen uponthe strange scene, and stranger trio. Their figures flung weird,fantastic shadows across the diamond-sparkling snow-crust. Georgeglanced at Slavin, and that individual's demeanor amazed him stillfurther. The big man's face was transformed. There seemed somethingvery terrible just then in the pathetic working of his rugged features,as if he were striving to allay some powerful inward emotion. Thenhuskily, but not unkindly—as perchance the father may have spoken to theprodigal son—came his soft brogue:

"Get yu tu bed, Yorkey! get yu tu bed, man! . . . an' thry me nomore! . . . ."

Mutely, like a child, Yorke obeyed the order. Glancing at Redmond heturned and walked unsteadily into the detachment.

Perturbed and utterly mystified at the sordid drama he had witnessed, itsamazing combination of brutality and pathos, George remained rooted tothe spot as one in a dream. Instinctively though, he felt that this wasnot the first time of its enactment. Mechanically he watched the doorclose; then sounding far off and indistinct, Slavin's hoarse whisper inhis ear brought him down to Mother Earth again with a vengeance:

"Did ye mark him stoop an' 'plant' th' 'hootch?'"

George nodded. "I wasn't quite wise to what he was at," he answered.

"Let us go get ut!" said Sergeant Slavin grimly, marching to the spot, "Iwill not have dhrink brought into th' detachment! . . . 'tis againstordhers."

He bent down, straightened up, and turning to Redmond who had joined himexhibited a bottle. He held it up to the light of the moon. It appearedto be about half empty. Extracting the cork, he smelt.

"'Tis whiskey," he murmured simply—much as Mr. Pickwick said: "It ispunch." He made casual examination of the green and gold label."'Burke's Oirish,' begob! . . . eyah! a brave ould uniform but"—heturned a moist eye on his subordinate—"a desp'ritly wounded souldierthat wears ut—betther out av pain. 'Tis an' ould sayin': 'Whin ye meetth' divil du not turn tail but take um by th' harns.' . . . Bhoy! Ithrust the honest face av yeh—I have tuk tu ye since th' handy lad yeshowt yersilf with that team mix-up th' morn."

Redmond, mollified, grinned shiveringly. "I don't mind a snort,Sergeant," he said, "it's d——d cold out here. Beer's more in my linethough. Salue!"

He took a swallow or two; the bottle changed hands.

"Eyah!" remarked Slavin sometime later—cuddling the bottle at the "portarms." "'Tis put th' kibosh on many a good man in th' ould Force hasthis same dhrink. Th' likes av Yorkey there"—he jerked his head at thelighted window—"shud never touch ut—never touch ut! . . . Cannotflirrt wid a bottle—'tis wedded they wud be tu ut. Now meself"—hepaused impressively—"I can take me dhrink like a ginthleman—can takeut, or lave ut alone."

Absorptive demonstration followed. Came a long-drawn, smacking "Ah-hh!""A sore thrial tu me is that same man," he resumed, "wan more break onhis part, as ye have seen this night . . . an' I musht—I will takeshteps wid um."

"Why don't you transfer him back to the Post?" queried George,wonderingly, mindful of how swiftly that disciplinary measure hadrewarded his own reckless conduct at the Gleichen detachment. "He's gotnothing on you, has he?"

"Fwhat?" . . . Slavin, turning like a flash, glared sharply at him outof deep-set scowling eyes, "Fwhat?"

Tonelessly, George repeated his query,

Slavin's glare gradually faded. "Eyah!" he affirmed presently, "hehas! . . ." came a long pause—"but not as yu mane ut . . . oh! begorrah,no!" His eyes glittered dangerously and his wide mouth wreathed into anunholy grin, "'Tis a shmart man that iver puts ut over on me at th'Orderly-room. . . Fwhy du I not sind him into th' Post? . . . eyah! fwhydu I not? . . ."

Chin sunk on his huge chest, he mused awhile.

George waited.

"Listen, bhoy!" A terrible earnestness crept into the soft voice. "I'lltell ye th' tale. . . . 'Twas up at th' Chilkoot Pass—in the gold rushav '98. . . . Together we was—Yorkey an' meself—stationed there undherould Bobby Belcher. Wan night—Mother av God! will I iver forghet ut?Bitther cowld is th' Yukon, lad; th' like av ut yu' here in Alberta dunot know. Afther tu crazy lost cheechacos we had been that day. Wefound thim—frozen. . . . A blizzard had shprung up, but we shtrappedth' stiffs on th' sled an' mushed ut oursilves tu save th' dogs.

"I am a big man, an' shtrong . . . . but Yorkey was th' betther man av ustu that night—havin less weight tu pack. I was all in—dhrowsy, an'wanted tu give up th' ghost an' shleep—an' shleep. . . . Nigh untodeath I was. . . ."

The murmuring voice died away. A shudder ran through the great frame atthe remembrance, while the hand clutching the bottle trembled violently.Unconsciously Redmond shook with him; for the horror Slavin was livingover again just then enveloped his listener also.

"But Yorkey," he continued "wud not let me lie down. . . . God! how thatman did put his fishts an' mucklucks tu me an' pushed an' shtaggered widme' afther th' dogs, beggin' an' cursin' an' prayin' an' callin' me namesthat ud fairly make th' dead relations av a man rise up out av theirgraves. . . . Light-headed he got towards th' ind av th' thrail, poorchap! shoutin' dhrill-ordhers an' Injia naygur talk, an' singin' greatsongs an' chips av poethry—th' half av which I misremimber—exciptthim—thim wurrds he said this night. 'Shaint Agnus Eve,' he calls ut.Over an' over he kept repeathin' thim as he helped me shtaggerin'along. . . 'God!' cries he, betune cursin' me an' th' dogs an' singin''Shaint Agnus Eve'—'Oh, help us this night! let us live, God! . . . oh,let us live!—this poor bloody Oirishman an' me! . . .'"

The sergeant's head was thrown back now, gazing full at the evening starthe moonbeams shining upon his upturned, powerful face. Cold as was thenight Redmond could see glistening beads of sweat on his forehead. Asone himself under the spell of the fear of death, the younger mansilently watched that face—fascinated. It was calm now, with a greatand kindly peace. Slowly the gentle voice took up the tale anew:

"We made ut, bhoy—th' Post—or nigh tu ut . . . in th' break av th'dawn. . . . For wan av th' dogs yapped an' they come out an' found us inth' snow. . . . Yorkey, wid his arrums round th' neck av me—as if hewud shtill dhrag me on . . . . an' cryin' upon th' mother that boreum. . . . Tu men—in damned bad shape—tu shtiffs . . . . an' but threedogs lift out av th' six-team we'd shtarted wid. . . . So—now ye know;lad! . . . Fwhat think ye? . . ."

What George thought was: "Greater love hath no man than this." What hesaid was: "He's an Englishman, isn't he?"

Slavin nodded. "Comes of a mighty good family tu, they say, but 'tislittle he iwer cracks on himself 'bout thim. Years back he hild acommission in some cavalry reg'mint in Injia, but he got broke—over awoman, I fancy. He's knocked about th' wurrld quite a piece since thin.Eyah! he talks av some quare parts he's been in. Fwhat doin'? Lordknows. Been up an' down the ladder some in this outfit—sarjint oneweek—full buck private next. Yen know th' way these ginthlemin-rankersrun amuck?"

"How does he get away with it every time?" queried Redmond. "Hasn't anycivilian ever reported him to the old man?"

"Yes! wance—an' 'Father,' th' ould rapparee! he went for me baldheadedfor not reporthin' ut tu."

With a sort of miserable heartiness Slavin cursed awhile at therecollection. "Toime an' again," he resumed, "have I taken my hands tuum—pleaded wid um, an' shielded um in many a dhirty scrape, an' ivrytoime sez he, wid his ginthlemin's shmile: 'Burke! will ye thry an'overlook it, ould man?' . . . Eyah! he's mighty quare. For some raysonhe seems tu hate th' idea av a third man bein' here, tho' th' man' wuddie for me. Divil a man can I kape here, anyway. In fwhat fashion heputs th' wind up 'him, I do not know; they will not talk, out av purekindness av heart an' rispict for meself, I guess. But—a few days here,an' bingo!—they apply for thransfer. Now ye know ivrythin', bhoy—fwhatI am up against, an' fwhy I will not 'can' Yorkey. Ye've a face thatbegets thrust—do not bethray ut, but thry an' hilp me. Bear wid Yorkeas best ye can—divilmint an' all—for my sake, will yeh?"

Not devoid of a certain simple dignity was the grim, rugged face thatturned appealingly to the younger man's in the light of the moon.

And Redmond, smiling inscrutably into the deep-set, glittering eyes,answered as simply: "I will, Sergeant!"

He declined an offer. "Nemoyah! (No) thanks, I've had enough."

For some unaccountable reason, Slavin smiled also. His huge clampingright hand crushed George's, while the left described an arc heavenwards.Came a throaty gurgle, a careless swing of the arm, and—

"Be lay loike a warrior takin' his rist,
Wid his—

"I misrimimber th' tail-ind av ut," sighed Sergeant Slavin, "'Tis toimewe turned in."

In silence they re-entered the detachment. Yorke, minus his moccasins,fur-coat and red-serge, lay stretched out upon his cot sleeping heavily,his flushed, reckless, high-bred face pillowed on one outflung arm.Above him, silent guardians of his rest, his grotesque mixture of printsgleamed duskily in the lamp-light.

Into Redmond's mind—sunk into a deep oblivion of dreamy, chaoticthought—came again Slavin's words:

"Shtudy thim picthures, bhoy! an', by an' large ye have th' man himsilf"

Soon, too, he slept; and into his fitful slumbers drifted a ridiculouslydisturbing dream. That of actually witnessing the terrible scene of thelong-dead Indian Mutiny hero, Major Hodson, executing with his own handthe three princes of Oude.

Inshalla! it was done—there! there! against the cart, amidst thegorgeous setting of Indian sunset and gleaming minaret. "Deen! Deen!Futteh Mohammed!" came a dying scream upon the last shot—the smokingcarbine was jerked back to the "recover"—a moment the scarlet-turbaned,scarlet-sashed English officer gazed with ruthless satisfaction at histreacherous victims then, turning sharply, faced him.

And lo! to Redmond it seemed that the stern, intolerant,recklessly-handsome countenance he looked upon bore a strikingresemblance to the face of Yorke.

CHAPTER IV

Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And—"This to me!" he said,—

MARMION

Early on the morrow it came to pass that Sergeant Slavin, cookingbreakfast for all hands, heard Yorke's voice uplifted in song, as thatworthy made his leisurely toilet. He shot a slightly bilious glance atRedmond, who, "Morning Stables" finished, lounged nearby.

"Hear um?" he snorted enviously. "Singin'! singin'!—foreversingin'!—eyah! sich nonsince, tu."

But, to George, who possessed a musical ear, the ringing tenor soundedrather airily and sweetly—

"Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven's Gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs—
"

"Fwhat yez know 'bout that?" Slavin forked viciously at the bacon he wasfrying. "Blarney my sowl! an' him not up for 'Shtables' at all! . . ."

"With ev'rything that pretty is:— My lady sweet, arise! arise! My lady sweet, arise!"

"My lady shweet!"—Slavin snorted unutterable things.

Yawning, the object of his remarks sauntered into the kitchen just then,and, deeming the occasion now to be a fitting one, the sergeantintroduced his two subordinates to each other.

Yorke, with a bleak nod and handshake, swept the junior constable with aswiftly appraising glance. As frigidly was his salutation returned.Redmond remarked the regular features, suggestive rather of the ancientNorman type, the thin, curved, defiant nostrils and dark, archingeyebrows. The face, with its indefinable stamp of birth and breeding washandsome enough in its patrician mould, but marred somewhat by the linesof cynicism, or dissipation, round the sombre, reckless eyes andintolerant mouth. He had a cool, clear voice and a whimsical,devil-may-care sort of manner that was apparently natural to him, as wasalso a certain languid grace of movement. He possessed an irritatingmannerism of continually elevating his chin and dilating his curvednostrils disdainfully in a sort of soundless sniff. Beyond a slightflush he showed little trace of his previous night's dissipation.

"Where do you hail from?" he enquired of George with casual interest overthe mess-table later.

"Ontario," replied George laconically, "my people are farmers down there."

For a moment Yorke's arched brows lifted in puzzled surprise—came arepetition of his offensive sniffing mannerism; and he stared pointedlyaway again. It was difficult to be more insulting in dumb show.

George, mindful of his promise to Slavin, groaned inwardly. "I am goingto hate this fellow" he thought.

The sergeant, from the head of the table, kept a keen watch upon the pair.

"An' fwhat?" came his soft brogue, by way of diversion, "an' fwhat madeyu' take on th' Force?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Wearily, George shoved his hands deep into hispockets and leant back in his chair. "Old man's pretty well fixed—now.He's a member of the legislature for —— County. I was at McGill forsome terms—medicine." A hopeless note crept into his tones. "I felldown on my exams . . . ran amuck with the wrong bunch an' allthat—an'—an' . . . kind of made a mess of things I guess. . . . Wentbroke—came West. . . . That's why. . . ."

With a forlorn sort of forced grin he gazed back at his interlocutor.Yorke, unheeding the conversation, continued his breakfast as if he werealone.

"H-mm!" grunted Slavin, summing up the situation with native simplicity,"That's ut, eh?—but, for all ye have th' spache an' manners av aginthleman—ranker somehow—somehow I misdoubt ye're a way-back wasterlike Misther Yorkey here!"

That hardened "ginthleman," absently sipping his coffee, flung afaintly-derisive, patient smile at his accuser. A perfect understandingseemed to exist between the two men. Redmond, musing upon thepathetically-sordid drama he had witnessed not so many hours since,relapsed into a reverie of speculation.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sharp trill of the telephone.
Slavin arose lethargically from the mess-table and answered it.

"Hullo! yis! Slavin shpeakin'! Fwat?—all right Nick! I'll sind a manshortly an' vag um! So long! Oh, hold on, Nick! . . . May th' divilniver know ye're dead till ye're tu hours in Hivin! Fwhat?—Oh, thankyez! Same tu yez! Well! . . . so long!"

"Hobo worryin' Nick Lee at Cow Run. Scared av fire in th'livery-shtable. Go yu', Yorkey!" He eyed George a moment in curiousspeculation. "Yu' had betther go along tu, Ridmond! Exercise yez harsean'"—he lit his pipe noisily—"learn th' lay av th' thrails." He turnedto the senior constable. "If ye can lay hould av th' J.P. there, getthis shtiff committed an' let Ridmond take thrain wid um tu th' Post.Yu' return wid th' harses!"

"Why can't Redmond nip down there on a way-freight and do the wholething?" said Yorke, a trifle sulkily. "It seems rot sending two menmounted for one blooming hobo."

"Eyah!" murmured Slavin with suspicious mildness, "'tis th' long toimesince I have used me shtripes tu give men undher me wan ordher twice."

Yorke flashed a slightly apprehensive glance at his superior's face.Then, without another word, he reached for his side-arms, bridle, andfur-coat. He knew his man.

Redmond followed suit and they adjourned to the stable.

"I saw that beggar yesterday—on my way up," remarked George,ill-advisedly.

Yorke stared. "The hell you did! . . . why didn't you vag him then?" heretorted irritably.

Bursting with silent wrath at the "choke-off," with difficulty Redmondheld his peace. In silence they saddled up and leading the horses outprepared to mount. Yorke swung up on the splendid, mettledblack—"Parson." He had an ideal cavalry seat, and as with an easy gracehe gently controlled his impatient horse, with an inscrutable, mask-likecountenance he watched Redmond and the sorrel "Fox."

With toe in the leather-covered stirrup the latter reached for thesaddle-horn. Poor George! fuming inwardly over one humiliation causedhim shortly to be the recipient of another. Too late to his preoccupiedmind came Slavin's warning of the day before.

Like a flash the sorrel whirled to the "off-side" and Redmond, swung offhis balance, revolved into space and was pitched on his hands and kneesin the snow. Fortunately his foot had slipped clear of the stirrup. Inthis somewhat ignominious position dizzily he heard Yorke's mocking tones:

"What are the odds on Fox, bookie? . . . I'd like a few of those dollarswhen you've quite finished picking them all up."

With an almost superhuman effort the young fellow controlled himself oncemore as he arose. Not lightly had he given a promise. Silently hedusted the snow from his uniform and strode over to where the sorrelawaited him. The horse had made no attempt to run away; apparently beingan old hand at the game. It now stood eying its dupe, with Lord knowswhat mirth tickling its equine brain.

Slipping the "nigh" rein through the saddle-fork, then back to thecheek-strap again, George snubbed Fox's head towards him, making itimpossible for the horse to whirl to the "off" as before. Warily andquietly he then swung into the saddle and the two men set off.

A few yards from the front of the detachment Yorke suddenly pulled upand, dismounting, felt around in the snow at the base of awell-remembered telephone-pole. It was Redmond's hour to jeer now, if hehad been mindful to do so. But another usurped that privilege.

A queer choking sound made them both turn round. Slavin, his grim faceregistering unholy mirth, lounged in the doorway.

"Fwhat ye lukkin for, Yorkey?"

"Oh, nothing!" came that gentleman's answer.

"Ye'll find ut in th' bottle thin."

Insult was added to injury by the sergeant casually plucking that articlefrom it's "rist" and chucking it over.

Yorke's face was a study. "Oh!" cried he dismally, "what wit! . . . givethree rousing cheers!" . . . He mounted once more. "Well! there's nodenying you are one hell of a sergeant!"

That worthy one grinned at him tolerantly. "Get yez gone!" he spat back,"an' du not linger tu play craps on th' thrail either—th' tu av yez!"

Long and grimly, with his bald head sunk between his huge shoulders, hegazed after the departing riders. "Eyah! 'tis best so!" he murmuredsoftly, "a showdown—wid no ould shtiff av a non-com like meself tu buttin. . . . An', onless I am mistuk that same will come this very morn,from th' luks av things. . . . Sind th' young wan is as handy wid hisdhooks as Brankley sez he is! . . . Thin—an' on'y thin will there bepeace in th' fam'ly."

He re-lit his pipe and, shading his eyes from the snow-glare focussedthem on two rapidly vanishing black specks. "I wud that I cud see ut!"he sighed, plaintively, "I wud that I cud see ut!"

It was a glorious day, sunny and clear, with the temperature sufficientlylow to prevent the hard-packed snow from balling up the horses' feet.The trail ran fairly level along a lower shelf of the timber-linedfoothills, which on their right hand sloped gradually to the banks of theBow River in a series of rolling "downs." Sharply outlined against theblue ether the Sou' Western chain of the mighty "Rockies" reared theirrosily-white peaks in all their morning glory—silent guardians of thewinter landscape.

Deep down in his soul young Redmond harboured a silent, dreamy adorationfor the beauty of such scenes as this. Under different conditions hewould have enjoyed this ride immensely. But now—with his mind aseething bitter chaos consequent upon his companion's incomprehensiblebehavior towards him, he rode in a sort of brooding reverie. Yorke wasequally morose. Not a word had fallen from their lips since they leftthe detachment.

Right under the horses' noses a big white jack-rabbit suddenly dartedacross the snow-banked ruts of the well-worn trail, pursuing its leapingerratic course towards a patch of brush on the river side.Simultaneously the animals shied, with an inward trend, cannoning theirrespective riders together. Yorke reined away sharply and glared.

"Get over'" he said curtly, "don't crowd me!"

He spoke as a Cossack hetman might to his sotnia, and, at his tone andattitude, something snapped within Redmond. To his already overflowingcup of resentment it was the last straw. His promise to Slavin he flungto the winds, and it was replaced with vindictive but cool purpose.

"Showdown!" he muttered under his breath, "I knew it had to come!" Hewas conscious of a feeling of vast relief. Aloud he responded, blithelyand rudely, "Oh! to hell with you!"

Yorke checked his horse with a suddenness that brought the animal backonto its haunches. Sitting square and motionless in the saddle for amoment he stared at George with an expression almost of shockedamazement; then his face became convulsed with ruthless passion.

The junior constable had pulled up also, and now wheeling "half-left" andlolling lazily in his saddle with shortened leg stared back at his enemywith an expression there was no mistaking. His debonair young face hadaltered in an incredible fashion. Although his lips were pursed up withtheir whistling nonchalance his eyes had contracted beneath scowlingbrows into mere pin-points of steel and ice. He looked about as docileas a young lobo wolf—cornered.

"Ah!" murmured Yorke, noting the transformation; and he seemed toconsider. He had seen that look on men's faces before. Insensibly,passion had vanished from his face; the bully had disappeared; and in hisplace there sat in saddle a cool, contemptuous gentleman.

"Are you talking back to me?" he said. He did not look astoundednow—seemed rather to assume it.

Redmond's scowling brows lifted a fraction. "Talking back?" he echoed,"sure! Who the devil do you think you're trying to come 'the Tin Man'over?"

Reluctantly Yorke discounted his first impressions. Here was noself-conscious bravado. Warily he surveyed George for a moment—the coolappraising glance of the ring champion in his corner scanning hischallenger—then, swinging out of the saddle, he dropped his lines andbegan to unbuckle his spurs.

There was no mistaking his actions. Redmond followed suit. A fewseconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.

"Oh, you needn't be scared of Fox beating it," remarked that gentleman atrifle wearily, "he'll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his linesdown."

Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of theirsurroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more orless bare of snow. Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flungoff caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets. Yorke, a graceful,compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponentwith an approving eye.

"You strip good" he said carelessly. "Well! what's it to be? . . .'muck' or 'muffin'?"

"'Muffin' of course!" snapped Redmond angrily, "what d'ye take me for?—a'rough-house meal ticket'?"

"All right!" said Yorke soothingly, "don't lose your temper!"

It may have been a shrewdly-calculated attempt to attain that end; andyet again it may have been only sheer mechanical habit that prompted himto stretch forth his hands in the customary salute of the ring.

With an inarticulate exclamation of rage the younger man struck theproffered hands aside and led with a straight left for the other's head.Yorke blocked it cleverly and fell into a clinch.

"Ah!" murmured Yorke in his antagonist's ear with a sinister smile,"rotten manners! for just that, my buck, I'll make you scoff 'muffin''till you're quite poorly!"

Working his arms cautiously, he sprang clear of the clinch, then, rushinghis man and feinting for the ribs, he rocked Redmond's head back with twoterrific left and right hooks to the jaw.

The jarring sting of the punches, although dazing him slightly, broughtRedmond to his senses, as he realized how vulnerable his momentary lossof temper had rendered him. He now braced himself with doggeddetermination and, covering up warily, circled his adversary with cleverfoot-work. Yorke, tearing in again was met with one of the crudest jabshe had ever known—flush in the mouth. Gamely he retaliated with astinging uppercut and a right swing which, coming home on Redmond'scheek-bone, whirled him off his balance and sent him sprawling.

Dazed, but not daunted, he scrambled to his feet. Yorke, blowing uponhis knuckles with all the air of an old-time "Regency blood," waited withheaving chest and scornful, narrowed eyes.

"Want to elevate the sponge?" he queried sneeringly.

"No!" panted George grimly, "it was you started the whole rotten dirtybusiness, and, by gum! I'll finish it!"

Dancing in and out he drew an ineffective left from his opponent andcountered with a pile-driving right to the heart. Yorke gave vent to agroaning exclamation and turned pale. He spat gaspingly out of hismashed lips and propped Redmond off awhile; then, suddenly springing inagain he attempted to mix it. George was nothing loath, and the two men,standing toe-to-toe, slugged each other with a perfect whirlwind ofdamaging punches to face and body.

Even in the giddy whirl of combat, in either man's heart now was a wonderalmost akin to respect for each other's ring knowledge and gameness. Itwas not George's first bout by many, but the physical endurance of thishard, clean-hitting Corinthian of a man was an astounding revelation tohim; the science of the graceful, narrow-waisted figure was still asquick and as punishing as a steel trap.

Yorke, for his part, reflected with bitter irony how utterly erroneoushad been his primary calculations—how Nemesis was hard upon his heels atlast in the guise of this relentless youngster, who fought like acollege-bred "Charley Mitchell."

Ding! dong!—hook, jab, uppercut, block, and swing; in and out, back andforth, side-stepping and head-work—one long exhausting round. Flesh andblood could not stand the pace—though it was Redmond now who forced it.Neither of the men was in training and the long strain began to tell uponthem both cruelly—especially upon the veteran Yorke. Still, withfrosted hair and streaming faces, the sweat-soaked, bruised and bleedingcombatants staggered against each other and strove to make play withtheir weary arms, until utter exhaustion rang the time gong.

Gasping and swaying to and fro, his puffed lips wreathed into a ghastlysemblance of his old scornful smile, Yorke dropped his guard and stuckout his chin. He mouthed and pointed to it tauntingly. In spite ofhimself, a sorry grin flickered over George's battered, weary young face.He mouthed back—speech was beyond either; sagging at the knees he reeledforward and his right arm went poking out in a wobbling, uncertain punch.

It glanced harmlessly over Yorke's shoulder, but the violent impact ofhis body sent the other heavily to the ground. An ineffectual struggleto maintain his equilibrium and he, too, fell—face downwards, with hishead pillowed on Yorke's heaving chest.

CHAPTER V

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
Baa—aa—aa!
Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!
KIPLING

A great peace lay upon the frozen landscape—the deep, wintry peace ofthe vast, snow-bound Nor'West. A light breeze murmured over the crispingsnow, and moaned amongst the pines in the timber-lined spurs of thefoothills. High overhead in the sunny, dazzling blue vault of heaven ahuge solitary hawk slowly circled with wide-spread, motionless wings,uttering intermittently its querulous, eerie whistle.

Awhile the two exhausted men lay gasping for breath—absolutely andutterly spent. Suddenly Yorke shivered violently and sighed. Redmondraised himself off the prostrate form of his late opponent and,staggering over to the pile of their discarded habiliments, slowly andpainfully he donned his fur coat and cap; then, picking up Yorke's, hestumbled over to the latter. The senior constable was now sitting up,with arms drooping loosely over his knees. George wrapped the coataround the bowed shoulders and put on the cap.

"You're cold, old man!" he said simply. "We'd best get our things onnow, and beat it."

Wearily Yorke raised his head, and, at something he beheld in thatdisfigured, but unalterably-handsome face, Redmond's heart smote him.

Often in the past he had fondly imagined himself nursing implacable,absolutely undying hatreds; brooding darkly over injuries received infancy or reality, planning dire and utterly ruthless revenge, etc. But,deep, deep down in his boyish soul he knew it to be only a dismalfailure—that he could not keep it up. His was an impulsive, generousyoung heart—equally quick to forgive an injury as to resent one. Now inhis pity and misery he could have cried—to see his erstwhile enemy sohopelessly broken in body and spirit.

Therefore it did not occur to him that it was sheer sentimental absurdityon his part now to drop on one knee and put his arms around thatshivering, pride-broken form.

"Yorkey!" he mumbled huskily, "old man! . . . Yor—"

He choked a bit, and was silent.

Waveringly, a skinned-knuckled, but sinewy, shapely hand crept out andgently ruffled Redmond's curly auburn hair. Vaguely he heard a voicespeaking to him. Could that tired, kind, whimsical voice belong toYorke? It said: "Reddy, my old son! . . . we're still in the ring,anyway. . . . Seems—do what we would or could—we couldn't poke eachother out. . . ."

Came a long silence; then: "If ever a man was sorry for the rotten wayhe's acted, it's surely me right now. . . . Got d——d good cause to bep'raps. . . . I handed it to you about the sponge . . . egad! Iwell-nigh came chucking it up myself—later. My colonial oath! butyou're the cleverest, gamest, hardest-hitting young proposition I've everruffled it out with! . . . Where'd you pick it up? Who's handled you?"

George slowly rose to his feet. "Man named Scholes—down East" heanswered. He eyed Yorke's face ruefully and, incidentally felt his own,"I used to do a bit with the gloves when I was at McGill. Talking aboutsponges!—I only wish we had one now to chuck up—in tangible form."

He abstracted the other's handkerchief and, rolling it with his own intoa pad dabbed it in the snow. Yorke winced. "Hold still, old thing!"said Redmond, "we'll have to clean off a bit ere we hit the giddy trailagain."

For some minutes he gently manipulated the pad. "There! you don't looktoo bad now. Have a go at me!"

Figuratively, they licked each other's wounds awhile. Yorke had grownvery silent. Chin in hands and rocking very slightly to and fro, allhuddled up in his fur coat, he gazed unseeingly into the beyond. Hisface was clouded with such hopeless, bitter, brooding misery that itworried Redmond. He guessed it to be something far deeper than thememory of their recent conflict. He strove to arouse the other.

"Talk about game cocks!" he began lightly. "Ten years ago, say! you musthave been a corker—regular 'Terry McGovern'."

"Eh?" Yorke's far-away eyes stared at him vaguely. "I was in Indiathen. Army light-weight champion in my day. Slavin wasn't joshing muchat breakfast, by gum! . . . Now we're here! . . . We're a bright pair!"He made as though to cast snow upon his head, "Ichabod! Ichabod! ourglory has departed!"

He lifted up his tenor voice, chanting the while he rocked—

"Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha' mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!
"

Redmond flinched and raised a weakly protesting hand. "Don't, old man!"he implored miserably, "don't! what's the—"

"Eh!" queried Yorke brutally—rocking—"does hurt?"

"If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, And all we—"

"No! no! no! Yorkey!" George's voice rose to a cry, "not that! . . .quit it, old man! . . . that's one of the most terrible things Kiplingever wrote—terrible because it's so absolutely, utterly hopeless. . . ."

"Well, then!" said Yorke slowly—

"Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?"

"It wasn't beer," muttered Redmond absently, "it was whiskey. Slavic andI drank it." With an effort he strove to arouse himself out of thedespondency that he himself had fallen into.

"Listen! . . . Oh! quit that d——d rocking, Yorkey! . . . Listen now!we've put up a mighty good scrap against each other—we'll call that adraw—let's put up another against our—well! we'll call it our rottenluck . . . D——n it all, old man, we're not 'down an' outs' doing dutyin this outfit—the best military police corps in the world! . . . Let'sboth of us quit squalling this eternal 'nobody loves me' stuff! Thisisn't any slobbery brotherly love or New Jerusalem business, or anythinglike that, either. I'm not a bloomin' missionary!" He qualified thatassertion unnecessarily to prove it. "But let's stick together and backeach other up—just us two and old man Slavin—make it a sort of 'rule ofthree.' We can have a deuce of a good time on this detachmentthen! . . ."

He spoke hotly, eagerly, with boyish fervour, his soul in his eyes.

Yorke remained silent, with averted eyes. That imploring, wistful,bruised young countenance was almost more than he could stand. George,dropping on one knee beside him put a tremulous hand on the seniorconstable's shoulder. "What's wrong, Yorkey?" he queried. He shook thebowed shoulder gently. "What's made you consistently knock every thirdbuck that's been sent here? 'till they got fed up, and transferred? . . .They tried to put the wind up me about it at the Post. What's bitin'you? I don't seem to get your angle at all!"

"Oh, I don't know!" Yorke coughed and spat drearily. "Kind of rumreason, you'll think. Long story—too long—dates back. Listen then!Ten years back, in the pride of my giddy youth, I held a Junior Sub'scommission in the —— Lancers—in India. This is just a synopsis ofmy case, mind! . . . Well! the regiment was lying at Rawal Pindi, and—Iguess I kind of ran amuck there—got myself into a rottenesclandre—entirely my own fault I'll admit:

Man is fire, and Woman is tow, And the Devil, he comes and begins to blow—

the same old miserable business the world's fed up with. Since thenseems I've kind of made a mess of things. Burke Slavin's aboutright—his estimate of me." He sighed with bitter, gloomy retrospection."I've always had a queer, intolerant sort of temperament. If I'd livedin the days of the Indian Mutiny I guess I'd have been in 'Hodson'sHorse'." (Redmond started, remembering his curious dream.) "He was aman after my own heart," Yorke continued slowly, "resourceful, slashingsort of beggar . . . he ruffled it with a high hand. Bold and game asSherman, or Paul Jones, but as ruthless as Graham of Claverhouse. He putthe ever-lasting fear into the rebels of Oude—something like Cromwelldid in Ireland. My old Governor served through the Mutiny—he's told mestories of him. My God!"

He drew his fur coat closer round him. "Well!"—Redmond watched thesombre profile—"as I was saying . . . I 'muckered'. . . . Since then,with the years, I guess I've been climbing down the ladder of illusionstill I'm right in the stoke-hole, and Old Nick seems to grin and whisper:'As you were! my cashiered Sub.—As you were!' every time I chuck a braceand try to climb up again. How's that for a bit of cheap cynicism?"—thelow, bitter laugh was not good to hear—"Man!"—the brooding eyesnarrowed—"I've sure plumbed the depths—knocking around, with the rightto live. Port Said, Buenos Aires, Shanghai. . . . I've certainlytravelled. Some day I'll throw the book at you. Now—substance andambition gone by the board long ago, and mighty little left of principleI guess—I am—what I am—everything except a prodigal, or aremittance-man—I never worried them at Home—that way. . . ."

He spoke with a sort of reckless earnestness that moved his hearer morethan that individual cared to show. Redmond felt it was useless to offermere conventional sympathy in a case like this. He did the next bestthing possible—he remained silently attentive and let the other run on.

"You take three men now—stationed in the same detachment," resumed Yorkewearily, "by gum! they're thrown together mighty close when you come tothink of it. It's different to the Post, where there's a crowd. Life'stoo short to start in explaining minutely just what that difference is.Fact remains! . . . to get along and pull together they've got to likeeach other—have something in common—give and take. Otherwise thesituation becomes d——d trying, and trouble soon starts in the family."

"By what divine right I should consider myself qualified to—to—Oh! shutup, you young idiot! . . ." Redmond, forehead pressed into the speaker'sshoulder, giggled hysterically in spite of himself—"Shut up! d'you hear?or I'll knock your silly block off!"

The two bodies shook, with their convulsive merriment. "You can't do it!old thing," came George's smothered rejoinder, "and you know darned wellyou can't—now! . . . Go on, you bloomin' Hodson!—proceed!"

Yorke gave vent to a good-natured oath. "Hodson? . . . you do me proud,my buck! . . . Well now!—this 'three men in a boat' business! . . .I'll admit I 'rocked' it with Crampton. I virtually abolished himbecause—oh! I couldn't stick the beggar at all. I simply couldn't makea pal of him. He was fairly good at police work, but a proper cad, in myopinion. Always swanking about the palatial residence he'd left behindin the Old Country. He called it ''is 'ome' at that. Typical specimenof the middle-class snob. Followed Taylor. Thick-headed, serious-mindedsort of fool. Had great veneration for 'his juty.' No real knowledge ofthe Criminal Code, and minus common sense, yet begad! the silly beggartried to be more regimental that the blooming Force is itself. Isystematically put the wind up to him 'till he got cold feet and quit."

Redmond recalled the fact that Taylor had been his predecessor.
"Followed!" he echoed mockingly, looking up at his handiwork.

Yorke, with a twisted smile glanced down at the bruised, but debonairyoung face. Benevolently he punched its owner in the back."Followed . . . a certain young fellow, yclept 'Nemesis'," he said, "Isized you up for one of these smart Alecks—first crack out of the box,and egad! I think I'm about right."

Said Redmond, "How about our respected sergeant? we seem to haveforgotten him."

"Slavin?" ejaculated the senior constable; and was silent awhile. Therewas no levity in him now. Slowly he resumed, "I guess as much as it'shumanly possible for two men to know each other—down to the bedrock,it's surely Burke Slavin and I. Should too, the years we've beentogether. The good old beggar! . . . We slang each other, and allthat . . . but there's too much between us ever to resent anything forlong."

"I know," said Redmond simply, "he told me himself—last night."

"Eh?" queried Yorke sharply. "My God! . . . Tchkk!" he clucked, andburying his hands in his face he gave vent to a fretful oath. "My God!"he repeated miserably, "I'd forgotten—last night! . . . I sure musthave been 'lit' . . . to come that over old Burke. . . ."

"You sure were!" remarked Redmond brutally.

"Keats' 'St. Agnes' Eve'! . . . Oh, Lord!" . . . He drew in his breathwith a sibilant hiss, "There seems something—something devilish about—"

"I know! I know!" breathed Yorke tensely, "what . . . you mean." Hishaggard eyes implored Redmond's. "No! no! never again . . . I swearit. . . ."

There came a long, painful silence. "See here; look!" began Yorkesuddenly. He stopped and surveyed George, a trifle anxiously."Mind! . . . I'm not trying to justify myself but—get me right aboutthis now. Don't you ever start in making a mistake about Slavin—blarneyand all. No, Sir! I tell you when old Burke runs amôk in thosetantrums he's a holy fright. He'd kill a man. Might as well run upagainst a gorilla."

A vision of the huge, sinister, crouching figure seemed to rise up in
Redmond's mind—the great, clutching, simian hands.

"In India," continued Yorke, "we'd say he'd got a touch of the 'DulalliTap.' The man doesn't know his own strength. I was taking an awfulchance—getting his goat like that last night. It's a wonder he didn'tkill me. He's man-handled me pretty badly at times. Oh, well! I guessit's been coming to me all right. Neither of us has ever dreamt of goingsqualling to the Orderly-room over our . . . differences. I don't thinkBurke's ever taken the trouble to 'peg' a man in his life. Not his way.'I must take shteps!' says he, and 'I will take shteps!' and when hestarts in softly rubbing those awful great grub-hooks he callshands—together! . . . well! you want to look out."

Lighting a cigarette he resumed reminiscently: "They were a tough crowdto handle up in the Yukon. The devil himself 'd have been scared to buttin to that 'Soapy Smith' gang; but, by gum! they were afraid of Slavin.He doesn't drink much now, but he did then—mighty few that didn't—upthere—and I tell you, even our own fellows got a bit leery of him whenhe used to start in 'trailing his coat.' They were glad when he 'cameoutside.' That's one of the reasons why he's shoved out on a prairiedetachment. He wouldn't do at all for the Post. He never reports inthere more than he has to—dead scared of the old man, who's about theonly soul he is afraid of on earth. The O.C.'s awful sarcastic with himat times, and that gets Burke's goat properly. He sure does hate gettinga choke-off from the old man."

He grinned guiltily. "That's why he prefers to wash the family linenstrictly at home—what little there is. But, sarcasm and all, the O.C.gives him credit for being onto his job—and it's coming to him, too.He's quick acting and he's got the Criminal Code well-nigh by heart.Regular blood-hound when he starts in working up a case."

He yawned, and rising stiffly to his feet stretched his cramped limbs."We-ll! Reddy, my giddy young hopeful!—Now we've fallen on each other'sruddy necks and kissed and wept and had a heart-to-heart talk we'll—"

"Aw, quit making game, Yorkey! Is it a go? You know what I said?"

Strangely compelling, Yorke found that bruised, eager, wistful youngface, with its earnest, honest eyes. "All right!" he agreed, withlanguid bonhomie. "You've certainly earned the office of Dictator, and,as I remarked—we really have quite a lot in common. Mind, though, youdon't repent of your bargain. One thing!" the curved, defiant nostrilsdilated faintly, "Seems the world always has use for us runagates in onecapacity. It's just the likes of us that compose the rank and file ofmost of the Empire's military police forces. Who makes the best M.P.man, executing duty, say, in a critical life-and-death hazard? Thecautious, upright, model young man, with a tender regard for a whole skinand a Glorious Future? Or the poor devil who's lost all, and doesn'tcare a d——n? We tackle the world's dangerous, dirty criminal workand—swank and all—Society don't want to forget it."

He pointed to their horses who were playfully rearing and biting at eachother in equine sport. "Look at old Parson and Fox tryin' to warmthemselves? Bloomin' fine example we've set 'em. Well! allons! moncamarade, let's up and beat it."

CHAPTER VI

A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But this foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.

THOMAS TAYLOR

Hastily dressing, the two policemen mounted and took the trail once more.Side by side as they rode along, in each man's heart was an estimate ofthe other vastly different from that with which they started out thatmemorable morning.

Yorke, his spirits now fully recovered, became quite companionablycommunicative, relating picturesque, racy stories of India, the Yukon,and other countries he had known. George, in receptive mood, listened insilent appreciation to one of the most fascinating raconteurs he hadever met in his young life. Incidentally he felt relieved as he notedhis comrade now tactfully avoiding morbid egotism—dwelling but lightlyupon the milestones that marked his chequered career.

The bodily stiffness and soreness, consequent upon their recent bout, wasnow well-nigh forgotten, though occasionally they laughingly rallied eachother as the sharp air stung their bruised faces. They were justsurmounting the summit of a long, steep grade in the trail.

Said Redmond dubiously: "See here; look! I'm darned if I like gettingthe freedom of the City of Cow Run sportin' such a pretty mug as this!How many more miles to this giddy burg, old thing?"

Yorke grinned unfeelingly. "Hard on nine miles to go yet. We're abouthalf way. Isch ga bibble! . . . open your ditty-box and sing! youblooming whip-poor-will."

"A werry heart goes all the way,
But a sad one tires in a mile a';
A—"

The old lilt died on his lips. With a startled oath he reined in sharplyand, shielding his eyes from the sun-glare, remained staring straight infront of him. They had just topped the crest of the rise. The eastwardslope showed a low-lying, undulating stretch of snow-bound country,sparsely dotted with clumps of poplar and alder growth, through which thetrail wound snake-like into the fainter distance. Southwards, below therolling, shelving benches, lay the river, a steaming black line, twistinginterminably between frosty, bush-fringed banks.

No less startled than his companion, Redmond pulled up also and staredwith him. Not far distant on the trail ahead of them they beheld a dark,ominous-looking mass, vividly conspicuous against the snow. Suddenly theobject moved and resolved itself unmistakably into a horse struggling torise. For an instant they saw the head and the fore-part of the bodylift, and then flop prone again. Close against it lay another darkobject.

"Horse down!" snapped Yorke tersely. "Hell!" he added, "looks like a manthere, too! come on quick!"

Responding to a shake of the lines and a fierce thrust of the spurs,their horses leapt forward and they raced towards their objective.

"Steady! steady!" hissed Yorke, checking his mount as they drew near thefallen animal and its rider, "pull Fox a bit, Red! Mustn't scare thehorse!"

Slackening into a walk, they flung out of saddle, dropped their lines,crouched, and crept warily forward. The horse, a big, splendidseal-brown animal, had fallen on its right side, with its off fore-legplunged deep in a snow-filled badger-hole. The body of the man lay alsoon the off-side with one leg under his mount. The stiffened form was aghastly object to behold, being literally encased in an armour-like shellof frozen, claret-coloured snow.

At the approach of the would-be rescuers the poor brute whinniedpitifully and made another ineffectual attempt to rise. Yorke flunghimself onto the head and held it down, while George dived franticallyfor the man's body, and tugged until he had got the leg from under.

"Hung up! by God!" gasped the former, "his foot's well-nigh through thestirrup!"

Redmond, ex-medical student, made swift examination. "Dead!" hepronounced with finality, "Good God! dead as a herring! The man's beendragged and kicked to death!" He made a futile effort to release theimprisoned foot.

"No! no!" cried Yorke sharply, "no use doing that if he's dead.
Coroner's got to view things as they are."

The horse began to struggle again painfully. Peering down thebadger-hole they could see the broken bone of its leg protruding bloodilythrough the skin. Yorke released one hand and reached for his gun.

"Poor old chap!" he said, "we'll fix you. Quick Red! pull the body asfar back as the stirrup-legadeiro'll go! That'll do! There, oldboy! . . ."

And with practised hand he sent a merciful bullet crashing through brainand spinal cord. The hind legs threshed awhile, but presently, with amuscular quiver they stiffened and all was still. Yorke, releasing hishold struggled to his feet, and the two men stared pityingly at what laybefore them. What those merciless, steel-shod hoofs had left of the headand the youthful body indicated a man somewhere in his twenties. Hisice-bound outer clothing consisted of black Angora goatskin chaps and ashort sheepskin coat.

"Can't place him—like this," muttered Yorke, after prolonged scrutiny,"but I seem to know the horse."

Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation—something between a groan and acry. Redmond, startled at a new horror apparent on the other's ghastlyface, clutched him by the arm.

"What's up?" he queried tensely.

Yorke struggled to speak. "Fox!" he gasped presently—"thismorning. . . . I never told you. My God!—You might have got hung uplike this, too."

"No! no! Yorkey!" Redmond almost shouted the disclaimer, "Slavin wisedme up to that trick of his yesterday. I forgot. It was my own fault Igot piled like that. Forget it, old man! I say forget it!"

He shook the other's arm with a sort of savage gentleness.

A look of vague relief dawned on Yorke's haggard face. "Ay, so!" hemurmured, and paused with brooding indecision. "That's absolved myconscience some, but not altogether."

They remained silent awhile after this. Presently Yorke pulledhimself together and spoke briskly and decisively. "Well, now! we'llhave to get busy. Blair's place is only about three miles fromhere—nor'east—they're on the long-distance 'phone. Doctor Cox of CowRun's the coroner for this district. If I can get hold of him I'll gethim to come out right-away—and I'll notify Slavin."

Catching up his horse he swung into the saddle. "I'll be back here onthe jump. You stick around, and say, Reddy, you might as well have adekko at the lay of things while you're waiting. Where he came off theperch, how far he's been dragged, and all that. Be careful though, keepwell to the side and don't foul up the tracks. And don't get too faraway, either!"

He galloped off and soon disappeared over a distant rise. Left tohimself George mounted Fox and set to work to follow out the seniorconstable's instructions.

"Well?" queried Yorke, swinging wearily out of his saddle an hour or solater, "How'd you make out? Find the place where he flopped? Rum sortof perch you've got there—you look like Patience on a monument!"

George, seated upon the rump of the dead horse, nodded and gruntedlaconic response: "Sure. 'Bout two miles down the trail there. How'dyou get along, Yorkey? Did you raise Slavin and the coroner?"

"Got Slavin all hunkadory," said the senior constable briefly, "he shouldbe here soon, now. Dr. Cox'd just left for Wilson's, two miles this sideof Cow Run. They're on the 'phone, too; so I left word there for him tocome on here right away." He seated himself alongside the other.

Awhile they carried on a desultory, more or less speculative conversationanent the fatality, until they grew morbidly weary of contemplating thepoor broken body. Yorke slid off the dead horse suddenly.

"Wish Slavin were here!" he said, "let's take a dekko from the top of therise, Reddy, see'f we can see him coming. I'm getting cold sitting here."

Redmond, nothing loath, complied. Mounting, they turned back to thesummit of the ridge. Reaching it, the jingle of bells smote their ears,and they espied the Police cutter approaching them at a rapid pace.

"Like unto Jehu, the son of Nimshi!" murmured Yorke, "he's sure springingold T and B up the grade."

Sergeant Slavin pulled up his smoking team along-side his two mountedsubordinates. "So ho, bhoys!" was his greeting, "fwhat's this bizness?"

Yorke rapidly acquainted him with all the details. At one point in hisnarration he had occasion to turn to George: "That's how it was, Reddy?"And the latter replied, "That's about the lay of it, Yorkey."

The sergeant listened, but absently. To them it did not seem exactly tobe an occasion for levity; but they could have sworn that, behind anexaggerated grimness of mien, he was striving to suppress some inwardmirth, as his deep-set Irish eyes roved from face to face.

"Yez luk as if yez had been hung up an' dhragged tu—th' pair av yez," heremarked casually.

Remembrance smote the two culprits. They exchanged guilty glances andswallowed the home-thrust in silence.

Slavin clucked to his team. "Walk-march, thin!" said he.

Wheeling sharply about, they started down the trail again, the cutterfollowing in their wake. If their consciences would have permitted themto glance back they would have remarked their superior's face registeringunholy delight.

Out of the corner of his mouth Redmond shot, tensely, "Dye think he—"

"Oh!" broke in Yorke resignedly, sotto voce. "You can't fool him! . . .Isch ga bibble, anyway!"

"Yorkey!" an' "Reddy!" that worthy was mumbling tu himself—over and overagain, "Yorkey!" an' "Reddy!" "'Tis so they name each other—now!Blarney me sowl! 'Tis come about! Fifty-fifty, tu—from th' mugs avthim. Peace, perfect peace, in th' fam'ly at last! Eyah! I wud havegiven me month's pay-cheque for a ring-side seat." He sighed deeply.

They reached the fatal spot. Slavin, his levity gone, stepped out of thecutter and, retaining the lines of his restive team, stared long at thegruesome spectacle before him, with a sort of callous sadness.

"These tu must have lain here th' night," he remarked, indicating thefrost-rimed forms, "have yez sized things up? Got th' lay av fwhere uthappened?"

Redmond made affirmative response.

"Can you place him, Sergeant?" queried Yorke.

"Eyah! Onless I am vastly mishtuk. Whoa, now! shtand still, ye fules!
Fwhat yez a-scared av? Here, Yorkey! hold T an' B a minnut!"

He pushed over his lines to the latter and, producing a pair ofleather-cased brand-inspector's clippers, he cropped bare a circularpatch on the defunct horse's nigh shoulder. Shorn of the thick,seal-brown winter hair, the brand was now plainly visible. Enlightenmentcame to Yorke in a flash, as he peered over his superior's shoulder.

"D Two!" he gasped, "I knew I'd seen that horse somewhere! It's
'Duster,' Larry Blake's horse. Tchkk! this must be him. My God!"

"Shure!" snapped Slavin testily. "Wake up! Is yeh're mem'ry goin', man?One av yeh're own cases last month, tu!" He tenderly pocketed theclippers. "Yes! ye shud know him!"—dryly—"lukked troo th' bottom av aglass wid him often enough."

"Let's see'f he's got any letters or anything in his pockets—to makesure!" began Redmond eagerly. Suiting the action to the word he bentdown to investigate. But Slavin intruded a huge arm. "Hould on, bhoy!"he said, with all an old policeman's fussiness over rightful procedure."Du not touch! That is th' coroner's bizness. Did they not dhrill thatinta yeh at Regina?"

He stared thoughtfully at the corpse. "Dhrink an' th' divil! eyah!dhrink an' th' divil!"—sadly. "Larry, me pore bhoy! niver more will yecome a-whoopin' ut out av Cow Run on yeh 'Duster' horse . . .shpiflicated belike an' singin' 'Th' Brisk Young Man." Austerely heglanced at Yorke, "'Tis a curse, this same dhrink!"

"How do you know the poor beggar was drunk?" queried the latter, a triflesulkily. "He may have been as sober as you or I."

"Shpeak for yehsilf!" retorted Slavin dryly, "Ah! this must be Docthor
Cox comin' now!"

A cutter containing two men was approaching them rapidly. Presently itdrew up alongside the group and a short, rotund gentleman, clad in furs,sprang out and came swiftly, bag in hand. He was middle-aged, with agray moustache and kind, alert, dark eyes. Greeting the policemenquietly, he turned to the broken body.

"Tchkk! good God!" He shook his head sadly. Redmond thought he hadnever seen a medical man so unprofessionally shocked. Presently hestraightened up and turned to Slavin. "Can you identify him, Sergeant?"

That worthy nodded. "Eyah! 'tis Larry Blake, I'm thinking Docthor. Bestfrisk him now an' see, I guess. Maybe he has letthers."

Hastily diving into his bag the coroner produced a pair of long keenscissors and slit the short, frozen sheepskin coat. In the breast-pocketof the coat underneath, amongst other miscellany two old letters rewardedhis search. He glanced at the superscriptions and handed them up toSlavin.

"Larry Blake it is," he said. He felt the soggy, pulped head. "Skull'sstove right in. Any one of these smashes would have sufficed to killhim." He clipped the hair around a ghastly gaping crevice at the base ofthe head.

Suddenly he peered closely, uttered an exclamation, peered again and drewback. "Sergeant!" he said sharply, "D'ye see that?—No need to ask youwhat that is!" In an unbroken portion of the back of the skull heindicated a small, circular orifice. The trio craned forward and mademinute examination. Slavin ejaculated an oath and glanced up atYorke—almost remorsefully.

"I take ut all back," he said. Meeting the coroner's blank, enquiringstare he added: "Booze, Docthor—we thought ut might be. . . . Yeh knowLarry!"

The physician of Cow Run nodded understandingly. Slavin bent again andmade close scrutiny of the bullet-hole. "Back av th' head, no powdhermarks!" He straightened up. "Docther, are ye thru? All right, thin!Guess we'll book up an' start in."

Methodically they all produced note-books and entered the needfulparticulars. The lanky individual who had driven the coroner out broughtforward a tarpaulin and spread it on the ground. With some difficultythe over-shoed foot was disengaged from the imprisoning stirrup, the bodyrolled in the tarpaulin and deposited in the rear of the doctor's cutter.The saddle and bridle were flung into the Police cutter. They thenrolled the dead horse clear of the trail.

That night the coyotes held grim, snarling carnival.

Slavin turned to Redmond. "Ye've located th' place, eh?" The latternodded. "All right, thin, get mounted, th' tu av yez, an' lead on!"

Keeping needfully wide of the broad, claret-bespotted swath in the snow,the party started trailing back. Yorke and George rode ahead. Thelatter glanced around to make sure of being out of earshot of theirsergeant.

"We-ll of all the hardened old cases! . . . Slavin sure does crown 'em!"he muttered to his comrade.

"Hardened!" Yorke laughed grimly. "You should have seen him up in theYukon! The man's been handling these rotten morgue cases 'till he'dqualify for the Seine River Police. He's got so he ascribes well-nigheverything now to 'dhrink an' th' divil.'" His face softened, "but Iknow the real heart of old Burke under it all."

About two miles down the trail Redmond halted.

"Here it is!" he said. And he indicated an irregular, blood-soaked,clawed-up patch in the snow where the sanguinary swath ended. Theydismounted. Slavin drawing up alongside the coroner's cutter handed overhis lines to the teamster.

"Now!" said he, "let's shtart in! . . . Ye must have 'shpotted this onyeh way up, Docthor?" He pointed to the patch.

The latter nodded. "Yes! we thought it must have happened here."

For some few seconds, with one accord the party stared about them attheir surroundings. The frozen landscape at this point presented asingularly lonely, desolate aspect. Flat, and for the greater partabsolutely bare of brush; save where from a small coulee some half mileto the left of the trail the tops of a cotton-wood clump were visible.Far to the right-hand, more than a mile away, stretched the first of theshelving benches, where the high ground sloped away in irregular jumps,as it were, to the river.

"Best ye shtay fwhere ye all are," cautioned the sergeant, "'till I sizeup th' lay av things a bit. I du not want th' thracks fouled up. H-mm!let's see now!" He remained in deep, thoughtful silence a space."Thravellin' towards us," he muttered—"th' back av th' head!"

Hands clasped behind bent back, and with head thrust loweringly forwardfrom between his huge shoulders he paced slowly down the trail for somehundred yards. That grim, intent face and the swaying gait remindedRedmond of some huge bloodhound casting about for a scent.

Halting irresolutely a moment, Slavin presently faced about and returned."Wan harse on'y!" he vouchsafed to their silent looks of enquiry. "Hehad not company. Must have been shot from lift or right av th' thrail."He stared around him at the bare sweep of ground. "Now fwhere cud anylivin' man find cover here in th' full av th' moon, tu get th' range wida small arm? He wud show up agin' th' snow like th' ace av shpades an'he thried."

Suddenly his jaw dropped and he stiffened. "Ah-hh!" His eyes rivettedthemselves on some object and his huge arm shot out. "Fwhat's yon?"

They all stared in the direction he indicated. Plastered with frostedsnow, until it was all but undiscernible against its white background,lay an enormous boulder—a relic, perchance, of some vast pre-historicupheaval. It was situated at an oblique angle to the trail, about ahundred yards distant.

With stealthy, quickened steps Slavin made his way towards it. Tenselythey watched him. In each man's mind now was a vague feeling ofcertainty of something, they knew not what. They saw him reach theboulder, walk round it and stoop, peering at its base for a few moments.Then suddenly he straightened up and beckoned to them.

"Thread in file," he called out warningly. Yorke led, and, treadingheedfully in each other's foot-marks, they reached the spot. Slavinsilently pointed downwards. There, plainly discernible on the surface ofthe wind-packed, hard-crusted snow, were the corrugated imprints ofovershoed feet—coming and going apparently in the direction of thepreviously mentioned coulee.

Redmond indicated two rounded impressions at the foot of the boulder,with two smaller ones behind. "Must have hunched himself on his kneesbehind, eh?" he queried in a low voice.

Slavin nodded. The rays of the westering sun coming from back of a cloudglinted on something in the snow, a few feet away from the tracks. Itcaught Yorke's eyes and with an exclamation he picked it up.

"—gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled—"

he quoted. "Here you are, Burke!"

Slavin uttered a delighted oath as he examined the small, bottle-neckedshell of the automatic variety. ".38 Luger!" he said. "A high-pressure'gat' like that is oncommon hereabouts!" Passing it on to the coroner hewhistled softly. "My God! Fwhativer sort av a gun-artist is utthat—even allowin' for th' moonlight—can pick a man off thru' th' headwid a revolver at this distance? . . . an' wan shell on'y? . . . 'SoapySmith' himself cu'dn't have beat this!"

He proceeded to sift some fine, crisp snow in one of the imprints, then,producing an old letter from his pocket, he flattened out thetype-written sheets of foolscap therein. Placing the blank side of thesheet face-downwards upon the imprint he pressed down smartly. Theresult was a very fair impression of the footmark, which he immediatelyoutlined in pencil.

A strange ominous silence fell upon the group. Deep in wild, whirlingconjecture, each man gazed about him. The desolate, sinister aspect oftheir surroundings struck them with a sudden chill. Yorke voiced thegeneral sentiment.

"My God!" he said in a low voice, "but it sure is dreary!"

With a final, self-satisfying survey at his "lay av things" Slavinstepped well to the side of the incriminating foot-prints. "Come on!" hesaid "get in file behint me! We will follow this up!"

Silently they obeyed and padded in his rear.

"D——d big feet, whoever owns 'em," remarked Redmond to Yorke.

Slavin heard him. "Ay!" he flung back grimly. "An' they will shtand onth' dhrop yet—thim same feet!"

The tracks returning in the direction of the coulee presented a vastcontrast to the approaching imprints. Where the latter denoted an even,steady stride, the former ran in queer, irregular fashion—sometimesbunched together, and at others with wide spaces between.

"'On th' double!'" remarked Slavin observantly.

"Must have got scairt!"

"Ah!" murmured the coroner, reflectively, "though the Bible doesn'texpressly state so, I guess Cain, too, got on the 'double' as you callit—after he killed Abel."

They finally reached the coulee where the tracks, debouching from thesteep edge, passed along its rim and presently descended the more shallowend of the draw. Their leader eventually halted at the foot of a smallcotton-wood tree where the human foot-prints ended. There in the snowthey beheld a hoof-trampled space, which, together with broken twigs,indicated a tethered horse.

This served for comment and speculation awhile.

The sergeant, producing a small tape measure dotted down carefulmeasurements of the over-shoed imprints and their length of stride, alsothe size of the shod hoof-marks.

Redmond drew his attention to blood-stains in several of the latter."Shod with 'never-slip' calks, Sergeant!" he said. "Must have slippedsomewhere and 'calked' himself on the 'coronet,' I guess?"

"Eyah!" muttered Slavin approvingly, "Th' 'nigh-hind' 'tis, note,bhoy! . . . 't'will serve good thrailin' that. Well, let's follow ut on!"

Wearily his companions plodded on in his wake. The tracks, afterfollowing the draw for a short distance, suddenly wound up a steep,narrow path on the left side of the coulee. Reaching the surface of thelevel ground, they circled until they struck into the main trail eastagain, about a mile below where the party had left their horses. Here,merged amongst countless others on the well-travelled highway, theybecame more difficult to trace, though occasionally the faintblood-stains proclaimed their identity.

Slavin pulled up. "Luks as if he'd shtruck back tu Cow Run again," hesaid with conviction. "Must have come from there, tu—thracks was goin'and comin' an' ye noticed, fwhin we climbed out av th' coulee back there.We must luk for a harse wid th' nigh-hind badly 'calked.' Yorkey! yu'get back an' tell that Lanky Jones feller tu come on. Hitch yez ownharses behint our cutter an' take th' lines." He squinted at the sun andpulled out his watch. "'Tis four o'clock, begob! Twill turn bitthercowld whin th' sun goes down."

The coroner smiled knowingly. "Talking about 'calks'!" he remarked; anddiving into the deep recesses of his fur coat he produced acomfortable-looking leather-encased flask. "A little 'calk' all roundwon't hurt us after that tramp, Sergeant!" he observed kindly.

Their transport presently arriving, they proceeded on their way to CowRun, Yorke and Redmond watching carefully for any tracks debouching fromthe main trail. Occasionally they dismounted to verify the incriminatinghoof-prints which still continued eastward. In this fashion they finallydrew to the level of the river, where the trail forked; one arm of itfollowing more or less the winding course of the Bow River back westward.At this junction they searched narrowly until they found unmistakableindication of the blood-tinged tracks still heading in the direction ofCow Run.

"What was that case of yours, Yorkey?" enquired Redmond. "You know—what
Slavin was talking about?"

"Mix-up over that horse," replied Yorke laconically, "disputed ownership.A chap named Moran tried to run a bluff over Larry that he'd lost thehorse as a colt. They got to scrapping and I ran 'em both up beforeGully, the J. P. here. Moran got fined twenty dollars and costs forassaulting Blake. Say! look at that sky! Isn't it great?"

They turned in their saddles and looked westward. Clean-cut against apale yellow-ochre background and enveloped in a deep purple bloom, themighty peaks of the distant "Rockies" upreared their eternal snow-cappedglory in a salute to departing day. Above, where the opaline-tintedhorizon shaded imperceptibly into the deep ultramarine of evening, layglowing streamers of vivid crimson cloud-bank edged with the gleaminggold of the sunset's after-glow.

It was a soul-filling sight. Against it the sordid contrast of thesinister business in hand smote them like a blow from an unseen hand, asthey resumed their monotonous scanning of the trail on its either side.

Yorke presently voiced the impression in both their hearts. "My God'" hemurmured "the bitter irony of it! 'Peace on Earth, goodwill towardsmen' . . . and this!—what?"

CHAPTER VII

Oh! Bad Bill Brough, a way-back tough
Raised hell when he struck town;
With gun-in-fist met Sergeant Twist—
It sure was some show-down
.
BALLAD OF SERGEANT TWIST

Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk. Seen under winter conditionsthe drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the partynegotiated its main street. A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, asmall church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and somethree-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desireto become a permanent resident of Cow Run.

The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in therear of the doctor's residence. From long usage this place had come tobe accepted as the common morgue of the district. After arrangingdetails with the coroner anent the morrow's inquest, and carefullysearching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired tothe livery-stable to put up their horses.

Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezycordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial careof their horses. In appearance that worthy would have made a passableunderstudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth andshort of breath. In addition to his regular calling he filled—or wassupposed to fill—the office of "town constable" and pound-keeper. Asort of village "Dogberry." Incidentally it might be mentioned that healso could have laid claim to be a "wictim of circumstances"; having butrecently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did theDickensian character. The sympathy of Cow Run, individually andcollectively, was extended to him on this account.

From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day's events it wassatisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had notstruck Cow Run as yet. For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strictsecrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee's stable-hand.

"Ar!" wheezed Lee. "It's a good job yu' fellers is come. That ther'Windy Moran's' bin raisin' hell over in the hotel th' las' two days. Hegot to fightin' ag'in las' night with Larry Blake—over that hawss. BobIngalls an' Chuck Reed an' th' bunch dragged 'em apart an' tol' Larry tobeat it back to his ranch—which he did. Windy—they got him to bed, an'kep' him ther all night, as he swore he'd shoot Larry. He's still overther, nasty-drunk an' shootin' off what he's goin' t' do."

He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, gloating deeply in histhroat: "Stirrin' times! ar! stirrin' times! . . . Now—'bout that therhobo, Sargint—"

"Aw! damn th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show meWindy's harse. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll knowall 'bout that later."

His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air,indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite thePolice team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. Withfierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg—and found what theysought for.

For there—where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the"coronet"—was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horseslipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoofitself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavinpicked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-incalks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of theshoe and glanced at his note-book.

Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrustthe book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade himtie it up again.

Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances. "See here; look,Nick!" Slavin grasped the livery-man's fat shoulder and looked grimlyinto the startled, rubicund face. "I'm a-goin' tu put a question tu yeh,an' 'member now. . . . I want yeh tu think harrd! . . . Now—whin LarryBlake came in tu saddle-up an' pull out last night was that ther sorrelo' Windy's still in th' stable—or not?"

"Eh?" gasped Lee at last, "I dunno! Me nor Lanky wasn't around when
Larry pulled out. We was over t' th' hotel, Sarjint."

Slavin released the man's shoulder with a testy, balked gesture. "Yes!enjoyin' th' racket an' dhrunk like th' rist, I guess! . . . 'Tis afoine sort av town-constable yez are!"

Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence. "I came round here'bout midnight, anyways!" he protested. "I always do—jes' t' see 'feverythin's all right. That hawss was in then, I will swear—'cause I'member his halter-shank'd come untied and I fixed it. Ev'rythin' in th'garden was lovely 'cep' fur that 'damned hobo sneakin' round. He wasgettin' a drink at th' trough an' I chased him. But he beat it up intath' loft an'—I'm that scared of fire," he ended lamely, "I never lock upfur that."

Slavin nodded wisely. "Yes! I guess he made his getaway from yu'—easy.Mighty long toime since yuh've bin able tu dhrag yeh're guts up thatladder—lit alone squeege thru' th' thrap-dhure. Bet Lanky does all th'chorin'." He glanced around him impatiently, "But this here's alltalk—it don't lead nowheres. Hullo! this is Gully's team, ain't it?"He indicated a splendid pair of roans standing in a double stall nearby.

"Yes!" said Lee, "he pulled in las' night t' catch th' nine-thirty downt' Calgary. He ain't back yet."

"Fwas he—" Slavin checked himself abruptly—"fwhat toime did he get inhere?"

"'Bout nine."

"Fwhat toime 'bout fwas ut whin this racket shtarted up betune Windy an'
Larry?"

"Oh, I dunno, Sarjint!—'bout nine, may be—as I say I—"

"Come on!" said the sergeant, abruptly, to his men, "let's go an' eat.
Luk afther thim harses good, Nick," he flung back in a kind tone.

Outside in the dark road they gathered together, bandying mystifiedconjecture in low tones. "'Tis no use arguin', bhoys," snapped Slavin atlast, wearily, "we've got tu see Chuck Reed an' Bob Ingalls an' Brophy avth' hotel. Their wurrd goes—they're straight men. If they had Windycorralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let's Windy out."

He was silent awhile, then: "That harse av Windy's," he burst out with anoath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' passin' rum 'bout all this.There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' harse. Somebody in thisgod-forsaken burg must ha' used him tu du th' killin' wid. Well, let'sget on."

Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upontheir ears, apparently from inside that hostelry—men shouting, a dogbarking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.

The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the officeand across the passage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproarproceeded.

"Help! Murder! Pleece!" some apparently high-strung individual wasbawling. A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.

A motley crowd, composed mainly of well-dressed passengers from off thetemporarily-stalled West-bound train and a sprinkling of townsfolk, werebacked—hands up—into a corner of the bar by a big, hard-faced man cladin range attire who was menacing them with a long-barrelled revolver. Hewas dark-haired and swarthy, with sinister, glittering eyes. Onered-headed, red-nosed individual had apparently resented parting with thedrink that he had paid for; as in one decidedly-shaky elevated hand hestill clutched his glass, its whiskey and water contents slopping downthe neck of his nearest unfortunate neighbour.

"Mon!" he apologized, in tearful accents, "Ah juist canna help it!"

"Pitch up!" the "bad man" was shrieking, "Pitch up! yu' ——s!—Thatd——d Blake—that d——d Gully! Stealin' my hawss away'f me an' gittin'me fined! I'll git back at somebody fur this! Pleece! yes!—yeh kinholler 'Pleece!'—Let me get th' drop on th' red-coated, yelluh-laiggedsons of ——! Ah-hh!"—His eyes glittered with his insane passion, "Herethey come! Now! watch th' ——s try an' arrest me!"

Fairly frothing at the mouth, the man, at that moment working himselfinto a frenzy, was plainly as dangerous as a mad dog. Drunk though heundoubtedly was, he did not stagger as he stepped to and fro withcat-like activity, his gun levelled at the policemen's heads. It was anugly situation. Slavin and his men taken utterly by surprise hesitated,as well they might; for a single attempt to draw their sidearms mighteasily bring inglorious death upon one or another of them.

We have noted that on a previous occasion Redmond demonstrated hisability to think and act quickly. He upheld that reputation now. Like aflash he ducked behind Slavin's broad shoulders and backed into thepassage. Picking up at random the first missile available—to wit—anempty soda-water bottle, he tip-toed swiftly along the passage to a dooropening into the bar lower down. This practically brought himbroadside-on to his man. A moment he peered and judged his distancethen, drawing back his arm he flung the bottle with all his force. AtMcGill he had been a base-ball pitcher of some renown, so his aim wastrue. The bottle caught its objective full in the ear. With a scream ofpain the man staggered forward and clutched with one hand at his head,his gun still in his grip sagging floorwards.

Instantly then, Yorke, who was the nearest, sprang at him like a tigerand, ranging one arm around his enemy's bull neck, strove with the otherto wrest the gun from his grasp. It was a feat however, more easilyimagined than accomplished—to disarm a powerful, active man. The tensefingers tightened immediately upon the weapon and resisted to theiruttermost. Slavin and Redmond both had their side-arms drawn now, butthey were afraid to use them, on Yorke's account. The combatants werewhirling giddily to and fro, the muzzle of the gun describing every pointof the compass.

Taking a risky chance, Slavin, watching his opportunity suddenly closedwith the struggling men and, raising his arm brought the barrel of hisheavy Colt's .45 smashing down on the knuckles of the crazed man'sgun-hand. Instantaneously the latter's weapon dropped to the floor.

Bang! The cocked hammer discharged one chamber—the bullet ricochetingoff the brass bar-rail deflected through a cluster of glasses andbottles, smashing them and a long saloon-mirror into a myriad splinters.But few of the company there escaped the deadly flying glass, asbadly-gashed faces immediately testified. It all happened in quickertime than it takes to relate.

"'Crown' him!" gasped Yorke, still grimly hanging onto his man, "'Crown'the —— good and hard!"

Redmond sprang forward, grasping a small, shot-loaded police "billy," but
Slavin interposed a huge arm.

"Nay!" he said sharply, and with curious eagerness, "Du not 'chrown' umbhoy! lave um tu me!" And he grasped one of the big, struggling man'swrists firmly in a vise-like grip. "Leggo, Yorkey!"

The latter obeyed with alacrity, and stooping he picked up the fallengun. He had an inkling of what was coming.

"Ah-hh!" Slavin gloated gutterally, as he whirled his victim giddilyaround and brought the man up facing him with a violent jerk—"WindyMoran, avick!"—softly and cruelly—"me wud-be cock av a wan-harsedump!—me wud-be 'bad-man'! . . . Oh, yes! 'tis both shockin' an' brutiltu misthreat ye I know but—surely, surely yeh desarve somethin' for allthis!" And he drew back his formidable right arm.

Smack! The terrific impact of that one, terrible open-handed slap nearlyknocked his victim through the bar-room wall. The head rocked sidewaysand the big body turned completely round. Eyes rushing water and oneprofile now resembling a slab of bloodied liver, the man reeled about ina circle as if bereft of sight.

"Oh-hh!—Ooh!—No-o!—Ah-hh!" The wild, moaning cry for quarter camegaspingly out of puffed, blood-foamed lips. But there was no mercy inSlavin. He looked round at the wrecked bar, the glass-slashed bleedingfaces of his men and the rest of the saloon's occupants. He thought uponmany things—how near ignoble death many of them had been but a fewminutes before—upon insult and threat flaunted at them by a drunken,ruffling braggadocio!—and he jerked the latter to him once more.

But his two subordinates jumped forward and made violent protest."Steady!" It was Yorke now who appealed for leniency—"Go easy, Burke!for God's sake! You've handed him one good swipe—if he get's anotherlike that he'll be all in—won't be able to talk. Let it go at that!"

The sergeant remained silent, breathing thickly and glaring at hisprisoner with sinister, glittering eyes, and still retaining the latter'swrist in his iron grip. But eventually the force of Yorke's reasoningprevailed with him. Drawing out his hand-cuffs he snapped them on theman's wrists and haled him roughly out of the bar into the hotel office.The crowd, recovering somewhat from their scare, would have followed, buthe curtly ordered them back and closed the door.

"Brophy!" He beckoned the angry, frightened hotel-proprietor forward.
"Is Bob Ingalls and Chuck Reed still in town?"

"Sure!" replied the latter, "They was both in here 'bout half an hourago, anyways."

Slavin turned to Yorke. "Go yu an' hunt up thim fellers an' bring thimhere!" he ordered.

"Ravin'—clean bug-house! that's what he is!" wailed Brophy. "That baro' mine! oh, Lord! Yu'll git it soaked to yu' this time, Windy, an'don't yu' furgit it!"

The prisoner paid no attention to the landlord's revilings. Slumped downin a chair he had relapsed into a sort of sulky stupor, though he cringedvisibly whenever Slavin bent on him his thoughtful, sinister gaze.

Presently Yorke returned, bringing with him two respectable-looking men,apparently ranchers, from their appearance.

Slavin nodded familiarly to them. "Ingalls!" he addressed one of them"I'm given tu undhershtand that yuh an' Chuck Reed there tuk charge avthis feller—" he indicated the prisoner—"last night, whin he had thatracket wid Larry Blake in th' bar? Fwhat was they rowin' over?"

"That hawss o' Blake's mostly," was Ingalls' laconic answer. "Coursethey was slingin' everythin' else they could dig down an' drag up, too."He chewed thoughtfully a moment, "We had some time with 'em," he added.

"Shore did!" struck in Reed. "We was scared fur Larry, so we told him tobeat it home—which he did—an' then we got Windy up to bed an' stayedwith him nigh all night."

Slavin looked at Brophy interrogatively. "Yuh can vouch for this, tu,
Billy? He's bin in yu're place iver since th' throuble smarted?"

Brophy nodded. "Yes! d——n him! I wish he had got out before thisbizness started. Yes! he's bin here right along, Sarjint! why?—what'sup?"

Slavin evaded the direct question for the moment. Silently awhile hegazed at the three wondering faces. "Now, I'll tell yez!" he saidslowly. And briefly he informed them of the murder—omitting all detailof the clues obtained later. They listened with wide eyes and broke outinto startled exclamations. The prisoner struggled up from the chair,his bruised, ghastly face registering fear and genuine astonishment.Redmond shoved him back again.

"If any feller thinks—" Moran relapsed into maudlin, hystericalprotestations of innocence, calling upon the Deity to bear witness thathe was innocent and had no knowledge whatever of how Blake came to hisdeath.

Eventually silence fell upon all. Slavin cogitated awhile, then heturned to Brophy. "Who else was in, Billy? Out av town fellers I mean,fwhin this racket occurred betune these tu? Thry an' think now!"

Brophy pondered long and presently reeled off a few names. Slavin heardhim out and shook his head negatively. "Nothin' doin' there!" heannounced finally, "Mr. Gully was in, yuh say? Did he see anythin' avthis row?"

"Cudn't help it, I guess," replied Brophy. "He just come inta th' officefor his grip while it was a-goin' on. He beat it out quick for th'East-bound as had just come in. Said he was runnin' down to Calgary. Heain't back yet. Guess he wudn't want to go gettin' mixed up in anythin'like that, either—him bein' a J. P."

Slavin looked at Yorke. "Let's have a luk at that gun av Moran's!" heremarked. "Fwhat is ut?"

Yorke handed the weapon over. "'Smith and Wesson' single-action," hesaid. "Just that one round gone."

"Nothin doin' agin'," muttered Slavin disappointedly. He broke the gunand, ejecting the shells put all in his pocket. He then turned to Moran."D——d good job for yu'—havin' this alibi, Mister Windy!" he growled,"don't seem anythin' on yu' over this killin'—as yet! But yez are goin'tu get ut fwhere th' bottle got th' cork for this other bizness, me man!"

And he proceeded to formally charge and warn his prisoner.

"Give us a room, Brophy!" he said, "a big wan for th' bunch av us—an'lave a shake-down on th' flure for this feller!"

Preceded by the landlord the trio departed upstairs, escorting theirprisoner. Alone in the room they discussed matters in lowered tones;Slavin and Yorke not forgetting to compliment Redmond on his presence ofmind—or, as the sergeant put it: "Divartin' his attenshun."

The big Irishman scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I must go wire th'O.C. report av all this. Sind Gully comes back on th' same thrain widInspector Kilbride to-morrow. Thin we can go ahead—wid two J.P.s tuhandle things. Yuh take charge av Mr. Man, Ridmond! Me an' Yorke willgo an' eat now, an' relieve yuh later."

CHAPTER VIII

"The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met,
The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!"
As Captain Macheath says,—and when one's arraigned,
The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know.
THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.

"Orrrdher in Coort!" rang out Sergeant Slavin's abrupt command. It wasabout ten o'clock the following morning. The hotel parlour had beenhastily transformed into a temporary court-room. A large square tablehad been drawn to one end of the room and two easy chairs placedconveniently behind it. Fronting it was a long bench, designed for theprisoner and escort. In the immediate rear were arranged a few rows ofchairs, to accommodate the witnesses and spectators.

The sergeant's order, prompted by the entrance of the two Justices of thePeace, was the occasion of all present rising to attention, in customarydeference to police-court rules. One of the newcomers, dressed in theneat blue-serge uniform of an inspector of the Force, was familiar toRedmond as Inspector Kilbride, who had been recently transferred to LDivision from a northern district. He had close-cropped gray hair and aclipped, grizzled moustache. Though apparently nearing middle-age hestill possessed the slim, wiry, active figure of a man long inured to thesaddle.

The appearance of his judicial confrere fairly startled George. He was ahuge fellow, fully as tall and as heavy a man as Slavin, though not socompactly-built or erect as the latter. Still, his wide, loosely-hung,slightly bowed shoulders suggested vast strength, and his leisurelythough active movements indicated absolute muscular control. But it wasthe strangely sombre, mask-like face which excited Redmond's interestmost. Beneath the broad, prominent brow of a thinker a pair of deep-set,shadowy dark eyes peered forth, with the lifeless, unwinking stare of anowl. Between them jutted a large, bony beak of a nose, with finely-cutnostrils. The pitiless set of the powerful jaw was only partiallyconcealed by an enormous drooping moustache, the latter reddish in colourand streaked with gray, like his thinning, carefully brushed hair. Hisage was hard to determine. Somewhere around forty-five, George decided,as he regarded with covert interest Ruthven Gully, Esq.,gentleman-rancher and Justice of the Peace for the district.

The two Justices took their places with magisterial decorum, thewitnesses seated themselves again, and, all being ready, the sergeantopened the court with its time-honoured formula.

The inspector glanced over the various "informations" and handed themover to his confrere for perusal. A brief whispered colloquy ensuedbetween them, and then the local justice settled himself back in hischair, chin in hand. Inspector Kilbride addressed the prisoner who hadremained standing between Yorke and Redmond, and in a clear, passionlessvoice proceeded to read out the several charges.

"Do you wish to ask for a remand, Moran?" he enquired, "to enable you toprocure counsel?"

"No, sir!" Moran's sullen, insolent eyes suddenly encountering adangerous, steely glare from Kilbride's gray orbs he wilted andimmediately dropped his belligerent attitude. "No use me hirin' amouthpiece," he added, "as I'm a-goin' t' plead guilty t' all themcharges."

"Ah!" The inspector thoughtfully conned over the "informations" oncemore. "Sergeant Slavin," said he presently, "what are the particulars ofthis man's disorderly conduct?"

He listened awhile to the sergeant's evidence, occasionally asking aquestion or two, but Mr. Gully remained in the same silent, brooding,inscrutable attitude which he had adopted at the commencement of theproceedings. Though apparently listening keenly, his shadowy eyesbetrayed no interest whatever in the case.

Of that face Yorke had once remarked to Slavin: "That beggar's mug fairlyhaunts me sometimes. . . . He's a good fellow, Gully,—but, youknow—when he gets that brooding look on his face . . . he's the livingpersonification of a western Eugene Aram."

And Slavin, engaged in shredding a pipeful of tobacco had mumbledabsently "So?—Ujin Airum!—I du not mind th' ould shtiff—fwhat was hisreg'minthal number?"

The sergeant finished his evidence; Kilbride swung round to hisfellow-justice once more and they held a whispered consultation, thelatter making emphatic gestures throughout the colloquy. This ending theinspector turned to the prisoner.

"You have pleaded guilty to each of these charges. Have you anything tosay?—any explanation to offer for your reckless, disorderly conduct?"

The prisoner swallowed nervously and shuffled with his feet. "Guess Iwas drunk," he said finally, "didn't know what I was doin'."

The inspector's grey eyes glittered coldly. "So?" he drawled ironically,"the sergeant's evidence is to the contrary. It would appear that youwere not so very drunk. You were neither staggering nor incapable at thetime. It was merely a rehearsal of a cheap bit of dime novel sort ofbar-room, rough-house black-guardism that no doubt in various otherplaces you have got away with and emerged the swaggering hero. Where doyou come from? Whom are you working for now?"

"Havre, Montana. I'm ridin' fur th' North-West Cattle Company."

"Ah! well, let me tell you that sort of stuff doesn't go over on thisside, my man." He considered a moment and picked up a Criminal Code."In view of your pleading guilty to these charges, and therefore notwasting the time of this court unnecessarily, I propose dealing with youin more lenient fashion than you deserve. For being unlawfully inpossession of firearms you are fined twenty dollars and costs. For'pointing fire-arms,' fifty dollars and costs. On the charge of'resisting the police in the execution of their duty' you are sentencedto six months imprisonment with hard labour in the Mounted PoliceGuard-room at Calgary. You are also required to make restitution for alldamage caused as the result of your fracas."

Moran squirmed and mumbled: "If I've got t' do time on the one charge Imight as well do it on th' rest, an' save th' money fur t' pay fur th'damage."

"Very good!" agreed the inspector coldly. He bent again to his confrereand they conferred awhile. Then he turned to the prisoner. "Thirty dayshard labour then—on each of the first two charges—sentences to runconcurrently." He paused a space, resuming sternly: "And let me tell youthis, Moran: in view of certain wild threats uttered by you in public youhave narrowly escaped being charged with the greatest of all crimes. Itis indeed a fortunate thing for you that you have been able to produce areliable alibi. All right, Sergeant! you can close the court. Make outthat warrant of commitment and I and Mr. Gully will sign it later. We'regoing over to see the coroner."

The two Justices arose and passed out, the few witnesses and onlookersdrifting aimlessly in their wake. Slavin lowered himself ponderouslyinto the chair just vacated by the inspector, lit his pipe, and,whistling softly, commenced to fill out a legal form. Yorke and Redmondalso took the opportunity to indulge in a quiet smoke as they chattedtogether in low tones. The former good-naturedly tossed a cigarette overto the prisoner, with the remark: "Have a smoke, Windy—it's the lastyou'll get for some time."

Moran, slumped in a tipped-back chair, blew a whiff of smoke from alop-sided mouth. "Six months!" chanted he lugubriously, "an' they callthis a free country!—free hell!—

"Oh, bury me out on th' lone prair-ee, Where th' wild ki-oot'll howl over me,—

"—might as well an' ha' done with it!"

They all laughed unsympathetically. "'Tis mighty lucky for yuh thimsintences run concurrently instid av consecutively," was the sergeant'srejoinder, "or ut'd be eight months yez ud be doin' stid av six."

The front legs of Moran's chair suddenly hit the floor with a crash."Lookit here, boys," he said earnestly, "that ther big mag'strate—him asyou call Gully—is that his real name? Wher does he come from? Whatcountryman is he?"

"English!" answered Yorke shortly. "Why? D'ye think an Englishman hasto run around with a blooming alias?"

"Well, now, yu' needn't go t' git huffy with a man!" expostulated Moran,with an injured air. "Th' reason I'm askin' yu' is this": He pausedimpressively, with puckered, thoughtful eyes. "That same man—if itain't him—is th' dead spit of a man as once hit —— County, in Montana'bout ten years back. Dep'ty Sheriff—I can't mind his name now. It wasa hell of a tough county that—then. Th' devil himself 'ud ha' binscairt t' start up in bizness ther." He shook his head slowly. "But Itell yu'—when Mr. Man let up with his fancy shootin' it was th'peaceablest place in th' Union. Th' rough stuff'd drifted—what was leftabove ground. He dragged it too, later. I never heered wher he went."

"Ah!" remarked Slavin pityingly, knocking out his pipe. "Th' few shotsav hootch ye had tu throw inta yu' last night tu get ye're Dutch up mustbe makin' ye see double, me man. If th' rough stuff he run inta therewas on'y th' loikes av yersilf he must have shtruck a soft snap." Hearose. "Put th' stringers on him agin, Ridmond, an' take um upstairs an'lock um up! Yu'll be escort wid um tu Calgary whin th' East-bound comesin—an' see here, look! . . . I want ye tu be back here agin as soon asiver ye can make ut back. Tchkk!" he clucked fretfully, "I wish thisautopsy an' inquest was thru', so's we cud git down tu bizness. Phew!this dive's stuffy—let's beat ut out a bit!"

Standing on the sidewalk they gazed casually at the slowly approachingfigures of Inspector Kilbride and Mr. Gully. The two latter appeared tobe engaged in a vehement, though guarded conversation—stopping every nowand again, as if to debate a point.

"Here cometh Moran's 'dep'ty sheriff,'" was Yorke's facetious comment.

"By gum, though!" Redmond ejaculated, "the beggar would make a good stagemarshal, wouldn't he? . . . with that Bret Harte, forty-niner's moustacheand undertaker's mug, and top-boots and all, what?"

"And a glittering star badge," supplemented Yorke dramatically, "don'tforget that! and two murderous-looking guns slanted across his hips and—"

"Arrah, thin! shut up, Yorkey!" hissed the sergeant in a warning aside,"they'll hear yez. Here they come."

Presently the five were grouped together. Inspector Kilbride's sternfeatures were set in a thoughtful, lowering scowl. Mr. Gully's tanned,leathery countenance looked curiously mottled.

"Sergeant!" The inspector clicked off his words sharply. "This is a badcase. We've just been viewing the body—Mr. Gully and I." Withmechanical caution he glanced swiftly round. "Let's get inside and goover things again," he added.

Seated in the privacy of the hotel parlour the crime was discussed fromevery angle with callous, professional interest. Kilbride and Slavin didmost of the talking, though occasionally Gully interpolated with questionand comment. He possessed a deep, booming bass voice well-suited to hisvast frame. His speech, despite a slightly languid drawl, wasunquestionably that of an educated Englishman. Yorke and Redmondmaintained a respectful silence in the presence of their officer, exceptto answer promptly and quietly any questions put directly to them.

Personal revenge they decided eventually could be the only motive.Robbery was out of the question, as the personal belongings of the deadman had been found to be intact, including a valuable diamond ring, abouta hundred and fifty dollars in bills, and his watch, papers, etc. Ajovial, light-hearted young rancher, hailing originally from the OldCountry, a bachelor of more or less convivial habits, he had enjoyed thehearty good-will of the country-side, incurring the enmity of no one,with the exception of Moran, as far as they knew. The latter's alibihaving established his innocence beyond doubt, no definite clues wereforthcoming as yet, beyond the foot-prints, the horse, and the "Luger"shell. Moran, too, they ascertained had ridden in alone, and was not inthe habit of chumming with anyone in particular. Slavin had prepared alist of all known out-going and incoming individuals on and about thedate of the crime. This was carefully conned over. All were, withoutexception, well-known respectable ranchers, and citizens of Cow Run, towhom no suspicion could be attached.

"No!" commented the inspector wearily, at length. "In my opinion thishas been done by someone living right here in this burg—a man whom wecould go and put our hands on this very minute—if we only had somethingto work on. You'll see . . . it'll turn out to be that later. Justabout the last man you'd suspect, either. Cases like this—where theindividual has nerve enough to stay right on the job and go about hisbusiness as usual—are often the hardest nuts to crack. You rememberthat Huggard case, Sergeant?"

Many years previous he and Slavin had been non-coms together in theYukon, and other divisions of the Force, and now, delving back into theirmemories of crime and criminals, they cited many old and grim cases, moreor less similar to the one in hand. Yorke and Redmond listened eagerlyto their narration, but Gully betrayed only a sort of taciturn interest.If he had any experiences of his own, he apparently did not consider itworth while to contribute them just then; though to Slavin and Yorke hewas known to be a man who had travelled far and wide.

"Ah!" remarked the inspector, a trifle bitterly. "If only some of thesesmart individuals who write fool detective stories, with their utterlyimpracticable methods, theories, and deductions, were to climb out oftheir arm-chairs and tackle the real thing—had to do it for theirliving—they'd make a pretty ghastly mess of things I'm thinking. It alllooks so mighty easy—in a book. You can see exactly how the thinghappened, put your hand on the man who did it, and all that, right fromthe start. And you begin to wonder, pityingly, why the police were suchfools as Dot to have seen through everything right away."

He paused a moment, continuing: "This is a law-abiding country. Crimeslike this are exceptional. We're bound to get to the bottom of thissooner or later. When we do—there'll be quite a lot of things crop upin our minds that we'll be wondering we never thought of before. Let mehave another look at that paper imprint of that over-shoe, Sergeant!"

Silently, Slavin handed it over. Kilbride scrutinized it carefully, andagain went over all notes and figures connected with the crime. "Musthave been a tall man—possibly six feet, or over, from the length of thestride," he muttered, "and heavy, from the depth of the imprint." Henoted the distance from the big boulder to where the body had firstfallen. "Gad! what shooting! . . . The man must have been a holyfright with a revolver—to have confidence in himself to be able to killat that range. I've never known anything like it. Well! . . . One surething"—he laughed grimly—"you can't go searching every decent citizenhere for a Luger gun, or demanding to measure his feet—withoutreasonable suspicion. Why! It might be you, Sergeant—or Mr. Gully,here . . . you're both big men. . . ."

Long afterwards, well they remembered the inspector's random jest—howGully, with one hand slid into his breast, and the other dragging at hisgreat drooping moustache (mannerisms of his) had joined in the generallaugh with his hollow, guttural "Ha! ha!"

The inspector's levity suddenly vanished. "That old fool of alivery-stable keeper, Lee, or whatever his name is . . . if only he, orsomeone had been around when the horse was brought back that night!D——n it! there must have been somebody around, surely. That's whatthis case hinges on."

He looked at his watch. "Well! Work on that—to your utmost, Sergeant.Stay right with it until you get that evidence. You'll drop onto yourman sooner or later, I know. That train should be in soon, now. I'llhave to get back. The Commissioner's due from Regina, sometime today,and I've got to be on hand. Wire the finding of the inquest as soon asit's over, and send in a full crime-report of everything!"

He glanced casually at the bruised faces of Yorke and Redmond. "You menmust have had quite a tussle with that fellow, Moran!" he remarkedwhimsically. "You seem to have come off the best, Sergeant. You're notmarked at all."

"Some tussle all right, Sorr!" agreed that worthy evenly, his tongue inhis cheek. "Yu' go git yu're prisoner, Ridmond, an' be ready whin thatthrain comes in. Come back on the next way-freight west, if there's wanbehfure th' passenger. We'll need yez."

Gully murmured some hospitable suggestion to Kilbride, and the twogentlemen strolled into the wrecked bar. The train presently arrived anddeparted eastwards, bearing on it the inspector, Redmond, and hisprisoner.

"Strange thing," the officer had remarked musingly to Slavin, just priorto his departure, "I seem to know that man Gully's face, but somehow Ican't place him. He introduced himself to me on the train coming up. Ofcourse I'm familiar with his name, as the J.P. here, but I can't recallever meeting him before."

Sometime later, Slavin and Yorke, who had just returned from the gruesomeautopsy and were busily making arrangements for the afternoon's inquest,heard a loud, cackling commotion out in the main street. Theyimmediately stepped outside the hotel to see what was the matter.

Advancing towards them, and puffing with exertion and importance, theybeheld Nick Lee, haling along at arm's length an unkempt individual whomthey judged to be the hobo who had disturbed his peace of mind. A smallretinue of dirty urchins, jeering loafers, and barking dogs brought upthe rear. The village "Dogberry" drew nigh with his victim and halted,as empurpled as probably the elder Weller was, after ducking Mr. Stigginsin the horse-trough.

"Sarjint!" he panted triumphantly "I did clim up that ther ladder! I didgit thru' th' trap-door! . . . an'—I did ketch that feller!" Suddenlyhis jaw dropped, and he wilted like a pricked bladder. "Why! what'sup?" he queried with a crestfallen air, as he beheld Slavin's angry,worried countenance.

"Damnation!" muttered the latter softly and savagely to Yorke. "Thismeans another thrip tu Calgary—wid this 'bo'—an' me not able tu shpareye just now. Fwhat wid all this other bizness I'd forgotten all 'bouthim. An' we'd vagged him sooner Ridmond might have taken th' tu av thimdown tugither. Da——." The oath died on his lips and he remainedstaring at the hobo as a sudden thought struck him. His gaze flickeredto Yorke's face, and his subordinate nodded comprehensively.

Slavin beckoned to Lee. "Take um inside the hotel parlour, Nick," heordered, "fwhere we hild coort this mornin.' Yorkey, yu' go an' hunt upMr. Gully. I don't think he's pulled out yet, has he, Nick?" He spokenow with a certain grim eagerness.

The livery-man made a gesture in the negative, and Yorke departed uponhis quest. Slavin ushered Lee and the hobo into the room. To thesergeant's surprise he beheld the justice sitting at the table writing.He concluded that that gentleman must have just stepped in from the rearentrance of the hotel, or the bar, during his own and Yorke's temporaryabsence.

At the entrance of the trio Gully raised his head and, with the penpoised in his fingers, sat perfectly motionless, staring at themstrangely out of his shadowy eyes. His face seemed transformed into ablank, expressionless mask. The sergeant leaned over the table and spoketo him in a rapid aside.

"Ah!" murmured Mr. Gully, and he remained for a space in deep thought.
"Sergeant," he began presently, "I'll have to be pulling out soon.
Before we start in with this man . . . will you kindly step down to
Doctor Cox's with these papers and ask him to sign them?"

It seemed an ordinary request. Slavin complied.

Returning some ten or fifteen minutes later he noticed Lee was absent.The magistrate answered his query. "Sent him round to throw the harnesson my team," he drawled, as he pored over a Criminal Code, "he'll be backin a moment—ah! here he is." And just then the latter entered, alongwith Yorke. The hobo was sitting slumped in a chair, as Slavin had lefthim. With one accord they all centred their gaze upon the unkemptdelinquent. Ragged and unwashed, he presented a decidedly unlovelyappearance, which was heightened by his stubble-coated visage showingsigns as of recent ill-usage. His age might have been anything betweenthirty and forty.

The sergeant, a huge, menacing figure of a man, stepped forward andmotioned to him to stand. "Now, see here; look, me man!" he said slowlyand distinctly, a sort of tense eagerness underlying his soft tones,"behfure I shtart in charrgin' ye wid anythin' I'm goin' tu put a fewquestions tu ye in front av this ginthleman"—he indicated thejustice—"He's a mag'strate, so ye'd best tell th' trute. Now—th' nightbehfure last—betune say, nine an' twelve o'clock . . . fwhere wasye?"—he paused—"Think harrd, an' come across wid th' straight goods."

A tense silence succeeded. The hobo, the cynosure of a ring of watchfulexpectant faces, mumbled indistinctly, "I was sleepin'—up in th' loft o'th' livery-stable."

"Did yeh—" Slavin eyed the man keenly—"did yeh see—or hear—any fellatake a harse out av th' shtable durin' that time?"

Gully moved slightly. With the mannerism he affected, his left handdragging at his moustache and his right slid between the lapels of hiscoat, he leaned forward and fixed his eyes full upon the hobo's batteredvisage.

Meeting that strange, compelling gaze the latter: stared back at him, hisface an ugly, expressionless mask. He shuffled with his feet. "Why,yes!" he said finally, "I did heer a bunch o' fellers come in. They wasa-talkin' all excited-like 'bout a fight, or sumphin'. They wasa-hollerin', 'Beat it, Larry! beat it!' t' somewun, an' I heered somefeller say: 'All right! give us my —— saddle!' an' then it sounded likeas if a horse was bein' taken out. I didn't heer no more afterthat—went t' sleep. I 'member comin' down 'bout th' middle o' th' nightt' git a drink at th' trough. This feller come in then,"—he indicatedLee. "He hollered sumphin' an' started in t' chase me . . . so I beat itup inta th' loft agin'." He shivered. "'T'was cold up ther—I well-nighfroze," he whined.

The sergeant exhausted his no mean powers of exhortation. It was all invain. The hobo protested that he had neither seen nor heard anyone elsetaking out, or bringing in, a horse during the night.

Slavin finally ceased his efforts and glowered at the man in silentimpotence. "How come yez tu get th' face av yez bashed up so?" hedemanded.

"Fell thru' one o' th' feed-holes up in th' loft," was the sulky response.

"Fwhat name du ye thravel undher?"

"Dick Drinkwater."

"Eh?" the sergeant glanced critically at the red, bulbous nose. "Fwhat'sin a name?" he murmured. "Eyah! fwhat's in a name?"

Glibly the tramp commenced an impassioned harangue, dwelling upon thehardness of life in general, snuffling and whining after the manner ofhis kind. How could a crippled-up man like him obtain work? He thrustout a grimy right hand—minus two fingers. He had been a sawyer, heaverred.

Slavin sniffed suspiciously. "Ye shtink av whiskey, fella!" he saidsharply. "That nose, yeh name, an' a hard-luck spiel du not go welltogether. Fwhere did yu' get yu're dhrink?"

The hobo was silent. "Come across," said Slavin sternly, "fwhere did yeget ut?"

"I had a bottle with me when I come off th' train," said the other, "therwas a drop left in an' I had it just now."

In the light of after events, well did Slavin and Yorke recall thefurtive appealing glance the hobo threw at Gully; well did they alsoremember certain of Kilbride's words: "There'll be quite a lot of thingscrop up in our minds that we'll be wondering we never thought of before."

The justice cleared his throat. "Sergeant" came his guttural, boomingbass, "suppose!—suppose!" he reiterated suavely "on this occasionwe—er—temper justice with mercy—ha! ha!" His deep hollow laugh jarredon their nerves most unpleasantly. "I need a man at my place just now,"he went on, "to buck wood and do a little odd choring around. Times arerather hard just now, as this poor fellow says. If you insist—er—why,of course I've no other option but to send him down . . . you understand?I would not presume to dictate to you your duty. On the other hand . . .if you are not specially anxious to press a charge of vagrancy againstthis man I—er—am willing to give him a chance to obtain this work—thathe insists he is so anxious to find."

Slavin's face cleared and he emitted a weary sigh of relief. "As youwill, yeh're Worship," he said. "T'will be helpin' me out, tu . . . yehundhershtand?" His meaning stare drew a comprehensive nod from Gully."I have not a man tu shpare for escort just now."

He turned to the hobo. "Fwhat say yu', me man?" was his curt ultimatum,"Fwhat say yu'—tu th' kindniss av his Worship? Will yeh go wurrk forhim? . . . Or be charged wid vagrancy?"

The offer was accepted with alacrity. In the hobo's one uninjured opticshone a momentary gleam of intelligence, as he continued to stare atGully, like a dog at its master. The gleam was reflected in a pair ofshadowy, deep-set eyes, unblinking as an owl's.

Gully arose and looked at Lee. "All right then! you can hitch up myteam, Nick!" he said, and that rotund worthy waddled away on his mission."Come on, my man" he continued to the hobo, "we'll go round to thestable." He turned to Slavin and Yorke, shedding his magisterialdeportment. "Well, good-bye, you fellows!" he said, with carelessbonhomie. He lowered his voice in an aside to Slavin. "Sergeant, Itrust I shall see, or hear from you again shortly. I would like to hearthe result of the inquest and—er—how you are progressing with the case."

A few minutes later they heard the silvery jingle of his cutter's bellsgradually dying away in the distance. Slavin aroused himself from ascowling, brooding reverie. "G——d d——n!" he spat out to Yorke, frombetween clenched teeth, "ther' goes another forlorn hope. 'Tis no mannerav use worryin' tho'—let's go get that jury empannelled!" He uttered asnorting chuckle as a thought seemed to strike him. "H-mm! Gully mustbe getthin' tindher-hearthed! Th' last vag we had up behfure him he sintum down for sixty days."

CHAPTER IX

Take order now, Gehazi,
That no man talk aside
In secret with his judges
The while his case is tried,
Lest he should show them—reason
To keep a matter hid,
And subtly lead the questions
Away from what he did.

KIPLING.

"Hullo!" quoth Constable Yorke facetiously, "behold one cometh, withblood in her eye! Egad! Don't old gal Lee look mad? Like a wet hen. Iguess she's just off the train and Nick hasn't met her. There'll besomething doing when she lands home."

It was about ten o'clock on the following morning. The three policemen(Redmond had returned on a freight during the night) were standingoutside the small cottage, next the livery-stable, the abode of Nick Leeand his spouse. After a casual inspection of their horses they weredebating as to possible suspects and their next course of action.Yorke's remarks were directed at a stout, red-faced, middle-aged womanwho was just then approaching them. She looked flustered and angry andwas burdened down with parcels great and small. As she halted outsidethe gate one of the packages slipped from her grasp and fell in the mud.Unable to bend down, she gazed at it helplessly a moment. Yorke,stepping forward promptly, picked up the parcel, wiped it and tucked itunder her huge arm.

"Thank ye, Mister Yorke," she ejaculated gratefully, "'tis a gentleman yeare," she glowered a moment at the cottage, "which is more'n I kin sayfur that mon o' mine, th' lazy good-fur-nothin', . . . leavin' me t' packall these things from th' train!"

Like a tug drawing nigh to its mooring—and nearly as broad in thebeam—she came to anchor on the front steps and kicked savagely at thedoor. A momentary glimpse they got of Nick Lee's face, in all itsrubicund helplessness, and then the door banged to. From an open windowsoon emerged the sounds as of a domestic broil.

"Talk av Home Rule, an' 'Th' Voice that breathed o'er Eden'," murmured
Slavin. "Blarney me sowl! just hark tu ut now?"

From the cottage's interior came several high-pitched female squawks,punctuated by the ominous sounds as of violent thumps being rained upon asoft body, and suddenly the portal disgorged Lee—in erratic haste. Hishat presently followed. Dazedly awhile he surveyed the grinning trio ofwitnesses to his discomfiture; then, picking up his battered head-piecehe crammed it down upon his bald cranium with a vicious, yet abject,gesture.

"Th' missis seems onwell this mornin'," he mumbled apologetically to
Slavin, "I take it yore not a married man, Sarjint?"

"Eh?" ejaculated that worthy sharply, his levity gone on the instant.
"Who—me?" Blankly he regarded the miserable face of his interlocutor,
one huge paw of a hand softly and surreptitiously caressing its fellow,
"Nay—glory be! I am not."

"Har!" shrilled the Voice, its owner, fat red arms akimbo, blocking upthe doorway, "Nick, me useless man! ye kin prate t' me 'bout arrestin'hoboes. I tell ye right now—that hobo that was a-bummin' roun' heret'other mornin's got nothin' on you fur sheer, blowed-in-th'-glasslaziness."

"Fwhat?" Slavin violently contorting his grim face into a horriblesemblance of persuasive gallantry edged cautiously towards the iratedame—much the same as a rough-rider will "So, ho, now!" and sidle up toa bad horse. "Mishtress Lee," began he, in wheedling, dulcet tones,"fwhat mornin' was that?"

That lady, her capacious, matronly bosom heaving with emotion, eyed himsuspiciously a moment. "Eh?" she snapped. "Why th' mornin' after th'night of racket between them two men at th' hotel. Th' feller comebummin' roun' th' back-door fur a hand-out—all starved t' death—justbefore I took th' train t' Calgary." She dabbed at the false-front ofred hair, which had become somewhat disarranged. "La, la!" she murmured,"I'm all of a twitter!"

"Some hand-out tu," remarked Slavin politely, "from th' face av um. . . .Fwhat was ut ye handed him, Mishtress Lee, might I ask?—th' flat-iron orth' rollin' pin?"

"I did not!" the dame retorted indignantly. "I gave him a cup of coffeean' sumphin' t' eat—he was that cold, poor feller—an' I arst him howhis face come t' be in such a state. He said sumphin 'bout it bein' socold up in th' loft he come down amongst th' horses 'bout midnight—t'get warmed up. He said he was lyin' in one o' th' mangers asleep when afeller brought a horse in—an' th' light woke him up an' when he went t'climm outa th' manger th' horse got scared an' pulled back an' mustastepped on this feller's foot—fur th' feller started swearin' at him an'pulled him outa th' manger an' beat him up an'—"

But Slavin had heard enough. With a most ungallant ejaculation he swungon his heel and started towards the stable, beckoning hastily to Yorkeand Redmond to follow.

"Yu hear that?" he burst out on them, with lowered, savage tones. "Iknew ut—I felt ut at th' toime—that shtinkin' rapparee av a hobo waslyin'—whin he said he did not renumber a harse bein' brought back. Wemust go get um—right-away!" His grim face wore a terribly ruthlessexpression just then. "My God!" he groaned out from between clenchedteeth, "but I will put th' third degree tu um, an' make um come acrossthis toime! Saddle up, bhoys! while I go an' hitch up T an' B.Damnation! I wish Gully's place was on the phone!"

Some quarter of an hour later they were proceeding rapidly towardsGully's ranch which lay some fifteen miles west of Cow Run, on the loweror river trail. A cold wind had sprung up and the weather had turnedcloudy and dull, as if presaging snow, two iridescent "sun-dogs"indicating a forthcoming drop in the temperature.

Yorke and Redmond, riding in the cutter's wake, carried on a desultory.
Jerky conversation anent the many baffling aspects of the case in hand.
Gully's name came up. His strange personality was discussed by them from
every angle; impartially by Yorke—frankly antagonistically by Redmond.

"Yes! he is a rum beggar, in a way," admitted Yorke, "not a bad sort ofduck, though, when you get to know him—when he's not in one of hisrotten, brooding fits. He sure gets 'Charley-on-his-back' sometimes.Used to hit the booze pretty hard one time, they say. Tried the'gold-cure'—then broke out again"—he lowered his voice at the huge,bear-like back of the sergeant—"all same him. I don't know—somehow—italways seems to leave em' cranky an' queer—that. Neither of 'em marriedeither—'baching it,' living alone, year after year, and all that, too."

"Better for you—if you took the cure, too!" George flung at himgrinning rudely. He neck-reined Fox sharply and dodged a playful punchfrom his comrade. "Yorkey, old cock, I'm goin' to break you from 'hardstuff' to beer—if I have to pitch into you every day."

"You're an insultin', bullyin' young beggar," remarked Yorke ruefully."I'll have to 'take shteps,' as Burke says, and discipline you a bit,young fellow-me-lad! I don't wonder the old man pulled you in fromGleichen. Come to think of it, why, you're the bright boy that they saywell-nigh started a mutiny down Regina! We heard a rumour about it uphere. Say, what was that mix-up, Reddy?"

George chuckled vaingloriously. "All over old 'Laddie'," he said."'Member that white horse? I forget his regimental number, but he wasabout twenty-five years old. You remember how they'd taught him to chuckup his head and 'laugh'? I was grooming him at 'midday stables.' OldHarry Hawker was the sergeant taking 'stables' that day. He was stalkingup and down the gangway, blind as a bat, with his crop under his arm, andhis glasses stuck on the end of his nose—peering, peering. Well, oldLaddie happened to stretch himself, as a horse will, you know, stuck outhis hind leg, and old Harry fell wallop over it and tore hisriding-pants, and just then I said 'Laugh, Laddie!' and he chucked hisold head up and wrinkled his lips back. Of course the fellows fairlyhowled and Harry lost his temper and let in to poor old Laddie with hiscrop. It made me mad when he started that and I guess I gave him somelip about it. He 'pegged' me for Orderly-room right-away forinsubordination.'

"I pleaded 'not guilty' and got away with it, too. Got all kinds ofwitnesses—most of 'em only too d——d glad to be able to get back atHarry for little things. Laddie was a proper pet of the Commissioner's.He used to go into No. Four Stable and play with the old beggar and feedhim sugar nearly every day."

Yorke laughed mischievously, and was silent awhile. "Gully's knockedabout a deuce of a lot," he resumed presently. "Now and again he'll openup a bit and talk, but mostly he's as close as an oyster—and the way hecan drop that drawl and come out 'flat-footed' with the straightturkey—why, it'd surprise you! You'd think he was an out and outWesterner, born and bred. He's a mighty good man on a horse, and aroundcattle—and with a lariat. I don't know where the beggar's picked it up.He claims he's only been in this country five years. Talks mostly aboutthe Gold Coast, and Shanghai, and the Congo. A proper 'Bully Hayes' of aman he was there, too, I'll bet! He never says much about the States,though I did hear him talking to a Southerner once, and begad, it wasfunny! You could hardly tell their accents apart.

"Oh, he's not a bad chap to have for a J.P. It's mighty hard to get anylocal man to accept a J.P.'s commission, anyway. They're most of 'emscared of it getting them in bad with their neighbours. Gully—hedoesn't care a d——n for any of 'em, though. He'll sit on any case.It's a good thing to have a man who's absolutely independent, like that.I sure have known some spineless rotters. No, we might have a worse J.P.than Gully."

"Oh, I don't know," rejoined Redmond thoughtfully, "may be he's allright, but, somehow . . . the man's a kind of 'Doctor Fell' to me—hasbeen—right from the first time I 'mugged' him. Chances are though, thatit's only one of those false impressions a fellow gets. What's up?"

Yorke, shading his eyes from the cutting wind was staring ahead down thelong vista of trail. "Talk of the Devil!" he muttered, "why! here the—— comes!" Aloud, he called out to Slavin. "Oh, Burke! here comesGully—riding like hell, I know that Silver horse of his."

And, far-off as yet, but rapidly approaching them at a gallop, theybeheld a rider.

"Sure is hittin' th' high spots," remarked the sergeant wonderingly,"fwhat th' divil's up now?"

Gradually the distance lessened between them and presently Gully, mountedupon a splendid, powerfully-built gray, checked his furious pace andreined in with an impatient jerk, a few lengths from the police team.Redmond could not help noticing that Gully, for a heavy man, possessed asingularly-perfect seat in the saddle, riding with the sure, free,unconscious grace of an habitué of the range. He was roughly dressednow, in overalls, short sheepskin coat, and "chaps."

He shouted a salutation to the trio, his usually immobile facetransformed into an expression of scowling anxiety. "Hullo!" he boomed,his guttural bass sounding hoarse with passion, "You fellows didn't meetthat d——d hobo on the trail, I suppose? . . . I'm looking for him—inthe worst way!"

He flung out of saddle and strode alongside the cutter. "About two hoursago—'not more, I'll swear—I pulled out to take a ride around thecattle—like I usually do, every day. I left the beggar busy enough,bucking fire-wood. I wasn't away much over an hour, but when I got backI found he'd drifted—couldn't locate him anywhere.

"Then I remembered I'd left some money lying around—inside the drawer ofa bureau in my bedroom—'bout a hundred, I guess—in one of theseblack-leather bill-folders. Sure enough, it's gone, too. Damnation!"

He leaned up against the cutter and mopped his streaming forehead. "Iwas a fool to ever attempt to help a man like that out," he concludedbitterly. "It serves me right!"

"Well," said Slavin, with an oath, "th' shtiff cannot have got far-awayin that toime. I want um as bad as yuh, Mr. Gully. We were on th' waytu yu're place for um. See here; luk!"

Gully heard him out and whistled softly at the conclusion of thenarrative. "Once collar this man, Sergeant," said he, "and—you'vepractically got your case. Make him talk?"—the low, guttural laugh wasnot good to hear—"Oh, yes! . . . I think between us we could accomplishthat all right! . . . Yes-s!"

His voice died away in a murmur, a cruel glint flickered in his shadowyeyes, and for a space he remained with folded arms and his head sunk in asort of brooding reverie. Suddenly, with an effort, he seemed to arousehimself. "Oh, about that inquest, Sergeant," he queried casually, "whatwas the jury's finding? I was forgetting all about that."

"Eyah; on'y fwhat yuh might expect," replied the latter. "Death byshootin', at th' hand av some person unknown. I wired headquarthersright-away." He made a slightly impatient movement. "Well, we must getbusy, Mr. Gully; this shtiff connot be far away. Not bein' on th'thrail, betune us an' yu', means he's either beat ut shtraight south fromyu're place an' over th' ice tu th' railway-thrack, or west a piece, an'thin onto th' thrack. Yu'll niver find a hobo far away from th' line.He'd niver go thrapsein' thru' th' snow tu th' high ground beyant. Yuhcud shpot him plain for miles—doin' that—comin' along."

"He's wearing old, worn-out boots," said Yorke, "got awful big feet, too,I remember. Of course this trail's too beaten up from end to end to beable to get a line on foot-prints. We might work slowly back to yourplace, though, Mr. Gully, and keep a lookout for any place where he mayhave struck south off the trail, as the Sergeant says."

It seemed the only thing to do. The party moved leisurely forward, Gullyriding ahead of the cutter, Yorke and Redmond in its wake, as before,well-spread out on either side of the well-worn trail. Here, the snowwas practically undisturbed, affording them every opportunity ofdiscovering fresh foot-prints debouching from the main trail. It wasrather exacting, monotonous work, necessitating cautious and leisurelyprogress; but they stuck to it doggedly until sometime later they roundeda bend in the river and came within sight of Gully's ranch, about a miledistant.

Presently that gentleman pulled up and swung out of saddle. "Half aminute," he said, "my saddle's slipping! I want to tighten my cinch."

The small cavalcade halted. Slavin's restless eyes roving over theexpanse of unbroken snow on his left hand, suddenly dilated, and heuttered an eager exclamation, pointing downwards with outflung arm.

"Ah," said he grimly, "here we are, I'm thinkin'!" And he clamberedhastily out of the cutter.

Yorke and Redmond, dismounting swiftly, stepped forward with him andexamined minutely the unmistakably fresh imprints of large-sized feetangling off from the trail towards the bank of the frozen river.

"Hob-nailed boots!" ejaculated Yorke. "Guess that must be him, allright, Mr. Gully?"

The latter bent and scrutinized the imprints. "Sure must be," herejoined, with conviction. "A man walking out on the range is acuriosity. I can't think how I could have missed them—coming along.But I guess I was so mad, and in such a devil of a hurry I didn't noticemuch. I made sure of catching up to him somewhere on the trail."

Slavin beckoned to Redmond and, much to that young gentleman's chagrin,bade him hold the lines of the restless team, while he (Slavin), alongwith Yorke and Gully, started forwards trailing the footprints. Arrivingat the river's edge they slid down the bank and followed the tracks overthe snow-covered ice to the centre of the river. Here was open water forsome distance; the powerful current at this point keeping open a ten-footwide steaming fissure. The tracks hugged its edge to a point about fourhundred yards westward, where the fissure closed up again and enabledthem to cross to the opposite bank. Clambering up this their quest ledthem across a long stretch of comparatively level ground to the fenced-inrailway-track.

Ducking under the lower strand of wire they reached the line. At thefoot of the graded road-bed, Slavin, who was ahead, halted suddenly anduttered an oath. Stooping down he picked up something and, turning roundto his companions exhibited his find. It was a small, black-leatherbill-folder—empty.

Gully regarded his lost property with smouldering eyes, and he uttered aghastly imprecation. "Yes, that's it," he said simply, "beggar's bonedthe bills and chucked this away for fear of incriminating evidence—incase he was nabbed again, I suppose. The bills were mostly in fives andtens—Standard Bank—I remember."

They climbed up onto the track to determine whether the foot-printsturned east or west; but further quest here proved useless, on account ofits being a snow-beaten section-hand trail.

Slavin balked again, swore in fluent and horrible fashion. For a spacehe remained in brooding thought, then he turned abruptly to hiscompanions.

"Come on," he jerked out savagely, "let's get back."

In silence they retraced their steps and eventually reached their horses.
Here the sergeant issued curt orders to his men.

"'Tis onlikely th' shtiff can have got very far away—in th' toime Mr.Gully tells us," he said, "an' he cannot shtay out in th' opin for longthis weather. Get yu're harses over th' ice, bhoys, an' make th' thrack.Ye'll find an' openin' in th' fence somewheres. Thin shplit, an' hug th'line—west, yu', Yorkey—as far as Coalmore—yu', Ridmond—back tu CowRun. Yez know fwhat tu du. Pass up nothin'—culverts, bridges,section-huts—anywhere's th' shtiff may be hidin'. If yez du not dhroponto um betune thim tu places—shtay fwhere yez are an' search allfreights. 'Phone th' agent at Davidsburg if yez want tu get me. I'maway from there now—to wire east an' west. Thin—I'm goin' tu ridefreight awhile, up an' down th' thrack. I can get Clem Wilson tu lukafther T an' B. We must get this man, bhoys."

"Look here, Sergeant," broke in Gully good-naturedly, "as this is partlyon my account I feel it's up to me to try and do what little I can do tohelp you in this case. There's not much doing at the ranch just now, so,if you've no objection, I'll put Silver along with your team and comewith you. As you say—we've simply got to get this fellow, somehow."

"Thank ye, Mr. Gully," responded Slavin gratefully, "betune th' bunch avus we shud nail th' shtiff all right."

"Should!" agreed the magistrate, enigmatically, "'stiff's' the word forhim." He glanced up at the lowering sky. "Hullo! It's beginning tosnow again—you found those tracks just in time, Sergeant."

Six days elapsed. Six days of fruitless, monotonous work. The eveningof the seventh found the trio disconsolately reunited in theirdetachment. Their quest had failed. Slavin, not sparing himself, hadworked Yorke and Redmond to the limits of their endurance, and they,fully realizing the importance of their objective, had responded loyally.

Gully, apparently betraying a keen interest in the case, had gone out ofhis way to assist them—both on the railroad and in scouring thecountry-side. They were absolutely and utterly played out, and theirnerves were jangled and snappy. No possible hiding-place had beenoverlooked—yet the hobo—Dick Drinkwater—the one man who undoubtedlyheld the key to the mysterious murder of Larry Blake—had disappeared ascompletely as if the earth had swallowed him up.

The horses cared for, and supper over, Yorke and Redmond lay back ontheir cots and blaguè'd each other wearily anent their mutual ill-luck.Slavin, critically conning over a lengthy crime-report on the case thathe had prepared for headquarters, flung his composition on the table andleant back dejectedly in his chair.

"Hoboes?" quoth he, darkly, and tongue-clucked in dismal fashion. "Eyah!I just fancy I can hear th' ould man dishcoursin' tu Kilbride av th'merry, int'restin' ways an' habits av th' genus—hobo—whin he get's thisreport av mine. . . . Like he did wan day whin he was doin' show-manround th' cells wid a bunch av ould geezers av 'humanytaruns.' I mind Iwas Actin' Provo' in charge av th' Gyard-room at th1 toime."

He sighed deeply, folded up the report and thrust it into an officialenvelope. "Well, bhoys," he concluded, "we have done all that mencan'—for th' toime bein' anyways."

Yorke laughed somewhat mirthlessly and gazed dreamily up at his pictures."Sure have," he agreed languidly; "from now on, though, I guess we'lljust have to take a leaf out of Micawber's book—'wait for something toturn up,' eh, Reddy, my old son?"

There was no answer. That young worthy, utterly exhausted, had driftedinto the arms of Morpheus.

CHAPTER X

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it.

SHAKESPEARE.

Number Six, from the East, drew up at the small platform of Davidsburgand presently steamed slowly on its way westward, minus three passengers.

"Well, bhoys," said Sergeant Slavin to his henchmen, "here we are—-backtu th' land av our dhreams wanst more. Glory be! But I'm glad tu bequit av that warrm, shtinkin' courthroom. Denis Ryan—th' ould rapparee,he wint afther us harrd—in that last case. Eyah! But I thrimmed um inth' finals. Wan Oirishman cannot put ut over another wan."

He softly rubbed his huge hands together. "Five years! That'll tache
Mishter Joe Lawrence tu go shtickin' his brand on other people's cattle!
But—blarney me sowl! Ryan sure is a bad man tu run up agin when he's
actin' for th' defence."

The trio had just returned from a Supreme Court sitting where they hadbeen handling their various cases. It was a gloriously sunny day inJune. A wet spring, succeeded by a spell of hot weather, had transformedthe range into a rolling expanse of green, over which meandered bunchesof horses and cattle, their sleek hides and well-rounded bodiesproclaiming abundant assimilation of nourishing pasture.

To men who for the past week had of necessity been confined within thestifling atmosphere of a crowded court-room, their present surroundingsappealed as especially restful and exhilarating. During their absencetheir horses had been enjoying the luxury of a turn-out in the fencedpasture at the rear of the detachment, where there was good feed and aspring.

The murder of Larry Blake the previous winter still remained a bafflingmystery. Locally it had proved, as such occurrences usually do, merely aproverbial nine days wonder. Long since, in the stress and interest ofcurrent events, it had faded more or less from the minds of all men,excepting the Mounted Police, who, though saying little concerning it,still kept keenly on the alert for any possible clue. Equally mystifyingwas the uncanny disappearance of the hobo—Drinkwater. So far thatindividual had succeeded in eluding apprehension, although minutedescriptions of him had been circulated broadcast to police agenciesthroughout Canada and the United States.

"Eyah!" Sergeant Slavin was wont to remark sagely: "'Tis an ould sayingbhoys—'Murdher will out'—we'll sure dhrop onto it sooner or lather, an'thin belike we'll get th' surprise av our lives—for I firmly believe, asKilbride said—'t'will prove tu be some lokil man who had a grudge agin'pore Larry for somethin' or another. So—just kape on quietlywatchin'—an' listh'nin, an' we'll nail that fella yet."

Just now that worthy was surveying his subordinates with a care-freesmile of bonhomie. "Guess we'll dhrop inta th' shtore on our way up"suggested he, "see'f there's any mail, an' have a yarn wid ould MacDavid."

Half way up the long, winding, graded trail that led to the detachment,the trio turned into another trail which traversed it at this point.Following this for some few hundred yards westward they reached thesubstantial abode of Morley MacDavid, who was, as his name suggested, thehamlet's oldest settler and its original founder.

His habitation—combining store, post-office, and ranch-house—was acommodious frame dwelling, unpretentious in appearance but not wanting inevidences of prosperity. Its rear presented the usual aspect of a ranch,with huge, well-built barns and corrals. Although it was summer, manywide stacks of hay and green oats, apparently left over from the previousseason, suggested that he was a cautious man with an eye to stock-feedingduring the winter months. To neglect of the precaution of putting upsufficient feed to tide over the severe weather might be attributed mostof the annual ranching failures in the West. The MacDavid establishmentbore a well-ordered aspect, unlike many of the unthrifty, ramshackleranches, of his neighbours. The fencing was of the best, and there wereno signs of decay or dilapidation in any of the buildings. Dwarf pineswere planted about and a Morning Glory vine over-ran the house, givingthe place an air of restful domesticity. As they entered the store thetrio noticed a saddle-horse tied to the hitching-rail outside.

They were greeted jovially by MacDavid himself. Lounging behind hisstore-counter, with his back up against a slung pack of coyote skins, hewas listening in somewhat bored fashion to a talkative individualopposite. He evidently hailed their arrival as a welcome diversion. Inpersonality, Morley MacDavid was an admirable type of the westernpioneer. A tall, slimly-built, but wiry, active man of fifty, orthereabouts, with grizzled hair and moustache. Burnt out and totallyruined three successive times in the past by the depredations ofmarauding Indians, the fierce, indomitable energy of the broken man hadasserted itself and enabled him finally to triumph over all hismischances. Aided in the struggle by his devoted wife, who throughoutthe years had bravely faced all dangers and hardships with him, he hadeventually accumulated a hard-won fortune. In addition to the patronagethat he received from the local ranches, he conducted an extensivebusiness trading with the Indians from the big Reserve in the vicinity.A man of essentially simple habits, through sentiment or ingrainedthriftiness, he disdained to abandon the routine and the scenes of hisformer active life, although his bank-balance and his holdings in landand stock probably exceeded that of many a more imposing city magnate.

The newcomers, disposing themselves comfortably upon various sackedcommodities, proceeded to smoke and casually inspect the volublestranger. He was a tallish, well-built man nearing middle-age, with agray moustache, a thin beak of a nose, and a bleached-blue eyes. He wasdressed in an old tweed suit, obviously of English cut, a pair ofhigh-heeled, spurred riding-boots and a cowboy hat. Vouchsafing a briefnod to the visitors he continued his conversation with MacDavid.

"Ya-as," he was drawling, "one of the most extraordinary shots you everheard of, Morley! I was between the devil and the deep sea—properly.There was the bear—rushing me at the double and there was the cougarperched growling up on the rock behind me. I made one jump sideways andlet the bear have it—slap through the brain, and . . . that same shot,sir, ricocheted up the face of the rock and killed the cougar—just as hewas in the act of springing! By George, y'know, it was one of theswiftest things that ever happened!"

A tense silence succeeded the conclusion of this thrilling narrative.

MacDavid re-lit his pipe and puffed thoughtfully awhile. "Eyah," heremarked reminiscently, "feller does run up against some swiftpropositions now an' again. I mind one time I was headin' home fromKananaskis, an' a bear jumped me from behind a fallen log. The lever ofme rifle jammed so, all I could do was to beat it—in a hurry—an' I suredid hit th' high spots, you bet! It was in th' early spring an' th' snowstill lay pretty deep, but—I'd got a twenty yards start of that bear,an' I finally beat him to it an' made my get-away."

The stranger whistled incredulously. "Wha-a-tt!" he almost shouted,"D'ye mean to tell me that bear got within twenty yards of you andcouldn't catch you? Why, man! It's incredible!"

"Fact," replied MacDavid calmly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "Itwas this way: It was near th' edge of th' bush where th' bear firstjumped me, an'—just as we hit th' open ground—one o' them warm Chinookwinds sprung up behind us, travellin' east. . . .

"Man!" He paused impressively. "The way that wind started in to melt th'snow was a corker—just like lard in a fryin'-pan. But—I just managedto keep ahead of it an' while I had a good, hard surface of snow to runon, the bear—why he was sloppin around in th' slush in my wake—couldn'tget a firm foothold, I guess. . . ."

His keen blue orbs stared full into the bleached ones of his vis-à-vis.

"I figure that there Chinook an' me an' th' bear must have been alltravellin' 'bout th' same line of speed—kind of swift. After a mile ortwo of it, th' bear—he got fed up an' quit cold," he ended gravely."Why—what's your hurry, Fred?"

But that individual, feebly raising both arms with a sort of hopelessgesture, suddenly grabbed up his mail and beat a hasty retreat to hishorse.

The hoof-beats died away and MacDavid turned to the grinning policemen."Fred Storey," he said, in answer to their looks of silent enquiry."Runs th' R.U. Ranch, out south here. Not a bad head, but"—he sigheddeeply—"he's such an ungodly liar. I can't resist gettin' back at himnow an' again—just for luck. He's up here on a visit—stayin' with th'Sawyers."

"H-mm!" ejaculated Yorke, "seems to me I've got a hazy recollection ofmeeting up with that fellow before—somewhere. In a hotel in High River,I think it was. Beggar was yarning about Cuba, I remember."

"Bet it was hazy all right," was Redmond's sarcastic rejoiner, "like mostof your bar-room recollections, Yorkey." He gave vent to a snortingchuckle. "That 'D'you know? Ya! ya!' accent of his reminds me of thatcurate in 'The Private Secretary.' I saw it played to Toronto, once."

At this juncture the door opened, and a trio of Indians padded softlyinto the store with gaily-beaded, moccasined feet. Two elderly bucks anda young squaw. The latter flashed a shy, roguish grin at the white men,and then with the customary effacement of Indian women withdrew to therear of the store. Squatting down, all huddled-up in her blanket, shepeered at them with the incurious, but all-seeing stare of her tribe.George got an impression of beady black eyes and a brown, rounded,child-like face framed in a dazzling yellow kerchief.

The two bucks, with a momentary gleam of welcome wrinkling theirruthless, impassive features, exchanged a salutation with MacDavid inguttural Cree, which language the latter spoke fluently. They wereclothed in the customary fashion of their tribe—with a sort ofblanket-capote garment reaching below the knee, their lower limbs swathedin strips of blanket, wound puttee-wise. Battered old felt hatscomprised their head-gear, below which escaped two plaited pig-tails ofcoarse, mane-like, black hair, the latter parted at the nape of the neckand dangling forward down their broad chests.

Slavin and Yorke hailed them familiarly. The elder buck rejoiced in thesonorous title of "Minne-tronk-ske-wan," but divers convictions forinsobriety under the Indian Liquor Act, and the facetious tongue ofYorke, had contorted this into the somewhat opprobrious nickname of "ManyDrunks." His companion was known as "Sun Dog."

They now proceeded to shake hands all around. "How! Many Drunks!"shouted Yorke. Pointing to Redmond, he added "oweski skemoganish" (newpoliceman). With a ferocious grin, intended for an ingratiating smile ofwelcome, Many Drunks advanced upon George, with outstretched hand. In arapid aside Yorke said: "Listen, Reddy, to what he says, he only knowssix or seven words of English, but he's as proud as Punch of 'em—alwayslikes to get 'em off on a stranger. Don't laugh!"

Within a pace of Redmond that gentleman halted. "How!" he grunted, and,pausing impressively drew himself up and tapped his inflated chest,"Minne-tronk-ske-wan! . . . great man!—me—"

And then Redmond nearly choked, as Many Drunks, with intense gravity,proudly conferred upon himself the most objectionable title that existsin four words of the English language—rounding that same off with amajestic "Wah! wah!"

Turning, George beheld himself the target of covert grins from theothers, who evidently were familiar with Many Drunks' linguisticattainments. Sun Dog merely uttered "How! Shemoganish." He did notprofess ability to rise to the occasion like his companion.

Yorke, who was evidently in one of his reckless, rollicking moods,proceeded to make certain teasing overtures to Many Drunks. Hisknowledge of Cree being nearly as limited as that worthy's knowledge ofEnglish, he enlisted the aid of MacDavid as interpreter. The dialoguethat ensued was something as follows:

"Tell him I'm fed up with the Force and am thinking seriously of going tolive on the reserve—monial nayanok-a-weget—turn 'squaw-man'—'takethe blanket.'"

MacDavid translated swiftly, received the answer, and turned to Yorke.
"He says 'Aie-ha! (yes) You make good squaw-man.'"

"Ask him—if I do—if he'll muskkatonamwat (trade) me the young ladyover in the corner there, for two bottles of skutiawpwè (whiskey)."

"He says 'Nemoyah!' (no)—if he does that, you'll turn around andkojipyhôk (arrest) him for having liquor in his possession."

"Tell him—Nemoyah! I won't."

"He says Aie-hat ekwecè! (Yes, all right) you can have her. Saysshe's his brother's wife's niece. But he says you must give him the twobottles of skutiawpwè first, though."

The object of these frivolous negotiations had meanwhile covered her headwith the blanket, from the folds of which issued shrill giggles. SunDog, who had been listening intently with hand scooped to ear (he wassomewhat deaf), now precipitated himself into the discussion. Violentlythrusting his elder companion aside he commenced to harangue MacDavid inan excited voice and with vehement gestures of disapprobation of thewhole proceedings. The trader translated swiftly:

"He says Nemoyah!—not to give the bottles to Many Drunks, as when hegets full of skutiawpwè he raises hell on th' reserve, an' there's nolivin' with him. Says he beats up his squaw an' starts in to scalp th'dogs an' chickens."

"Shtop ut!" bawled Slavin, "d'ju hear, Yorkey? . . . shtoolin' th'nitchie on tu commit a felony an' th' like, thataways!" He sniffeddisgustedly. "Skutiawpwè an' squaws! . . . blarney me sowl! but ye've aquare idea av a josh. 'Tis a credit y'are tu th' Ould Counthry, an' noerror. I do not wondher ye left ut."

"Sh-sh!" said that gentleman soothingly, "coarsely put, Burke! coarselyput! . . . Say Wine and Women, guv'nor! Wine and Women! If you were inIndia, Burke, they'd make you Bazaar-Sergeant—put you in charge of themorals of the regiment. Both items are all right—always providing youdon't get a lady like Misthress Lee for a chaser. How'd you like to bein Nick's shoes? What 'shteps' would you take?"

Slavin stared at his tormentor, blankly, a moment. "Shteps?" heejaculated sharply, "fwhat shteps?" . . . He leant back with a ferventsigh and softly rubbed his huge hands together. "Long wans, avick! . . .eyah, d——d long wans, begorrah!"

Many Drunks now realizing that he was merely the victim of a joke,scowled in turn upon Yorke. Muttering something to MacDavid he backed upagainst the wall and, squatting down, proceeded philosophically to fillhis pipe.

"What's that he said?" queried Yorke of the interpreter, "I couldn'tcatch it."

The latter grinned. "He says—of all the white men he's ever met in histime, Stamixotokon[1] and my self are the only ones he's ever known totell th' truth."

"It's my belief the beggar'd flirt with Mrs. Lee, himself, if he only gotthe chance" said Redmond laconically, "d'you recollect that day he pickedher parcel up for her—how nice she was to him?"

"Eyah," said Slavin darkly, "I remimber ut! That man"—he darted anaccusing finger at Yorke—"wud thry tu come th' Don Jewan wid anythingwid a shkirrt on—from coast to coast. Flirrt? Yeh're tellin' th'trute, bhoy, yeh're tellin' th' trute! He'd a-made a good undhershtudyfor ould Nobby Guy, down Regina."

He settled himself comfortably and lit his pipe. "Eyah, th' good oulddays, th' good ould days!" he resumed reminiscently, between puffs, "Harknow till I tell ye th' tale av ould Nobby!"

"Is that the man they used to Josh about, down Regina?" enquired Redmond.
"Used to say 'I'm a man of few words'?"

Slavin nodded affirmatively. "That's him, Sarjint in charrge av th' townstation he was—years back. This is—whin I was Corp'ril atheadquarthers. A foine big roosther av a man was Nobby, wid a mightypleasant way wid um—'specially wid th' ladies. Wan night—blarney mesowl! Will I iver forghet ut? Nobby 'phones up th' Gyard-roomreporthin' th' Iroquois Hotel on fire, an' requestin' th' O.C. for ashquad av men tu help fight ut, an' kape th' crowd back. So down wewint, a bunch av us. It sure was a bad fire all right. No lives waslost, but th' whole shebang was burnt tu th' ground. Kapin' th' crowdback was our hardest job. Du fwhat we cud, we cud not make some av th'silly fules kape back clear av th' danger-zone—wimmin an' all, bedad!

"By and by, a section av the wall tumbles an' quite a bunch av people gotbadly hurt—Nobby amongst thim. We dhragged thim out as quick as we cudan' laid them forninst th' wall av a buildin' near-by—awaithin' somestretcher-bearers. Nobby'd got his leg bruk, but he seemed chipperenough an' chewed th' rag wid us awhile. Next tu him was awumman—cryin' something pitiful—she'd got her leg bruk, tu. Nobbyrised him up on his elbow an' lukked at her.

"Now, 'tis powerful dhry wurrk, bhoys, fightin' fire, an' may beNobby—well, I cannot account for ut otherwise—him havin' th' nerve' tudu' fwhat he did—onless p'raps 't'was just th' natch'riltindher-hearthedness av th' man—thryin' for tu comfort her. Afther thatwan luk tho', Nobby he 'comes tu th' halt,' so tu shpake, an' 'markstime' awhile considherin'—for becod, she was a harrd-lukkin ouldcase—long beyant mark av mouth.

"Presintly, sez he: 'I'm a man av few wurrds!—'tis of then I have kisseda young wumman!'—an' he thwirls th' big buck moustache av um veryslow—'fwhy shud I not kiss an ould wan? . . .'—an' he did. . . .

"That's how th' man's throuble shtarted. Brought ut all on umsilf.Course at th' toime, fwhy! she slapped th' face av um an' called um allmanner av harrd names—but, all th' same! she must have liked ut, forwhile they was convalescin' she was everlashtingly sendhin Nobby notesan' flowers an' such like. But for all that Nobby wud have no thruck widher, for all she was a widder, well fixed—wid a house av her own an'lashuns av money. Whin they was both out av hospital she was afther urnagain, an' du fwhat he cud he cud not shake that wumman.

"Th' ind av ut was, Nobby reports sick, an' th' reg'minthal docthor, ould'Knockemorf' Probyn, gives um th' wance over. He luks over some papersan' sez he: 'A change an' a rist is fwhat yu' need, Sarjint Guy. There'sa dhraft leavin' next week for Herschell Island[2]—I think I will markyu up fur ut.'

"'Herschell Island?' sez pore Nobby, an' wid that he let's out a howl.

"'Tut, tut!' sez ould Knockemorf, who was wise tu th' man's throuble.
'Tis safer off there'll yu'll be, man, than here, I'm thinkin'.'

"He was shtandin' by th' Gyard-room gate that day-week whin th' dhraftmarched out on their way tu enthrain—Nobby amongst thim. 'Good-bye,Docthor!' he calls out, tears in th' eyes av um, ''Tis sendhin me tu megrave y'are, God forgive yez!'

"'Nonsince!' shouts Knockemorf. 'Say yeh prayers an' kape yeh bowilsopin, me man, an' ye will take no harrm!'

"Some sind-off! well!—time wint on, an' wan day I gets a letther from meould friend, Ginger Johnson, who was stationed there tu, tellin' me allth' news. Nobby, sez he, was doin' fine, fat as a hog, an' happy as acoon in a melun patch. Wan day, sez he, a buck av th' name av WampyJones comes a runnin' inta th' Post, wid th' face av a ghost an' th' hairav um shtickin shtraight up. Said a Polar bear'd popped out forninst ahummock an' chased um—like tu th' tale av Morley, here. Nobby, sezJohnson, on'y grins at th' man, an' sez he: 'That's nothin'!' An' thinhe shtarts in tellin' thim all 'bout this widder at Regina."

[1] Note by Author—The late Colonel Macleod, who for many years wasCommissioner of the R.N.W.M. Police. He was greatly respected andtrusted by all the Indian tribes.

[2] Note by Author—This island is in the Arctic Circle. The mostnortherly post of the R.N.W.M. Police.

CHAPTER XI

Methought I heard a voice cry,
"Macbeth shall sleep no more!"
MACBETH

The sergeant's story evoked a general laugh from his hearers. He aroseand knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "Come on, bhoys!" said he."Let's beat ut. Morley here's a respectable married man—we've bindemoralisin' him an' his store long enough, I'm thinkin'."

Pocketing his packet of mail he and his subordinates stepped to the door,MacDavid casually following them outside. Tethered to the hitching-post,they noticed, were the team of scare-crow cayuses belonging to Sun Dogand Many Drunks.

"Poor beggars look as if a turn-out on the range wouldn't do them anyharm," remarked Redmond.

The thud of hoof-beats suddenly fell upon their ears and, turning, theybeheld Gully on his gray horse loping past them, about twenty yardsdistant. Apparently in a hurry, he merely waved to them and rode on,heading in the direction of his ranch. And then occurred a startling,sinister incident which no man there who witnessed it ever forgot.

Suddenly, with the vicious instinct of Indian curs, three dogs which hadbeen sprawling in the shade of the dilapidated wagon-box sprang forwardsimultaneously in a silent, savage dash at the horse's heels. Thenervous animal gave a violent jump, nearly unseating its rider, whopitched forward onto the saddlehorn.

They heard his angry, startled oath, and saw him jerk his steed up andwhirl about, then, quick as conjuring, came a darting movement of hisright hand between the lapels of his coat and a pistol-barrel gleamed inthe sun.

The curs, by this time, were flying back to the shelter of the wagon-box,but ere they reached it—crack! crack! crack! three shots rang out inquick succession, and three lumps of quivering canine flesh sprawledgrotesquely on the prairie.

The startled spectators stared aghast. Startled—for, though all of themthere were more or less trained shots, such swift, deadly gunmanship asthis was utterly beyond their imaginations. Gully had made no pretenceat aiming. With a snapping action of his wrist he had seemed toliterally fling the shots at the retreating dogs. It was the practisedwhirl and flip of the finished gun-man.

No less astounding was the uncanny legerdemain displayed in drawing fromand replacing the weapon in its place of concealment. The Indians,attracted from the store by the sounds of shooting, began gabbling andgesticulating affrightedly, but when MacDavid spoke to them sharply inCree they retreated inside again.

Some distance away, glaring at the dead dogs, the justice sat in hissaddle, and from beneath his huge moustache he spat a volley of mostun-magisterial oaths, delivered in a snarling, nasal tone foreign to theears of his listeners. A minute or so he remained thus, then his balefuleyes met the steady, meaning stare of the motionless quartette and hisface changed to a blank, irresolute expression. He made a motion ofurging his horse forward, then, checking it abruptly, he wheeled about,loping away in his original direction.

The trader was the first one to find his voice. "Well, my God!" heejaculated. "Did you ever see th' like o' that?"

His companions remained curiously silent. "Gully!" he continued, withvibrating voice, "whoever'd a-thought that that drawlin' English dudecould shoot like that? . . . Fred Storey should have been here. . . ."Still getting no response to his remarks he glanced up wonderingly. Thethree policemen were staring strangely at each other, and something intheir expression startled him.

"Eh! Why! What's up?" he queried sharply.

Then Slavin spoke grimly. "Let's go luk at thim dogs," was all hevouchsafed.

They stepped forward and inspected the carcasses critically. "Fiftyyards away, if he was a foot!" said Redmond, "and he dropped them in one!two! three! . . ."

"Slap through the head, too!" muttered Yorke. "Burke!"—he addedsuddenly. Slavin met his eye with a steady, meaning stare; then, atsomething he read in his subordinate's face, the sergeant's deep-set orbsdilated strangely and he swung on his heel.

"Aye!" he ejaculated with an oath "I was forghettin' thim—come bhoys!let's go luk for thim. Shpread out, or we may miss the place."

"Empty shells," explained Yorke to the others, "automatic ejection—youremember, Reddy! We may find them."

Keeping a short distance apart, they sauntered forward, trying to recallthe spot Gully had shot from. For awhile, with bent heads, they circledslowly about each other, carefully scrutinizing the short turf.Presently the trader uttered a low exclamation. "Here's th' place!" hesaid, pointing downwards. The others joined him and they all gazed atthe cluster of deeply-indented hoof-marks, indicating where the horse hadpropped and whirled about.

"Aha!" said Redmond, suddenly.

"Got ut?" queried Slavin.

For answer George dropped a small discharged shell into the other'soutstretched palm. The sergeant made swift examination. A shockingblasphemy escaped him, and for an instant he jerked back his arm as if tofling the article away, then, recovering himself with an effort, hehanded it to Yorke, who peered in turn.

The latter made a wry face. "Hell!" he ejaculated disgustedly, "it's a'Savage' this—thirty-two at that!" He lowered his voice. "The otherwas a thirty-eight Luger—what?"

"Time an' agin," Slavin was declaiming in impotent rage and with upraisedfist,—"Time an' ag'in—have we shtruck a lead on this blasted case—on'ytu find ut peter out agin. . . . Oh! how long, O Lord? how long? . . ."

MacDavid stopped in turn. "Here's th' other two, Sarjint," he said.Slavin dropped the shells into his pocket and for a space he remained indeep thought. Then he turned to the trader.

"Morley," he said quietly, "yu're not a talker, I know,but—anyways! . . . I ask ye now . . . ye'll oblige me by shpakin' avthis tu no man—yet awhiles. . . . I have me raysons—onnershtand?"

The eyes of the two men met, and question and answer were silentlyexchanged in that one significant look.

MacDavid nodded brief acquiescence to the others request. "Aye!" hereplied reflectively, "I think I do—now. . . ."

The sergeant turned to his men. "Come on, bhoy!" he said. "Let's beatut home. I'm gettin' hungry."

They bid the trader adieu, and trudged away in the direction of thedetachment. They had covered some quarter of a mile in silence whenSlavin, who was in the lead, suddenly halted and whirled on hissubordinates with a mirthless laugh.

"Windy Moran, begod!" he burst out, "mind fwhat he said that day 'boutGully an' that dep'ty sheriff bizness? . . . not so——'Windy' aftherall, I'm thinkin', eh?"

For some few seconds they stared at him, aghast. They had forgotten
Moran.

"Say, Burke, though?" ejaculated Yorke incredulously. "Good God! somehowthe thing seems impossible . . . not the 'sheriff' business so much . . .the other—Gully!—a J.P.—a man of his class and standing! . . . Why!whatever motive—"

"He may have two guns," broke in Redmond.

"Eyah," agreed Slavin, grimly, "he may. . . . A Luger's a mightydiff'runt kind av a gun tu other authomatics . . . an' th' man that shotLarry Blake ain't likely tu be fule enough tu risk packin' ut around—fora chance tu thrip um up some day."

For awhile the trio cogitated in silence; each man striving desperatelyto arrive at some logical solution to the extraordinary problem that nowfaced them.

"Bhoys!" said Slavin presently, "there's no doubt there is . . .somethin' damnably wrong 'bout all this. But, all th' same, factremains, ye cannot shtart in makin' th' Force a laughin' stock bycharrgin' a man av Gully's position wid murdher—widout mighty shtrongevidence tu back ut. An' sizin' things up—fwhat have we got, aftherall, . . . right now . . . tu shwear out a warrant on? . . . Nothin',really, 'cept that he's shown us he's a bad man wid a gun! A damned badbreak that was, tho', an' I'll bet he's sorry for that same, tu. Mindhow he kept on thravellin', widout comin' back tu shpake wid us?"

He shook his head slowly, in sinister fashion, and stared at theirtroubled faces in turn. "See here; luk," he resumed solemnly, withlowered voice, "honest tu God, in me own mind I du believe he is th' manthat done ut." He paused—"but provin' ut's a diff'runt matther. Wemust foller this up an' get some shtronger evidence yet—behfure we maketh' break."

Suddenly he uttered a hollow chuckle. "Kilbride!" he ejaculated. "Mindhis josh that day—'bout it might be me, or Gully?—an how Gully laughed,tu, wid th' hand of um like this?"

Napoleonic fashion he thrust his huge fist between the buttons of hisstable-jacket.

"Yes, by gad!" said Yorke reflectively. "I sure do, now. And I'll bethe had his right hand on his gun, too! Force of habit, I guess, if he'san ex-deputy-sheriff. From what little he's dropped he's sure knockedaround some, I know. Hard to say where, and what the beggar hasn't beenin his time. This accounts for him being so blooming close about theWestern States. It's always struck me as being queer, that, because,say, look at the slick way he rides and ropes! He's never picked that upin five years over on this Side—and that's all he claims he's been inCanada."

"Besides" chimed in Redmond, eagerly, "that yarn of his about that hoboswiping his dough, Sergeant! 'Frame-up,' p'raps, . . . gave it to himand told him to beat it? . . ."

"Aw, rot!" said Yorke, disgustedly. He sniffed, with his peculiarmannerism, "that's dime-novel stuff, Red. D'ye think he'd be fool enoughto risk that, with the chances of the fellow being picked up any minuteand squealing on him?" He was silent a moment. "Rum thing, though," hemurmured, "the way that hobo did beat us to it."

"'Some lokil man,' sez Kilbride," remarked Slavin musingly. "Just th'last one ye'd think av suspectin'. An' Gully, begod, sittin' rightthere! . . . talk 'bout nerve! . . ."

"But, good heavens!" burst out Yorke. "Whoever would have suspectedhim?" He laughed a trifle bitterly. "It's all very well for us to turnround now and say 'what fools we've been,' and all that. If we'd havebeen the smart, 'never-make-a-mistake' Alecks, like we're depicted inbooks, why, of course we'd have 'deducted' this right-away, I suppose?Oh, Ichabod! Ichabod! An Englishman, too, by gad! I'll forswear mynationality."

"Whatever could he have on Larry, though?" was Redmond's bewilderedquery. "Say, that sure was a hell of a trick of his—using Windy'shorse—while the two of them were scrapping—trying to frame it up onhim!"

"Eyah," soliliquised the sergeant sagely. "'Twill all come out in th'wash. Whin cliver, edjucated knockabouts like Gully du go bad; begob,they make th' very wurrst kind av criminals. They kin pass things offwid th' high hand an' kape their nerve betther'n th' roughnecks—ivrytoime.

"Think av that terribul murdherer, Deeming—an' thim tudocthors—Pritchard an' Palmer, colludge men, all av thim. An' not on'ymen, but wimmin, tu. 'Member Mrs. Maybrick? All movin' in th' hoighthav society!"

He was silent a moment, then his face fell. "I must take a run inta th'Post an' see th' O.C. 'bout this," he resumed. "Tis an exthornary case.There's just a possibility we may be all wrong—jumphin' at conclusionstu much. Th' ould man! . . . I think I can see th' face av um. He'llshling his pen across th' Ord'ly-room. 'Damn th' man! Damn th' man!'he'll cry. 'Go you now an' apprehend um on suspicion thin! Fwhy shud Ikape a dog an' du me own barkin'?' An' thin he'll think betther av ut an'chunt 'Poppycock, all poppycock! . . . As you were, Sarjint'—an' thinhe'll call in Kilbride. Eh! fwhat yez laughin' at, yeh fules?" hequeried irritably.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, the expression on theirsuperior's cadaverous face just then—its droll mixture of apprehensionand perplexity was more than Yorke and Redmond could stand. Awhile theyrocked up against each other—a trifle hysterically; it was the reactionto nerves worked up to a pitch of intense excitement.

"Yez gigglin' idjuts!" growled Slavin. "Come on, let's get home! No useus shtandin here longer—gassin' like a bunch av ould washer-wimmin fullav gin an' throuble."

In silence they trudged on to the detachment. "'Ome, sweet 'ome! be itnever so 'umble!" quoth Yorke, as they reached their destination, "Hullo!who's this coming along?" Shading his eyes with his hand he gazed downthe trail. "Looks like Doctor Cox and Lanky."

The trio stared at the approaching buckboard which contained twooccupants. "Sure is," said Redmond, "out to some case west of here, Isuppose."

They hailed the physician cheerily, as presently he drew up to thedetachment. "Fwhere away, Docthor?" queried Slavin. "Will ye not shtopan' take dinner wid us, yu' an' Lanky? 'Tis rarely we see yez in theseparts now."

"Eh, sorry!" remarked that gentleman, climbing out of the rig andstretching his cramped limbs, "got to get on to Horton's, though. One oftheir children's sick. Thanks, all the same, Sergeant." Glancing roundat his teamster he continued in lowered tones, "There's a little matterI'd like to speak to you fellows about."

"Sure!" agreed Slavin, quickly. "Come inside thin, Docthor."

The party entered the detachment and, seating themselves, gazedenquiringly at their visitor. For a space he surveyed them reflectively,a perturbed expression upon his usually genial countenance. His firstwords startled them.

"It's about your J.P., Mr. Gully," he began. "This incident, mind, isclosed absolutely—as far as he and I are concerned; but, under thecircumstances, which to say the least struck me as being mighty peculiar,I—well! . . . I don't think it's any breach of medical etiquette on mypart telling you about it.

"For some time past now I've been treating Gully for insomnia. Man firstcame to me seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown through it.

"I prescribed him some pretty strong opiates—strong as I dare—and for atime he seemed to get relief. But a couple of days ago he came aroundand—my God! . . . Say! if I hadn't known him for a man who drinks verylittle I'd have sworn he was in the D.T.'s."

The doctor's rotund figure stiffened slightly in his seat, and his genialface hardened to a degree that was in itself a revelation to hisaudience. Without any semblance of bravado he continued quietly, "I hopeI possess as much physical pluck as most men—I guess you fellows aren'taware of it, but many years back I too wore the Queen's uniform—Surgeonin the Navy. I served in that Alexandria affair, under Charlie Beresford.

"Well, as I was saying, . . . Gully came into my surgery that day,raving like a madman. He's a big, powerful devil, as you know. I'llconfess I was a bit dubious about him—watched him pretty close for a fewminutes, for he acted as if he might start running amok. 'I can'tsleep!' he kept yelling at me, 'I can't sleep, I tell you! . . . Thatdope you're giving me's no good. . . . Christ Almighty! give me a shotof cocaine, Cox, or morphine, and get me a supply of the stuff and aneedle, will you? I'll pay you any amount!'

"Naturally, I refused, I'm not the man to go laying myself open toanything like that. Well! Good God! The next minute the man came forme like a lunatic—clutching out at me with those great hands of his andwith the most murderous expression on his face you can imagine. I backedaway to the medicine cabinet and caught hold of a pestle and told him I'dbrain him with it if he touched me. I threatened I'd lay an informationagainst him for assault, and that seemed to quiet him down. He began toexpostulate then, and eventually broke down and apologised to me—in themost abject fashion. Begged me to overlook his loss of control, and allthat. Of course I let up on him then. A local scandal between two menin our position wouldn't do at all. I gave him a d——d good callingdown, though, and finally advised him to go away somewhere for a completerest and change. But he wouldn't agree to that—seemed worried over hisranch. Said he'd worked up a pretty good outfit and couldn't think ofleaving his stock in somebody else's hands at this time of theyear—couldn't afford it in fact. Anyway—that's his look-out. But, asa matter of fact, if that man doesn't take my advice, why . . . he'sgoing to collapse. I know the symptoms only too well. That's the curseof men living alone on these homesteads—brooding, and worrying theirheads off. It seems to get them all eventually in—"

Breaking off abruptly he glanced at his watch. "Getting late!" heejaculated, jumping up, "I must be getting on to that case."

"Docthor!" said Slavin, reflectively, "'tis a shtrange story ye've beentellin' us. Ye'll be comin' back this way, I suppose—lather in th' day?"

The physician nodded.

"I'd like fur ye tu dhrop in agin, thin," continued the sergeant slowly,"if ye have toime? There's a little matther I wud like tu dishcuss widyu'—'tis 'bout that same man."

Doctor Cox glanced sharply at the speaker's earnest, sombre face. Acertain sinister earnestness underlay the simple words, and it startledhim.

"Very good, Sergeant!" he agreed, "I'll call in on my way back. Well!good-by, all of you, for the time being!"

They followed him outside and watched the rig depart on its journeywestward. It was Redmond who broke the long silence.

"Well, sacred Billy! What do you know about that?" he ejaculated tensely.

And the trio turned and looked upon each other strangely, their facesregistering mutual wonderment and conviction.

"Sleep?" murmured Yorke, "No, by gum! . . . no more could Macbeth, withKing Duncan and Banquo on his chest o' nights! . . . Well, that settlesit!"

But Slavin made a gesture of dissent. "As you were, bhoys!" was hissober mandate. "Sleeplishness's no actual proof . . . but it's apointer. Th' iron's getthin' warrm—eyah! d——d warrm! . . . but wecannot shtrike yet."

CHAPTER XII

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear soft his bones over the stones!
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!
"THE PAUPER'S DRIVE."

They ate dinner more or less in silence. Slavin had relapsed into one ofhis fits of morose taciturnity. At the conclusion of the meal, Yorke andRedmond drew a bench outside, and for awhile sat in the sun, smoking.

"He's got 'Charley-on-his-back' properly to-day," remarked thesophisticated Yorke, with a sidelong jerk of his head, "old beggar's bestleft alone, begad! when he' get's those fits on him." He sniffed thefresh air and gazed longingly out over the sunlit, peaceful landscape,flooded with a warm, sleepy, golden haze of summer. "Lord! but it's apeach of a day" he continued, "say, gossip mine, did you think to getthat fishing-tackle at Martin's this morning?"

George nodded affirmatively. Yorke rose and stepped indoors. "Say,Burke," he said persuasively, "there's not much doing thisafternoon—how's chances for me and Reddy going down to the Bend for abit? The water looks pretty good just now. You'll want to have a lonechin with the Doctor, anyway, no use us sticking around."

The sergeant, engrossed in a crime-report, acceded gruffly to therequest. "Run thim harses in first, tho'!" he flung after hissubordinate, "an' du not yu' men get tu far away down-shtream, in case Imight want yez."

"That's 'Jake,'" was Redmond's comment, a moment later, "no use trying
fly-fishing to-day, though, Yorkey—too bright. We'd better fish deep.
Here, you get the rods all fixed up, and catch some grasshoppers, and
I'll chase out in the pasture and run the horses in."

Some half an hour later found them trudging down the long slope below thedetachment that led to the nearest point of the Bow River. Here theriver described a sharp bend southward for some distance, ere resumingits easterly course. Arriving thither, they fished for awhile inblissful content; their minds for the time-being devoid of aught save thesport of Old Izaak. Picking likely spots for deep casts, they meanderedslowly down-stream, keeping about twenty yards apart. At intervals,their piscatorial efforts were rewarded with success. Four fine"two-pounders" of the "Cut-Throat" species had fallen to Yorke'srod—three to Redmond's. Then, for a time the fish ceased to bite.

"Here!" said Yorke suddenly. "I'm getting fed up with this! I can't geta touch. There's a big hole farther down, just up above Gully's place.Let's try it! He and I pulled some good 'uns out of there, last year."

Eventually they reached their objective. At this point the force of thecurrent had gradually, with the years, scooped out a large, semicircularportion of the shelving bank. Also, a spit of gravel-bar, jutting farout into the water, had stranded a small boom of logs and drift-wood; thewhole constituting a veritable breakwater that only a charge of dynamitecould have shifted. In the shelter of this and the hollowed-out bank, ahuge, slow eddy of water had formed, apparently of great depth.

As Yorke had advertised it—it did look like a likely kind of a hole forbig trout. "You wouldn't think it," said he now, "but there's twentyfeet of water in that pot hole." He put down his rod and slowly began tofill his pipe. "You can have first shot at it, Red," he remarked, "I'llbe the unselfish big brother. You ought to land a good 'un out of there.Aha! what'd I tell you?"

Redmond's gut "leader" had barely sunk below the surface when he felt thethrilling, jarring strike of an unmistakably heavy fish. The tried,splendid "green-heart" rod he was using described a pulsating arc underthe strain. He turned to Yorke gleefully. "By gum! old thing, I've suregot one this time," he said, "bet you he's ten pound if he's an ounce.Hope the line'll hold!"

Simultaneously they uttered an excited exclamation, as a huge, silverybody darted to the surface, threshed the water for the fraction of asecond, and then dived.

"Look out!" cried Yorke. "Give him line, Red, give him line! Play himcareful now, or you'll lose him!"

The reel screeched, as Redmond let the fish run. Then—withoutwarning—the line slacked and the rod straightened. George, giving ventto a dismayed oath, reeled in until the line tautened again, and thepoint of the rod dipped.

"What's up?" queried Yorke, "he's still on, isn't he?"

"Yes," growled Redmond miserably, "feels as if I'm snagged though. He'sthere right enough—I can feel him jumping. Damnation! That's the worstof stringing three hooks on your leader. One of 'em's snagged onsomething below, I guess. Here! hold the rod a minute, Yorkey!"

The latter complied. George unbuttoned and threw off his stable-jacketand began taking off his boots. Yorke contemplated his comrade's actionsin speechless amazement. "Why, what the devil?—" he began—

"I'm not going to lose that fish," mumbled Redmond sulkily, as he threwoff his clothes, "I'll get him by gum! if I have to dive to the depths ofHell."

"Say, now! don't be a fool!" cried Yorke, "that water's like ice, man!You'll get cramped, and then the two of us'll drown. We-ll, of all theidiots!—"

George, by this time stripped to the buff, crept gingerly to the edge ofthe shelving bank. In his right hand he grasped—opened—a smallpen-knife. "Aw, quit it!" he retorted rudely, "I'll only be under aminute—hold the line taut—straight up and down, Yorkey, so's I can seewhere to dive."

He drew a deep breath, and then, with the poise of a practised swimmer,dived—cutting the water with barely a splash. For the space of ahalf-minute Yorke stared apprehensively at the swirling eddy, beneathwhich the other had vanished. The line still remained taut. Then hegave a gasp of relief, as Redmond's head re-appeared, and that younggentleman swam to the side. Extending a hand, the senior constablelugged his comrade to terra firma.

"That's good!" he ejaculated fervently. "D——n the fish, anyway! Iguess you couldn't make—" He broke off abruptly, and remained staringat the dripping George with startled eyes. The latter's face registeredunutterable horror, and he shook as with the ague. Speech seemed beyondhim. He could only mouth and point back to the gloomy depths whence hehad just emerged.

"Here!" cried Yorke, with an oath, "whatever is the matter, Reddy? Man!you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

Then his own face blanched, as the shivering George bubbled incoherently,"B-b-body! b-b-body! My God, Yorkey! th-there's a s-s-stiff d-downth-there! Ugh! I d-d-dived right onto it!"

For a brief space they remained staring at each other; then, a strangelight of understanding broke over Yorke's face, and he made a snatch atRedmond's clothes. "Come!" he jerked out briskly. "Get 'em on quick,Red, else you'll catch your death of cold—never mind about dryingyourself—you can change when you get back."

In shivering silence his comrade commenced to struggle into hisunderclothes and "fatigue-slacks." Yorke snapped the line and reeled inthe slack. "Stiff!" he kept ejaculating "stiff! Yes, by gad! and I canmake a pretty good guess who that stiff is! . . . Burke'll have all theevidence he wants—now. You beat it, Reddy, as soon as you're fit andget him. A run'll warm you up. The grappling-irons are back of thestable. And say! tell him to bring a good long rope. Lord, I hopeDoctor Cox hasn't left yet. I'll stay here, Reddy. Hurry up!"

An hour or so later, a morbidly expectant group gathered on theriver-bank. Redmond, luckily, had reached the detachment just prior tothe coroner's departure, and that gentleman now comprised one of a party.Slavin had hitched his team to a cotton-wood clump nearby, and was nowbusily rigging the double set of three-pronged grappling-irons. When allwas ready, he motioned to his companions to stand back, and then, with apreliminary whirl or two, flung the irons into the pool, some distanceahead of the spot indicated by Redmond.

Slowly and ponderously he began the dragging recover, with the muscularskill of a man long inured to the gruesome business. His first effortwas unsuccessful—weeds and refuse were all he salvaged. He tried again,with the same result. Cast after cast proved futile. After the lastfailure he turned and glowered morosely upon Redmond.

"'Tis either dhrunk or dhramin' ye must be, bhoy! There's nothin' there.I've a good mind," he added slowly "a d——d good mind tu shove ye undherarrest for makin' a friv'lus report tu yeh superior!"

Yorke now came to his comrade's rescue. "By gum, Burke," he flashed out"if you'd seen his mug when he came up out of that hole you wouldn't havethought there was anything frivolous about it, I can tell you!"

Poor George voiced a vehement protest, in self defense. "Good God,Sergeant!" he expostulated, "d'you think I'd come to you with a yarn likethat? I tell you it is there. Have another try. Sling farther over tothe right here!"

Grumblingly, the latter complied, and began the slow recover. Suddenly,the rope checked. Slavin strained a moment, then he turned around to theexpectant group. "Got ut'" he announced grimly. "I can tell by th' feelav ut. Tail on tu th' rope there, all av yez! Now! Yeo! Heave ho!"

Like a tug of war team they all bowed their backs and strained with alltheir might; but their efforts proved futile. "Vast heavin!" saidSlavin, breathing heavily. "'Tis shtuck somehow—I will have tu get th'team an' double-trees. Get a log off'n that breakwater, bhoys, so's th'rope will not cut inta th' edge av th' bank."

He crossed over to the horses. "Now!" said he, some minutes later, as hebacked up the team and made all fast to the double-trees. "Yu', Reddy,an' Lanky, guide th' rope over th' log. Yu', Yorkey, get th' feel av ut,an' give me th' wurrd. I du not want to break ut."

Yorke leant over the edge of the bank, loosely feeling the rope. "Allright!" he announced.

Slavin, edging his team cautiously forward, and taking the strain toavoid a violent jerk, clucked to them. With a scramble, and a steadyheave of their powerful hind-quarters, they started.

With bated breath the watchers gazed at the rope—creeping foot by footout of the discoloured water.

"Keep a-going!" Yorke shouted to Slavin. "It's coming up, all right!"

It came. Arising slowly and sullenly out of the depths they beheld ahorrible, dripping, shapeless something that eventually resolved itselfinto a human body—clothed in torn rags and matted with river-refuse.

Then, to the salvagers, came the most astounding and sinister revelationof all. Startled oaths burst from them as they beheld now what hadretarded their first pull. Bound tightly to the body with rusted wirewas a huge, hand-squared block of stone. The sergeant's last andsuccessful cast had resulted in two prongs of the grappling-ironscatching in the enveloping wire.

Slowly and cautiously the whole hideous bulk was finally drawn up theshelving bank and over the log and onto dry ground. Yorke shouted, andSlavin, checking the horses, detached the rope from the double-trees.Handing the lines over to Lanky Jones he joined the others, who werecritically examining their gruesome catch. To their surprise, althoughthe features were unrecognisable, the corpse was not so decomposed asthey had first imagined, the ice-cold water having preserved it to acertain extent. Still firmly hooked to the rags of clothing—aludicrously grim joke—was the huge jumping, gasping trout which Redmondhad struck and lost.

Suddenly Yorke uttered a low exclamation. "Burke! Burke!" he saidtensely, "there you are! . . . Look at the right hand'"

The eyes of all were centered on the grimy, stiffened, clawlike fist.They saw that two of the fingers were missing. An exultant oath burstfrom Slavin. "By G——!" he said, with grim conviction, "it's him allright!—that pore hobo shtiff—Dick Drinkwater. Eyah! fwhat's in a name?Fwhat's in a name?" He pointed to the grinning jaws. "Luk at th' goldteeth av um, tu!" he added.

The coroner was examining the almost fleshless skull. He gave a cry ofanger and dismay. "Good God!" he gasped. "Look here, all of you! . . .This man's been shot through the head, too!" He indicated the small,circular orifice in the occiput, and its egress below the left eye.

"Only an exceedingly powerful, high-pressure weapon could have donethat," he continued significantly, "both holes are alike—bullet hasn't'mushroomed' at all."

"Eyah!" Slavin agreed wearily. "We know fwhat kind av a gun did ut. Andluk here!" he added savagely, pointing to the bare feet, "here's anotherof Mr. Man's little jokes—no boots. If they'd have been lift on they'dhave shtuck tighter'n glue—in that water. Reddy was 'bout right,Yorkey! Gully, d——n him! did frame us that day. Must have used thimhimsilf tu make thim thracks wid—early in th' mornin'—behfure he met upwid us on th' thrail. Oh, blarney my sowl! Yes! Had us chasin' for awhole silly week, all for—"

He broke off abruptly, choking with rage. For awhile, in silence, theparty gazed at the pitiful, hideous monstrosity that had once been a man.Then the ever-practical Redmond proceeded, with the aid of a largepebble, to burst, strand by strand, the wire which bound the stone to thebody.

"That stone, too!" said the doctor darkly. "Sergeant, in view of whatyou've been telling me, there seems something very, very terrible aboutall this. I suppose there's absolutely no doubt in your mind now, who—?"

The Irishman jerked out a great oath. "Doubt!" echoed he grimly, "doubt!So little doubt, Docthor," added he hoarsely, "that we go get 'um thisvery night."

"Alas, poor Yorick!" said Yorke sadly. "Say, Burke!" he continued in anawe-struck voice "this is like a leaf out of O'Brien's book, with avengeance. You remember him, that cold-blooded devil who Pennycuiknailed up in the Yukon—used to shoot 'em and shove their bodies underthe ice?"

Slavin nodded gloomily. "At Tagish, ye mane? Yeah! I 'member ut.
Penny sure did some good wurrk on that case."

Redmond had by this time completed his gruesome task. "There's lots ofthese blocks lying around Gully's," he remarked, "I've seen 'em. Place'sgot a stone foundation. Look at the notches he's chipped in this one—tokeep the wire from slipping!"

"Eyah!" said Slavin, with grimly-unconscious humour, "Exhibit B. We musthang on to ut, heavy as it us—an' th' wire, tu! Well, people, we'dbetther shove this pore shtiff on the buckboard, an' beat ut." He turnedto the doctor's laconic factotum. "Come on, Lanky!" he said briskly."Let's go hitch up."

Presently, when all was ready, Slavin took the lines and the coronerclimbed up beside him. The rest of the party followed on foot. Asombre, strange little procession it looked, as it moved slowly westwardinto the dusky blaze of a blood-red sunset. In the hearts of thepolicemen grim resolve was not unmixed with certain well-foundedforebodings, as they fully realized what a sinister, dangerous missionlay ahead of them that night.

CHAPTER XIII

'Twas then—like tiger close beset
At every pass with toil and net,
'Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare,
By clashing arms and torches' flare,
Who meditates, with furious bound,
To burst on hunter, horse, and hound,—
'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose,
Prompting to rush upon his foes.
SCOTT

The old detachment clock struck nine wheezy notes. Yorke and Redmond,seated at a table busily engaged in cleaning their service revolvers,glanced up at each other sombrely.

"Getting near time," muttered the former, "the moon should be up soonnow. Lanky," he continued, addressing that individual who was sittingnearby, "what are you and the Doctor going to do? Going back to Cow Runtonight, or what?"

"Don't think it," replied the teamster laconically. He glanced towardsthe open door and assumed a listening attitude. "Th' Sarjint an' him'sout there now—chewin' th' rag 'bout it—hark to 'em!"

Ceasing their cleaning operations for a space, the two constableslistened intently to the raised voices without. "No! no! no!" cameSlavin's soft brogue, in tones of vehement protest to something thecoroner had said, "I tell yu' 'tis not right, Docthor, that yu' shud runsuch risk! Wid us 'tis diff'runt—takin' th' chances av life an'death—just ord'nary course av juty. . . ."

"Oh, tut! tut! nonsense, Sergeant," was the physician's brisk response."You forget. I've taken those same chances before, too, and, by Jove! Ican take 'em again! All things considered," he added significantly,"seems to me—er—perhaps just as well I should be on hand."

Yorke and Redmond exchanged rueful grins. "The old sport!" quoth thelatter admiringly. "Damme, but I must say the Doc's game!"

"It's the old 'ex-service spirit'," said Yorke quietly, "rum thing!
Always seems to crop out, somehow, when there's real trouble on hand."

Nonchalantly puffing a huge cigar, the object of their remarks presentlystrolled back into the room, followed by the sergeant. "Behould th''last coort av appeal,' Docthor," began Slavin majestically. With awhimsical grin he indicated his subordinates. "Bhoys," he explained,"contrairy tu my wishes, th' Docthor insists on comin' wid us this night.Now fwhat yez know 'bout that?"

"Tried to shake me!" supplemented that gentleman tersely, waving hiscigar at the last speaker. "What's this court's ruling?"

A stern smile flitted over Yorke's high-bred features. "Appealsustained," he announced decisively, "eh, Reddy?"

For answer, his comrade arose and silently wrung the doctor's hand; then,without show of emotion, he resumed his seat and likewise his cleaningoperations. Yorke, as silently, duplicated his comrade's actions. Theex-Naval surgeon said nothing; but his eyes glistened strangely as hedropped into an easy chair and proceeded to envelope himself in a cloudof smoke,

Suddenly the nasal voice of the teamster, Lanky Jones, made itself heard."How 'bout me?" he drawled, "ain't I in on this, too? I kin look afterth' hawsses, anyways, fur yeh!"

"Arrah thin! hark tu um?" said Slavin, in mock despair. "Docthor, 'tis abad example ye're setting All right, thin, Lanky, ye shall come, an' yewish ut. An' as man tu man—I thank ye! We will all go a 'moonlightin'tugither. Eyah!" he resumed reminiscently, "many's th' toime I mind meould father—God rist him!—tellin' th' tales av thim days, whin timeswas harrd in Oireland, an' rints wint up an' th' pore was dhrivenwell-nigh desprit. How him an' his blood-cousin, Tim Moriarty, lay wannight for an' ould rapparee av a landlord, who'd evicted pore Tim out avhouse an' home. Tim had an' ould blundherbuss, all loaded up wid bits avnales an' screws an' such-like, wid a terribul big charrge av powtherbehint ut. Four solid hours did they wait for um—forninst a hedge onth' road he had tu come home by, from Ballymeen Fair.

"By an' by they hears um a-comin . . . a-hollerin' an' laughin' tuumsilf, an' roarin' an' singin' 'Th' Jug av Potheen.' Full av ut, tu, bytoken av th' voice av um. Tim makes all ready wid th' blundherbuss. Allav a suddint tho', th' tchune shtops, an' tho' they waits for um forquite a toime, he niver shows up. By an' by they gets fed up wid lyin'belly-down in th' soakin' rain. 'H-mm! mighty quare!' sez me father, 'Iwonder fwhat's happened tu th' pore ould ginthleman?' 'Let us go luk forum?' sez Tim, wid blood in his oi, ''tis may be he's on'y shtoppin' tutake another dhrink out av th' jug.'

"So, up th' road they goes a piece, till they comes tu a bog at th' sideav ut. An' there they finds um—head-first shtuck in th' bog—just th'tu feet av um shtickin' out an' which boots Tim sez he can swear tu.'Begorrah!' sez me father, 'that accounts for th' tchune shtoppin' sosuddint! Let us luk for th' jug?' Well, they hunts around for th' jugawhile, but all they finds is his ould caubeen. So they shtuck that onwan of his feet, an' Tim, he pins th' warrant av evictmint tu ut,currsin' somethin' fierce th' whiles bekase he was done out av getthin' ashot at the 'ould rapparee wid th' blundherbuss."

Slavin shook his head slowly at the conclusion of the story. "Eyah!" hesaid wistfully, "many's th' toime have I heard me father tell that sametale. They must have been shtirrin' times, thim!" In characteristicfashion his mood suddenly changed. His face hardened, as with upraisedhand he silenced the burst of laughter he had provoked from his hearers."Ginthlemen!" he resumed quietly, "we're none av us cowards here, but—noneed tu remind yu'—fwhat sort av a man we are goin' up against thisnight."

Unconsciously he drew himself up, with an air of simple, rugged dignitythat well became his grim visage and powerful frame. In that hour ofimpending danger the brave, true, kindly heart of the man stoodrevealed—a personality which endeared him to Yorke and Redmond beyondany ties of friendship they had known.

Slowly he repeated, "we are none av us cowards here, but—remimber LarryBlake, an' that pore hobo shtiff back in th' shed there. An' remimberthim dogs this mornin'. We du not want tu undherrate um. We du not wanttu cop ut like did Wilde, whin he wint tu arrest Charcoal; or Colebrook,whin he tackled Almighty Voice. Maybe he'll just come a-yawnin' tu th'dhure, wid th' dhrawlin' English spache av um, sayin' 'Well, bhoys, an'fwhat's doin'?' An' yet again—may be he's all nerves afther th' badbreak he made in front av us this mornin'—expectin' us—eyah!—waithin',watchin' belike, wid his gun in his fisht. Luk at th' way he actedafther his gun play—leery as hell. . . ."

"Yes!" said Yorke thoughtfully, "egad! there was something darned queerin the way he acted, all right. Guess we'd better take carbines along,eh, Burke? . . . in case we get let in for a man hunt. For all we know,he may have beat it already. Another thing—he may start in bucking usabout not having a warrant—just to gain time?"

Slavin met the other's suggestion with a grim nod of acquiescence."Shure! we'll take thim," he said, "but"—his jaw set ruthlessly—"if Iwanst get my grub-hooks on um . . . why! 'tis all up!—carbines, or nocarbines—warrant or no warrant. Section thirty av th' Code covers th'warrant bizness—in a case like this, anyways. Come on, thin, bhoys,saddle up! An' Lanky!—yu give me a hand wid th' team! we must begetthin'!"

Presently all was in readiness, and the small, well-armed party left thedetachment under the light of a brilliant three-quarter moon. Slavin ledin the police buckboard, with the doctor seated beside him, and LankyJones crouched behind them. Yorke and Redmond rode in the rear, withtheir carbines slung at the saddle-horn. It was a hazardous mission theywere bound on, as they all fully realized now, knowing the terriblyruthless character of the man they sought to apprehend.

Descending the grade which led to the bend of the river they swung dueeast at a smart pace, following the winding Lower Trail. This last roadran past Gully's ranch, which lay some three miles distant. As theyneared their objective the sergeant slackened his team down to a walkingpace.

Suddenly Redmond tongue-clucked to himself in absent fashion. The soundof it roused Yorke out of the sombre reverie into which he had fallen.

"What's up, Red?" queried he waggishly, in a low voice, "dreaming you'retaking that dive again, or what?"

"No!" muttered George abstractly in the same key. "I was thinking what arum, unfathomable old beggar Slavin is. Fancy him springing that comicalold yarn at such a time as this?"

"Ah!" murmured his comrade reflectively. "When you come to know Burke aswell as I do you'll find he's generally got some motive for these littlethings—blarney and all. You laughed, didn't you? Guess we all of usgave the giddy 'ha! ha'.' Felt quite chipper after it, too, the bunch ofus . . . well then?"

"Sh-sh!" came the sergeant's back-flung, guarded growl, "quit your gabthere! We're gettin' nigh, bhoys—here's th' brush forninst hisplace . . . must go mighty quiet an' careful now."

Looming up dark and forbidding ahead of them they beheld the all-familiarsight of the huge, shadowy thicket of pine and Balm o' Gilead clumps thatfringed the west end of Gully's ranch. Entering its gloomy depths, theyfelt their way slowly and cautiously along the stump-dotted trail. Atintervals, from somewhere overhead, came the weird, depressing hoot of along-eared owl, and, seemingly close at hand, the shrill, mocking"ki-yip-yapping" of coyotes echoed sharply in the stillness of the night.Stray patches of moonlight began to filter upon the party once more asthey gradually neared the end of the rough-hewn avenue; the thick growthof pine giving place to scattered cotton-wood clumps.

Arriving at the verge of the timber the party halted. There, some twohundred yards distant, upon a patch of open ground partially encircled bydense, willow-scrub, lay a ghostly-shadowed cluster of ranch buildings.The living habitation itself stood upon a slightly raised knoll, hardupon the river-bank. To their nostrils the night air brought the strong,not unpleasant scent of cattle, drifting up from the numerous recumbentbovine forms which dotted the ground all around the ranch.

Awhile the party gazed speculatively at the habitation of him—theundoubted perpetrator of the deadly deeds—for whom they had sought solong. The peaceful aspect of their moonlit surroundings suddenly smotethe minds of all with a strange sense of unreality, as full realizationof the sinister import of their errand came home to them. In uncannytelepathy with their disturbed feelings sounded the owl's derisivehooting, and the persistent mocking raillery of the coyotes.

It was Slavin who broke the long, tense silence. "Damn that 'DismalJimmy' owl!" he ejaculated testily, in a low tone—"an' thimki-oots! . . . beggars all seem to be givin' us th' ha! ha! as if theyknew. P'raps he has beat ut on us afther all? . . . 'Tis harrd tusay—we cannot shpot a glim from this side—winders all face east. Now!luk a-here, all av yez!" He turned to his companions with a grim,determined face, his deep-set eyes glittering ominously in the light ofthe moon. "Lets get things cut-an'-dhried behfure we shtart in," hewhispered. "Whin he knows th' jig's up—that's if he is in—he may actlike a man av sinse, an' agree tu come peaceable—but—" and Slavin shookhis head slowly—"if he refuses . . . fwhy? . . . 't'wud be straightsuicide tu attimpt tu rush um. There's on'y wan dhure. Hidin' in th'dark there, wid that Luger gun av his coverin' ut, we'd shtand no show atall. He'd put th' whole bunch av us out av business—in as many shots,behfure a man av us got a chance tu put fut inside. Now, let's see!" hemurmured reflectively. "Fwhat is th' lay av th' shack agin? There's—"

"The door and two of the windows face east," interpolated Yorke,softly—"living-room and kitchen—one window to the south—that's hisbed-room."

"Eyah! that's ut," whispered the sergeant, "now thin—Lanky—du yu' shtayright here wid th' harses. Kape yu're head—even if ye du hear shootin'.Du not shtir from here onless ye get ordhers from wan av us." Turning tothe others he continued in a sibilant hiss, "Yu, Reddy, shlip along th'edge av th' brush here, an' over th' river-bank onto th' shingle. Kapewell down an' thread careful ontil ye come forninst th' back winder.Thin pop yu're head up circumshpict an' cover ut wid yu're carbine. Usegood judgmint tho'; none av us want tu shtart in shootin' onless we'reforced tu ut. Ondher th' circumstances 'tis best we thry an' catch umalive."

For a moment Slavin stared after Redmond's crouching form, as hissubordinate disappeared in the gloom, "Thrust no harm comes tu th' lad,"he muttered irresolutely, "quick as a flash is th' bhoy wid his head,eyah! but he's inclined tu be over rash at toimes."

"Oh, he's all right," hissed Yorke reassuringly, "don't you get worryingover him making any bad breaks, Burke. He's as fly as they make 'em."

Presently the sergeant faced round with a dreary sigh. "Come on thin,
Docthor," he murmured heavily, "wid me an' Yorke."

Making a wide detour they circled the ranch and wormed their waycautiously through the dense scrub on its eastern side. Suddenly, with awarning gesture to his companions, the sergeant halted. They had reachedthe verge of the scrub and the front of the ranch-house facedthem—barely twenty yards distant. They could discern a faint lightglimmering around the lower edge of one of the windows.

"He is in!" whispered Slavin exultantly. "Blinds down though. 'Tis aquare custom av his. Come on thin, Yorkey, me bould second-in-command!In a mighty few short minuts we shall know"—his jaw dropped—"fwhat weshall know! . . . Arrah thin, Docthor!"—he silenced a violent protestfrom that adventurous gentleman, who made as though to accompanythem—"if ye wud help us in best fashion—shtay right here, an' markfwhat comes off. If we shud happen tu get ut in th' neck . . . just yu'beat ut back tu Lanky! Ye know fwhat tu du—thin. I'll lave me carbinehere awhile."

He stepped clear of the brush and, revolver in hand, advanced softly uponthe low, one-story, log-built dwelling. Yorke followed a few steps inhis rear, with his carbine held in readiness at the "port-arms."

Reaching the door, the sergeant rapped upon it sharply. There was noresponse from within, but—the light vanished on the instant. Yorkestepped warily to the side and covered the door with his weapon. A fewtense moments passed, and then Slavin rapped again. Heavy footfalls nowsounded, approaching the door from the inside, halted, and then, throughthe panels came Gully's hollow, booming bass: "Who's there?"

"Shlavin of th' Mounted Police, Gully. Opin up! we wud shpake wid ye."

"What do you want? What's your business at this hour of the night?"

"Fwhat do we want?"—the sergeant uttered mirthless chuckle—"fwhy 'tisyu' we want, Gully—for murdher! Come off th' perch, man, th' jig's up!There's a bunch av us here—we've got yu're shack covered properly—widcarbines—north, east, south, an' west—ye can pull nothin' off. Comenow! will ye pitch up an' act reasonable? 'Tis no manner av use yeshtartin' in tu buck th' Force. Juty's juty—ye know that."

"Have you got a warrant, Sergeant?"

"Eyah!" came Slavin's sinister growl. "We've bin fishin', Gully, up inth' big pool beyant. Well ye must know that pool. Fwhat we caughtthere is our warrant. Opin up now, will ye? else we bust yu're dhure in!"

"Slavin—Sergeant! You and Yorke whom I've known all this time—goodfellows"—the deep, imploring tones faltered slightly—"do not push me toit, man! You and your men go away and leave me in peace this night.Christ knows! I don't want to do it but—if you persist in forcing anentrance in here without a warrant—why! I'll pull on your crowd tillthere's not a man left."

"Gully!" the sergeant's voice shook with passion at the other's threat,"ye bloody murdherin' dog! Ye dhirty back-av-th'-head gun-artist!Thryin' for tu come th' 'good-feller' over us av th' Mounted! There'son'y wan answer tu that, an' ye know ut. Now, will ye opin up thisdhure, or I'll bust her down!"

And, as if to enforce his command, Slavin set his huge shoulder againstthe door and gave a heave which caused the stout wood to crack ominously.

"Look out, Burke!" cried Yorke suddenly. His right arm shot out andjerked the maddened Irishman violently towards him. His hasty action wasonly just in time.

Bang! bang! Two muffled shots detonated within, and white splinters flewfrom a spot in the door covered a moment before by the sergeant's broadbreast. With a startled oath Slavin flung up his gun, as if to fireback; but Yorke clutched his arm and arrested the action.

"No, no, Burke!" he hissed warningly, "no use doing that! You bet he'snot there now. Lying 'doggo' behind the logs, most likely. You'd onlyblow a hole in the door that he could pick us off through after. We'reproper marks in the moonlight here! Let's back up, and keep the frontcovered."

Slavin, balked of his prey, rumbled in his throat awhile, like some hugebear; then, adopting Yorke's suggestion, he slowly backed up with thelatter to the sheltering brush, where they rejoined the expectant,anxious doctor.

"Hit, either of you?" he enquired tersely.

Yorke replied in the negative. "Mighty close shave for Burke here,though" he added, "lucky I heard Gully cocking that blasted Luger ofhis." He uttered a suppressed chuckle, "Burke's always one to gocautioning others, and then lose his temper and expose himself."

For some few minutes they canvassed the situation in tense whispers,lying prone in the brush with their carbines covering their objective.

"Sh-sh!" hissed the doctor suddenly. "Hark!"

With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths andlistened intently. In the stillness they heard the unmistakable noise asof a window being cautiously lifted. The sound came from the southernend of the building.

Then they heard Redmond's voice ring out sharply from the bank: "No use,Gully! I've got you covered! You can't make it from there! You'dbetter give in, man."

There was an instant's silence, then—crack! came the crisp report of theLuger. It was answered by the deep, reverberating bang! of a carbine,and the crash of splintered glass and woodwork was followed by a boyishlaugh.

"Told you Reddy was there with the goods!" remarked Yorke, triumphantly,to his superior, "don't suppose he got him though—Gully's too fly—he'dduck into shelter the instant he'd fired. I'll bet he's doing some tallthinking just now. Beggar's between the devil and the deepsea—properly. He'll chuck up the sponge just now, you'll see."

"Eyah!" agreed Slavin, with an oath, "he's up against it. But Reddy downthere—I du not like th' idea av th' bhoy bein' all alone. Yorkey, yu'shlink thru' th' brush an' down th' bank an' kape um company awhile. Th'Docthor an' me'll kape th' front here covered."

A few minutes later, Yorke, after first challenging Redmond cautiously,crept up beside his comrade below the sheltering river-bank.

"Did you get him?" he queried in a tense whisper.

"No, I don't think so," muttered Redmond disconsolately, "but—he d——dnear got me—look!"

He exhibited his Stetson hat. A clean bullet perforation showed in thepinched-up top. "I could have got him—easy," he added, "when he firstopened the window. Wish I had, now—but you know what Burke said—aboutgetting him alive—I only loosed off after he'd thrown down on me. I wasscared for you and Burke, though! I could see you both backing up—afterhe'd shot through the door."

Bang! A dull, muffled report detonated within the building. The ominousechoes gradually died away, and the stillness of the night settled overall once more.

The crouching policemen stared at each other strangely. "Hear that?"ejaculated Redmond, with a startled oath, "By G——d! he's shot himself!must have—it sounded muffled. . . . All over! I'll bet his brains—"

He broke off short and, shoving the barrel of his carbine over the edgeof the bank, he commenced to clamber up. "Wait a second! . . . GoodGod, Red! don't do that!" snarled Yorke warningly. "He's as cunning asa blasted lobo. May be it's only a tr—"

The entreaty died in his throat. Crack! A spurt of flame shot from theopened window, and Redmond, with a gasping exclamation of rage and pain,toppled backwards onto the shingle, his carbine clattering down besidehim. Fearful of relaxing his vigilance even at this crisis, the maddenedYorke flung up his weapon and sent shot after shot crashing through theopen casement. All could hear the smashing, rending sounds of havoc hisbullets were creating within.

"Doctor!" he shouted. "Oh, Doctor! Come on round quick!" In a hoarseaside he spat out feverishly, "Red! Red! my old son! . . . hit bad?Where'd you get it?"

"Shoulder! Oh-h!" gasped poor Redmond, moaning and rolling on theshingle in his agony, "Oh, Christ, it hurts!"

There came a crashing in the undergrowth on their right, and presently acrouching form came creeping rapidly towards them under cover of thesheltering bank. In a terse aside Yorke acquainted the doctor with thedetails of his comrade's mischance, keeping a wary eye meanwhile on thewindow. The ex-naval surgeon wasted no time in unnecessary question orcomment, but with the grim composure of an old campaigner swiftlyproceeded to render first aid to the wounded man.

"Right shoulder—low down!" he presently vouch-safed to the anxiousYorke. "Trust it's missed the lung! . . . can't tell yet! . . . I mustget him away the best way I can. No! . . . don't move, Yorke! You keepon your mark! I can pack him I think. I'll get him to the buckboardsomehow. This is going to be a long siege, I'm thinking. You'll begetting reinforcements later. Slavin told me to send for them."

Bang! crash! The crisp sounds of splintering woodwork on the east sideof the shack denoted the fact of their quarry apparently attempting asecond escape from the front entrance. Unaided, the doctor cleverlyexecuted the professional fire-fighter's trick of raising, balancing onthe back, and carrying an unconscious human body. With an overwhelmingfeeling of relief, not unmixed with admiration, at the other's gameness,Yorke watched him stagger away in the gloom, bearing poor George upon hisbowed shoulders.

His momentary lack of vigilance proved well-nigh his own undoing, also.Crack! spat the Luger again from the window. His hat whirled from hishead, but he kept his presence of mind. It was not the first time bymany that Yorke had been under fire. Ducking down on the instant, hemoved swiftly three paces to his right, and then, finger on trigger, hesuddenly jerked upright and sent two more shots crashing through theaperture.

"Mark-er!" he called out mockingly. "Signal a miss, mark-er! Ding-dong!You'll get tired of it before we do, Gully! You'd better give up theghost, man!"

His grim sarcasm failing to draw further fire from his desperateopponent, the senior constable reloaded wearily and settled down to whatpromised to be a long, danger-fraught vigil.

CHAPTER XIV

He "went out," poor Gus, at the break o' day—-
Oh!—his kindly ways, and his cheery face!
But . . . the Lord gave, and hath taken away,
Hark! sounds "The Last Post," Requiescat in Pace!
"THE LAST POST"

Slowly the night dragged through for the two grim, haggard sentinels.Thrice during their vigil had their desperate quarry exercised hismarksmanship upon them with his deadly Luger. Seemingly only by amiracle did they escape each time. The sergeant had his hat perforatedin similar fashion to his companions. Yorke had a shoulder-strap tornfrom his stable-jacket. Adroitly shifting their positions each time hefired, they greeted his shots with such withering blasts of carbine firethat they finally silenced their enemy's battery. Throughout he hadremained as mute as a trapped wolf. Only an occasional cough indicatedthat so far, apparently, he was unharmed and, like them, still grimly onthe alert.

Relief came to the two besiegers with the first streaks of dawn. Dr.Cox, with almost superhuman efforts, had somehow managed to reach LankyJones and the buckboard with the wounded Redmond. Swiftly conveying thelatter back to the detachment, the physician had immediately got in touchwith the night-operator at the station, and also MacDavid.

And now, guided by that old pioneer, Inspector Kilbride arrived upon thescene with an armed party from the Post. They had been rushed up by aspecial train, which had been flagged by MacDavid at the nearestobjective point to Gully's ranch.

Swiftly and warily they skirmished towards their objective. Half of theparty, under a sergeant, crept along below the sheltering river bankwhere they soon joined the wearied, but still vigilant, Yorke. The rest,under the inspector, making a wide detour of the ranch, gained the brushon its eastern side. Among this last party were Hardy, McSporran andMcCullough. In extended order they glided through the thick scrub and,reaching its fringe, flung themselves prone with their carbines held inreadiness.

The inspector gradually wormed himself up beside Slavin who, in a fewtense whispers, acquainted his superior with all details of thesituation. Full well, both men realized what a perilous spot it was, forall concerned, on the eastern front of the shack. Straining their eyesin the gray, ghostly gloom they could just discern an open casement.Apparently it was from this well-sheltered embrasure that Gully hadpreviously attempted to pick off Slavin. With the coming of daylighttheir position would be absolutely untenable in the face of further firefrom the enemy. On the other hand, if they retreated further into thescrub they would lose sight of their objective altogether.

So much Kilbride intimated to the sergeant as they held whisperedconsultation. Also, he imparted reassuring news anent Redmond. Thelatter's injury, though serious, was not a mortal hurt, according to areport from MacDavid, who had left the doctor watching his patientclosely at the detachment.

Suddenly, a few paces to the right of where they lay, came the sound ofone of the party stealthily clearing his throat. Poor fellow! hismomentary lack of caution proved to be his death warrant.

Crack! A spurt of flame leapt from the velvety-black square of casement.The horrid, unforgetable cry of a man wounded unto death echoed the shot,and the startled besiegers could hear their comrade threshing aroundamongst the dead leaves in his agony.

"Steady, men! steady now! don't expose yourselves!" yelled the inspector.
"Fire at that window, while I get to this man!—keep me covered!"

His commands were eagerly obeyed. Sheltered by the roaring burst ofcarbine fire he wriggled sideways in feverish haste and eventually gainedthe stricken man. The latter's convulsive threshing of limbs had ceasedand an instant's examination convinced the inspector that Gully's randomshot had been fatal.

For awhile the besiegers poured in brisk volleys upon the door andwindows, until the inspector gave the command to "Cease Fire!"Suddenly—mockingly—hard upon the last shot, the echoes of which hadbarely died away, came again the vicious, whip-like crack of the Luger;this time from the southern end of the shack. The long-drawn,nerve-shattering scream of the first casualty was duplicated, and acarbine volley crashed from the river bank.

Then up from the attacking party swelled an exceeding bitter, angry cry;the grim, deadly exasperation of men goaded to the point of recklesslyattempting ruthless reprisal upon their hidden enemy. With a totaldisregard of personal safety many of them sprang up out of cover, as ifto charge upon their hated objective.

"As you were! Back, men! back!" rang out the deep, imperious voice of
Kilbride. The stern command checked the onrush of maddened men. "D'you
hear me?" he thundered, "Take cover again immediately—everyone. . . .
I'll give the word when to rush him, and that's not yet."

It said much for the discipline of the Force that his commands wereobeyed, albeit in somewhat mutinous fashion. The inspector turned toSlavin with fell eyes. "Christ!" he said, "there's two men gone! Iwon't chance any more lives in this fashion! I'll give him ten minutesto surrender and if he don't give up the ghost then . . . . I'll do whatan emergency like this calls for—what I came prepared to do, ifnecessary. Sergeant! take charge of this side until further orders; I'mgoing down the bank to the other party awhile."

He stole away through the brush and presently they all heard hisstentorian tones ring out from the river bank. "Gully! oh, Gully! It'sInspector Kilbride speaking. I'll give you ten minutes to come out andgive yourself up. If you don't—well! . . . I've got a charge ofdynamite here . . . and a fuse, and I'll blow you and your shack to hell,my man. It's up to you—now!"

There was no response to the inspector's ultimatum. Amidst dead silencethe prescribed time slowly passed. Fifteen minutes—then, a gaspingmurmur of excitement arose from those on the eastern front, as in therapidly whitening dawn they saw Kilbride suddenly reappear around thenorthern and blank end of the building. For some few moments theywatched his actions in awe-struck, breathless silence as, with bent back,he busied himself with his dangerous task.

Presently he straightened up. "Now! Look out, everybody!" he bawled.He struck a match and applied it to something that immediately began tosplutter, and then he retreated a safe distance northward. All eyes wereglued, as if fascinated, to the deadly, sputtering fuse. Soon came thedull, muffled roar of an explosion. The walls of the building saggedoutwards, the roof caved in, and the whole structure seemed to collapselike a pack of cards, amid a cloud of dust.

For some few seconds the party gazed fearfully at the work ofdestruction; then a loud cheer went up, and with one accord all dashedforward, filled with eager, morbid curiosity as to what they might findburied beneath the ruins.

Suddenly, midway between the brush and their objective they checked theironrush and halted, staring in speechless amazement. Pushing his way up,apparently from some hole beneath a pile of debris, appeared the figureof a huge man.

In their excitement the attackers had overlooked the possibility of acellar existing below the stone foundation of the dwelling. At thisjuncture the party from the river bank was rapidly approaching the ruinsfrom its western side. The posse was in a dilemma. Neither party darefire at its quarry between them for fear of hitting each other.

Gully apparently either did not realize the situation or did not care.With face convulsed with passion, beyond all semblance to a human being,he crouched and rushed the party on the eastern side of his wrecked home,firing as he came. Badly hit, several of his assailants were speedilyhor de combat, among them, Hardy and McCullough. The whole incidenthappened in quicker time than it takes to relate.

Then, from out the startled crowd there sprang a man. It was Slavin.His hour had come. There was something appalling in the spectacle of thetwo gigantic men rushing thus upon each other. Suddenly, Gully trippedover a log and fell headlong, his deadly gun flying from his grasp. Witha sort of uncanny, cat-like agility he scrambled to his feet and stroveto recover his weapon. He was a fraction of a second too late. A kickfrom Slavin sent it whirling several yards away, and the next moment theopponents were upon each other.

At the first onslaught the issue of the combat seemed doubtful. Theex-sheriff was no wrestler like Slavin, but he speedily demonstrated thathe was a boxer, as well as a gun-man. Cleverly eluding the grasp of hispowerful assailant for the moment, twice he rocked Slavin's head backwith fearful left and right swings to the jaw. With a bestial rumblingin his throat, the sergeant countered with a pile-driving punch to theother's heart; then, ducking his head to avoid further punishment, hegrappled with the murderer. Roaring inarticulately in their Berserkerrage, the pair bore a closer resemblance to a bear and a gorilla than men.

Once in that terrible grip, however, Gully, big and powerful man thoughhe was, had not the slightest chance with a wrestler of Slavin's ability.Shifting rapidly from one cruel hold to another the huge Irishmanpresently whirled his antagonist up over his hip and sent him crashing tothe ground, face downwards. Then, kneeling upon the neck of hisstruggling and blaspheming victim, he held him down until handcuffsfinally imprisoned the enormous wrists, and leg-irons the ankles.

The grim, long-protracted duel was over at last. But at lamentable cost.Two men killed outright, and five badly wounded had been the deadly tollexacted by Gully in his last, desperate stand.

The rays of the early morning shone upon a strange and solemn scene.Gully, guarded by two constables, was seated upon the stone foundationthat marked the site of his wrecked dwelling. Head in hands, sunk in asort of stupor, his attitude portrayed that of a man from whom allearthly hope had fled. Some distance away lay the wounded men, beingroughly, but sympathetically attended to by their comrades. All wereawaiting now the arrival of the coroner, and also the means oftransportation which the inspector had ordered MacDavid to requisitionfor them.

Presently came those who reverently bore the dead uponhastily-constructed stretchers. Silently Inspector Kilbride indicated aspot near the fringe of brush; and there, side by side, they laid themdown, covering the bodies with a blanket dragged from the debris of theshattered dwelling.

Bare-headed, the rest of the party gathered around their officer. Longand sadly Kilbride gazed down upon the still forms outlined under theircovering. Twice he essayed to speak, but each time his voice failed him.

"Men!" he said at last huskily, as if to himself. "Men! is this what Ihave brought you into? . . . Is this—"

He choked, and was silent awhile; then; "Oh!" cried he suddenly, "Godknows! . . . under the circumstances I used the best judgment I—"

But Slavin broke in and laid a tremulous hand on his superior's shoulder."No! no! Sorr! . . . hush! for th' love av Christ! . . . Ye must not—"the soft Hibernian brogue sank to a gentle hush—"niver fear . . . forthim that's died doin' their juty! . . . 'Tis th' Peace, Sorr—th' Peaceeverlastin' . . . for Hornsby an' Wade. They were good men. . . ."

Yorke bent down and, drawing back a fold of the blanket, exposed twostill white faces. In the centre of Hornsby's forehead all beheldGully's terrible sign-manual. Wade had been shot through the throat.

"Hornsby!" gasped Yorke brokenly, "poor old Gus Hornsby!" . . . Heturned a tired, drawn face up to Slavin's. "He was with us in the Yukon,Burke. Remember how we used to rag him when he first came to us as acheechaco buck? But the poor beggar never used to get sore over it . . .always seemed sort of . . . patient . . . and happy . . . no matter howwe joshed him. . . ."

Gently he replaced the blanket, stared stupidly a moment at the grim,haggard face of his sergeant, then he burst out crying and wandered awayfrom the sad scene.

CHAPTER XV

That very night, while gentle sleep
The people's eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
"THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM"

Slowly the memorable June day had drawn to a close, and now darkness hadset in and the moon shone brightly down upon the old detachment ofDavidsburg. It had been a strenuous day for Inspector Kilbride and hissubordinates, as many details of the eventful case had to be arranged erethey could leave with their prisoner on the night's train for the Post.

The inspector's first care, naturally, had been the slow and carefulconveyance of the wounded men (Redmond included)—and the dead—down tothe special train which still awaited them on the Davidsburg siding. Thebulk of the party departed with them, the officer retaining Slavin,Yorke, and McSporran. A coroner's inquest, held that afternoon upon theremains of the unfortunate hobo, Drinkwater, had resulted in a verdict of"wilful murder" being returned against Ruthven Gully. Two days later, atthe Post, similar verdicts were rendered in the cases of poor Hornsby andWade.

Throughout the day Gully had remained in a sort of sullen, broodingstupor. But now, with the coming of night, he seemed to growrestless—pacing within the narrow confines of his cell like unto atrapped wolf, his leg-shackles clanking at every turn. Seated outsidethe barred door, McSporran maintained a close and vigilant guard. Itwanted four hours yet until train time and inside the living-room theinspector, Slavin, and Yorke were beguiling the interval in low-voicedconversation.

"Strange thing, Sergeant," remarked Kilbride musingly, "I can't place himnow, but I'll swear I've seen this man, Gully, before; somewhere back ofbeyond, I guess. I've been in some queer holes and corners on this globein my time—long before I ever took on the Force. Seems he has, too,from what you and Yorke have told me. D——d strange! . . . I've got afairly good memory for faces but—"

He broke off and looked enquiringly at McSporran, who had silentlyentered just then. "What is it, McSporran?"

"Gully, Sirr!" responded the constable, saluting. "He wad wish tu speakwi' ye, Sirr."

The inspector's face hardened, and his steely eyes glittered strangely ashe heard the news. For a brief space he remained, chin in hand, in deepthought; then rising, he sauntered slowly over to the prisoner's cell.

"What is it you want, Gully?" he said quietly.

"Kilbride—Inspector!" came the great rumbling bass through the bars."If you keep me cooped up in this pen much longer . . . I tellyou! . . . you'll have me slinging loose in the head—altogether!" Heuttered a mirthless, wolf-like bark of a laugh. "My ears are keener thanyour memory—I heard you speaking just now. Listen!—" a curiouslywistful note crept into his deep tones, for the inspector had made anangry, impatient gesture—"Listen, Kilbride! . . . I'm gone up—I knowit—therefore, if I sing my 'swan song' now or later, it can matterlittle one way or the other; and I would rather sing it to you and Slavinand Yorke there than to anyone else. Before I am through, you allmay—shall we say—p'raps judge me a trifle less harshly than you do now.Regard this as . . . practically the last request of a man who is as goodas dying . . . that—I be allowed to sit amongst you once more . . . andtalk, and talk, and ta—"

His voice broke, and he left the sentence unfinished. For some fewseconds the inspector remained motionless, with bent head, justlooking—and looking—in deep, reflective silence at the doomed man whoimportuned him.

"Am I to understand that you wish to make a statement, Gully?" he said,in even, passionless tones. "Remember!—you've been charged and warned,man—whatever you say'll be used in evidence against you at your trial."

The other, hesitating a moment, swallowed nervously in his agitation.

"Yes," he said huskily, "I know—but that's all right! . . . As I saidbefore—it can make little or no difference . . . in my case. . . ."

Turning, Kilbride silently motioned to McSporran to unlock the cell-door.

The huge manacled prisoner emerged, and shuffled awkwardly towards theinner room, closely attended by his armed escort.

Slavin and Yorke, seated together at one end of the table, arose as Gullyentered. Standing curiously still, as if carved in stone, their bittereyes alone betraying their emotions, silently they gazed at the huge,gaunt, unkempt figure that came shambling towards them.

Gully halted and stared long and fixedly at the relentless faces of thetwo men whose grim, dogged vigilance had led to his undoing. Over hisblood-streaked, haggard face there swept the peculiar ruthless smilewhich they knew so well; and he raised his manacled hands in a semblanceof a salute.

"Morituri te salufant!" he muttered in his harsh, growling bass—thespeech nevertheless of an educated man.

"Eh, fwhat?" queried Slavin vaguely. The classical allusion was lost onhim, but Kilbride and Yorke exchanged a grim, meaning smile as theyrecalled the ancient formula of the Roman arena. McSporran pushedforward a chair, into which Gully dropped heavily. Chin cupped in hands,and elbows resting on knees he remained for a space in an attitude ofprofound thought. The inspector, resuming his chair at the table,motioned his subordinates to be seated, and reached forward for somewriting materials.

"All right, now, Gully!" he began, in a hard, metallic tone. "What is ityou wish to say?" All waited expectantly.

Apparently with an effort Gully roused himself out of the deep reverieinto which be had sunk, and for a space he gazed with blood-shot eyesinto the calm, stern face of his questioner. Then, with a sort of dreamysighing ejaculation, he roused himself and, leaning back in his chair,began the following remarkable story. He spoke in a recklessly earnestmanner and with a sort of deadly composure that startled and impressedhis hearers in no little degree.

"Listen, Inspector," he said. "A good deal of the story I'm going totell you has no bearing on the—the—the—case in hand. There's no usein you taking all this down. I understand procedure"—he smiledwanly—"therefore, with your permission I'll go ahead, and you canconstruct a brief statement on your own lines afterwards, which I willsign."

Kilbride bowed his head in assent to the other's request.

"The name I bear now," began the prisoner,—"'Ruthven Gully'—is my realname, though knocking around the world like I've been since I was a kidof sixteen, and the many queer propositions I've been up against in mytime, why—I've found it expedient to use various aliases.

"For instance"—he eyed the inspector keenly—"I wasn't known as 'Gully'that time Cronje nailed us all at Doornkop, Kilbride, in'ninety-six. . . ."

Kilbride uttered a startled oath. Shaken out of his habitual sterncomposure he stared at the man before him in sheer amazement. "GoodGod!" he cried, "The 'Jameson Raid!' . . . Now I know you,man!—you're—you're—wait a bit! I've got it on the tip of mytongue—Mor—Mor—Mordaunt, by gad! . . . that's what you called yourselfthen. Ever since I sat with you on that case I've been turning it overin my head where in ever I'd fore-gathered with you before. It was yourmoustache which fooled me—you were clean-shaven then. . . Well,Well! . . ."

He was silent awhile, overcome by the discovery. "Aye!" he resumed in analtered voice, "I've got good cause to remember you, Mor—Gully, I mean.You certainly saved my life that day . . . when we were lying in thatdonga together. I was hit pretty bad, and you stood 'em off. You werea wonderful shot, I recollect. I saw you flop out six Doppers—one afterthe other."

He turned to Slavin. "Sergeant!" he said quietly, "You'd better leavethe leg-irons on, but remove his handcuffs—for the time-being,anyway. . . ." He addressed himself to the prisoner with a sort of sadsternness. "It's little I can do for you now, Gully . . . but I can dothat, at least. . . ."

Slavin complied with his officer's request. Gully's huge chest heavedonce, and he bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Kilbride's act ofleniency.

"All right! go ahead, Gully!" said the latter.

The prisoner took up his tale anew. "As I was saying—I left the OldCountry when I was sixteen. No need to drag in family troubles,but . . . that's why. . . . Well! I hit for the States. Montana for astart off, and it sure was a tough state in 'seventy-four, I can tellyou. That's where I first learned to handle a gun. I knocked aroundbetween there and Wyoming and Arizona for about nine years, and duringthat time I guess I tackled nearly every kind of job under the sun, but Ipunched and rode for range outfits mostly.

"Then I was struck with a fancy to see the South, and I drifted toVirginia. I'd been there about two years, working as an overseer on atobacco plantation, when I got a letter from our family's solicitorrecalling me home. My eldest brother had died, and the estate had passedon to me. Where, Inspector?—why, it was at Castle Brompton, a quietlittle country town in Worcestershire.

"Well! I'd had a pretty rough training—living the life of a roustaboutfor so many years, and I guess I kind of ran amuck when I struck home. Iplayed ducks and drakes with the estate, and the end of it was . . . Igot heavily involved in debt. There seemed nothing for it but toup-anchor, and to sea again in my shirt. So, my fancy next took me toShanghai, where I obtained a poorly-paid Civil Service job—in theCustoms. I stuck that for about a year, and then I pulledout—disgusted. The next place I landed up in was, if anything,worse—the Gold Coast. From there I drifted to the Belgian Congo. I wasthere for nearly two years doing—well! perhaps it's best for me not toenter into details—we'll call it 'rubber.' It's a cruel countrythat—one that a man doesn't exactly stay in for his health, anyway; fora bad dose of fever nearly fixed me. It made me fed up with the climateand—the life. So I pulled out of it and went down country to theTransvaal. That's how I came to get mixed up in 'The Raid,' Inspector.I was in Jo'burg at the time it was framed up, so I threw in my lot withthe rest of you.

"Suddenly I had an overwhelming desire to go back to the States and therange life again. I was properly fed up with Africa. So—back I wentthere—to Montana again. I punched for one or two cow-outfits awhile,and then came a time when a deputation of citizens came and put it up tome if I'd take on the office of Deputy-Sheriff for —— County, where Ihappened to be working. I suppose the fact of my being a little morehandy with a gun than most had impressed some of them. Things wererunning wild there just then, and for awhile I tell you, I was up againsta rather dirty proposition. I and my guns certainly worked overtime fora stretch, till I got matters more or less ship-shape. I had the backingof the best people in the community luckily, and eventually I won out.

"Then—when the inevitable reaction set in with the peaceable times thatfollowed, somehow I managed to get in bad with some of them. They had nomore use for me or my guns. I was like a fish out of water. I decidedto pull out, for a strange hankering to see England and my old home againcame over me. So I resigned my office and headed back to the OldCountry. . . ."

At this point in his narrative, Gully dropped his head in his hands androcked wearily awhile ere continuing haltingly: "It was the mistake of mylife—ever going back—to a civilized country. For a time I strove toconduct myself as a law-abiding British citizen—to conform to the neworder of things, but—I had been amongst the rough stuff too long. I wasout of my sphere entirely.

"One day, in a hotel at Leeds, I got into a violent quarrel with aman—fellow of the name of Hammond. It was over a woman. He insultedme—in front of a crowd of men at that—and finally he struck me.Hitherto I'd taken no back-down from any man living, and I guess I forgotmyself then and kind of ran amuck—fancied I was back in Montana again.Consequence was—I threw down on him in front of this crowd and shot himdead.

"Of course I was arrested and charged with murder in the first degree;but as it was adduced at my trial that I'd received a certain amount ofprovocation, I was sent down for fifteen years. I'd done little over sixmonths of my time in Barmsworth Prison when I and two of my fellowconvicts framed up a scheme to escape. It takes too long to go intodetails how we worked it. I made my get-away, though I had to abolish apoor devil of a warder in doing so. The other two lost out. One gotshot and the other was caught some days later—as I read in the papers.

"Well! I managed to reach the States again, and eventually came overthis side of the line. As I had been convicted and sentenced under thealias which I had adopted while in England—my real name never comingout—I resumed my name of Gully again when I settled down here. Myrelatives, what few I possess, have never known of my conviction andimprisonment. All the time I was in England on my second trip I wasclean-shaven, but on returning to the States I let my moustache grow oncemore. As you said, Kilbride—it is a very effectual disguise. Will oneof you give me a drink, please? My mouth's pretty dry with all thistalking."

Yorke got up and brought him a glass of water, and he drank it down witha murmur of thanks.

"Now!" he said, continuing his narrative: "I'm coming to the worst partof all. You'll all wonder I've not gone mad—brooding; but I've got togo through with it. When I settled down here I honestly did strugglehard to live down my past and start afresh with a clean sheet. Iborrowed some money from an old ex-sheriff friend of mine inMontana—which loan, by the way, I have paid all back—every cent—andbought"—he gazed gloomily at Kilbride—"what was my home. Butsomehow . . . Fate seems to have dogged me and tripped me up in the end.Until last January everything was going well with me. As Slavin andYorke here can testify . . . I was conducting myself fairly and squarelywith all men.

"Then—one day Yorke brought that Blake and Moran case up in front of me.Both of these men I'd met before, but they didn't recognize me again—notabsolutely. I usually contrived to keep pretty clear of them for reasonswhich will appear obvious later. I'm coming to that. Moran I recognisedas a former Montana tough who used to hang around Havre—bronco-buster,cow-puncher, and tin-horn by turns. Many a time I've caught him sizingme up, in Cow Run and elsewhere—mighty hard, too, but he never seemed tobe sure of me. Once he did chance a feeler, but I just twirled mymoustache, à la Lord Tomnoddy, and bluffed him to a finish.

"Larry Blake"—a ruthless gleam flickered momentarily in Gully'sdeep-set, shadowy eyes—"Larry Blake, I recognized as the son of theGovernor of Barmsworth Prison—old Gavin Blake. Sometimes this youngfellow used to come around with his father, when the old gentleman wasmaking his daily tour of inspection. I well remember the first time Isaw him—young Larry. I was chipping stone in the quarry, amongst agang, with a ball and chain on. I'd been in about two months then. TheGovernor was showing some visitors around, and his son was with him.They were staring at us like people do at wild animals in a show. I waspointed out to them, and my recent crime mentioned. I remember youngBlake eying me with especial interest. He came out to Canada and hitthese parts about two years after I'd located here.

"Well! now and again when we'd run across each other I'd find him lookingat me in a queer, vague fashion, too; but I felt safe enough with him;like I did with Moran—until this case came up. After it was over, heand I happened to be alone, and, in a round-about way, he began asking mequestions. He did it so clumsily, though, that my suspicions werearoused at once. Of course I bluffed him—or thought I had—easily forthe moment, but one day I happened to be in the Post Office getting mymail when, amongst a bunch of letters on the counter I saw one addressedto 'Gavin Blake, Esq., Governor of Barmsworth Prison, England.' OldKelly, the postmaster, having his back to me at the time, fumbling aroundthe pigeon-holes, I promptly annexed this letter and slipped it into mypocket.

"When I opened it up my suspicions were verified. Young Blake wrote tohis father that he'd come across a man whom he could almost swear to asbeing one of the three convicts who'd broken out of Barmsworth some yearsback. He asked what steps he'd better take in the case—if the originalwarrant issued for me could be forwarded to the Mounted Police, and soon. He said his intentions were to try and gain further evidence, and inthe meantime to confide in no one about his suspicions until he receiveddefinite instructions what steps to take.

"I guess the devil must have got a good grip on me again after I'd readthat letter. It seemed no use trying to redeem the past with outsiderslike young Blake making it their business to butt in and lay one by theheels. Anyway, like Satan at prayers, I didn't feel like being coollysacrificed when my years of honest effort were drawing near their rewardin the shape of a fairly prosperous ranch—just at the whim of a lazy,profligate young busy-body.

"From that hour Larry Blake was practically—'gone up.' I'd deliberatelymade up my mind to put him out of business on the first convenientopportunity that presented itself. That opportunity came on the night hewas fighting with Moran in the hotel. I thought I could kill two birdswith one stone. I'll admit it was a devilish idea, but I was desperate.Of course things didn't shape out as I'd planned—Moran's alibi forinstance, or that hobo, Drinkwater.

"I know to you it will only appear sheer nonsense on my part ever tostart in attempting to justify my—my abolishment of him. But this—whatI am going to tell you—is the absolute truth of what happened. In thefirst place—when he spotted me bringing Moran's horse into the stablethat night—although I was mad and man-handled the poor devil at thetime—I felt fairly easy in my mind later, thinking he would drift out oftown next day, after the manner of his kind. But when he was brought upin front of me afterwards, I realized the serious predicament I was in."

He turned to Slavin. "Sergeant!" he went on: "I'll admit I was feelingpretty queer when you were examining that man—especially about thesmelling of drink business. I'd slipped him a snort of whiskey afteryou'd gone down to Doctor Cox's to get those papers signed. I told himto keep his mouth shut if he was questioned about any horse or man—andthat I'd get him off if he obeyed my instructions. Of course he didn'tknow what all this was for. He had no opportunity of knowing—never didknow, though I fancy he thought it was a case of horse-stealing. Anyway,my promises and the drink made him my ally at once. Only human naturefor him to side with me against the Police. As you know, Sergeant, youcan get more definite results from that class of man by a drink bribethan by all the threats and promises in the world.

"My original intention in taking him out to my place was to slip himtwenty dollars or so, and head him adrift westward, and so out of things.But after we got home and I put the proposition up to him, the beggarbegan to assert himself and get bold and saucy—tried to blackmail me foran unheard of amount—threatening he'd go and tell you everything if Ididn't come across, and all that. Finally I lost my temper with him andgave him a good slap across the face. He happened to be outside thehouse bucking wood at the time, and, when I hit him, he came for me withthe axe. I only jumped back just in time, as he struck. I threw down onhim and put him out of business right-away then, realizing I was upagainst it."

Gully halted for a space and leaned his head in his hands. "God!" hemuttered presently, "what nights I've had! I've killed many men in mytime, but those two—I hated framing up all that business on you fellowsnext day—those tracks and the bill-folder, and all that useless chasingfor a week, but it seemed to me to be the only plausible bluff I couldrun on you, under the circumstances. Now, are there any more things youdon't understand? Any questions you'd like to ask me?"

"Yes!" queried Slavin. "How did you get to Calgary that night—afteryou'd missed the nine-thirty eastbound. Jump a freight, or what? Youwere seen to get on the train. . . ."

"I know that," said Gully slowly, "I did it for a blind. I walkedthrough the coaches and slipped out again at the far end of theplatform—in the dark. No! I didn't jump a freight, Sergeant. I wastempted to; but on second thoughts the idea made me feel kind of uneasy.Perhaps you'll be dubious of this, but, as a fact, I took a'tie-pass'—walked it all the way to Calgary on the track. I was aboutdone when I made Shagnappi Point, beating my passage through all thatsnow. I bought a new pair of cow-puncher's boots while I was in town.You remember I was wearing them when I returned. I had the overshoeswrapped up as a parcel and packed them back to the ranch and burntthem—and Drinkwater's boots."

"How about that Savage automatic?" said Yorke, "the one you shot thosedogs with yesterday? We've got your Luger, but where's the Savage gun?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Gully wearily, "of course I had two guns. I neverused to pack the Luger around—afterwards, well! . . . for obviousreasons. You'll probably find the Savage in the cellar at myplace—that's if it isn't buried, like I nearly was."

There was a long silence, broken only by the scratch, scratch, of theinspector's pen, as he rapidly indited a formal statement for theprisoner to sign. Once during its composition he halted for a briefspace and, leaning back in his chair, gazed long with a sort of drearysternness at the huge, unkempt figure before him.

"Gully," he said slowly, "whatever in God's name put it into your head tostand off the Police in the way you did? Shooting those two poor chapsand nearly putting the kibosh on five others! Whatever did you hope togain by it? You must have known it was absolutely impossible for you tomake your get-away from us. Why, man! we had you cornered like a wolf ina trap. It was worse than silly and useless and cruel for you to act inthe way you did!"

"Oh, my God! I don't know!" moaned Gully, rocking despondently with hishead in his hands. "I must have gone clean mad for the timebeing. . . ." He gazed gloomily at Slavin and Yorke, muttering half tohimself: "What little things do trip a man up in the end! The best laidschemes o' mice and men! But for my shooting those cursed dogs yesterdayyou'd never, never have suspected me. The whole thing would just havebeen filed and forgotten in time—would just have remained one of thoseunfathomable mysteries. Directly after I'd thrown down on those curs Irealized what a d——d bad break I'd made—what my momentary loss oftemper was going to cost me. I could tell by the way you all looked atme what was in your minds. . . ."

"Yes, but how about that fishing expedition of ours, Gully?" said Yorke."You seem to have forgotten that." And he related the story of Redmond'sdive.

"Ah!" retorted Gully, bitterly. "And yet you might have got snagged ahundred times there and only just cursed and snapped your line and reeledin, thinking it was a log or something. . . . Well, as I was saying, Irealized the jig was up after that dog business, and directly I got homeI began making preparations for my get-away last night. If you'd allonly have come half an hour later than you did—That's what made me somad—just another half hour later, mind you, and I would have beenaway—en route for the Coast by the night train."

Presently Kilbride threw aside his pen and straightened up. "Now,listen, Gully!" he said. And he read out the confession that he hadcomposed from the main facts of the prisoner's remarkable statement.

"Yes!" muttered Gully thoughtfully, as the inspector finished. "Yes,that will do, Kilbride. Give me the pen, please, and I will signit. . . ."

He proceeded to affix his signature, continuing with a sort of deadlycomposure: "I have endorsed and executed many death-warrants in mytime—in my capacity of Deputy-Sheriff—I little thought that some day Imight be called upon to sign my own . . . which this document virtuallyis. . . ."

He reared himself up to his huge, gaunt height, and with a sweepingglance at his captors added: "Nothing remains for me now I imagine, butto shake hands with—Radcliffe.[1] . . ."

And his dreadful voice died away like a single grim note of a great,deep-toned bell, tolled perchance in some prison-yard.

"Eshcorrt! Get ready!" boomed out Sergeant Slavin's harsh command.The party was on the station platform. Yorke and McSporran fell inbriskly on either side of their heavily-manacled prisoner, and stoodwatching the distant lights of the oncoming east-bound train as itrounded the Davidsburg bend.

One last despairing glance Gully cast about him at the all familiarsurroundings, then he raised his fettered hands on high and lifted up hisgreat voice:

"I have striven! I have striven!—and now!—Oh! there is no God! Bearwitness there is no God! No God! . . ." he cried to the heavens.

The wild, harsh, dreadful blasphemy rang far and wide out into the night,floating over the nearby river and finally dying away a ghastly murmur upamong the timber-lined spurs of Crag Cañon.

And a huge, gaunt lobo wolf, lying at the crest of the draw, flung up hisgray head and howled back his awful note—seemingly in echo: "There isno God! no God!"

[1] Note by Author—Canada's official executioner at this period.

CHAPTER XVI

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to,
but it ain't much use to try—"
"Never say that," said the Surgeon,
as he smothered down a sigh:
"Chuck a brace, for it won't do, man,
for a soldier to say die!"
"What you say don't make no diffrunce, Doctor,
an'—you wouldn't lie. . . ."
"THE OLD SERGEANT"

"Git there! Come a-Haw-r-r, then! Whoa!" With a flourish, ConstableMiles Sloan, the Regimental Teamster, swung the leaders of his splendidfour-in-hand and pulled up at the front entrance of the Holy CrossHospital. Slewing around on his high box-seat he addressed himself tothe drag's occupants, Slavin and Yorke.

"I don't know whether they will let you see him, or not," he remarkeddoubtfully, "he's a pretty sick man."

"We will chance ut, anyway," mumbled Slavin, as he and Yorke climbed outof the rig. "Ye'd best wait awhile, Miles! We shan't be long."

Quietly—very quietly, Sister Marthe opened the door of room NumberFifty-six, and with list-slippered noiselessness stepped out into thecorridor.

"Oh, Mon Dieu!" she ejaculated, startled at the sudden apparition of twoscarlet-coated figures standing motionless outside the door, "Oh,m'sieurs, 'ow you fright me!" and the expressive eyes under the whitecoif and the shoulders and supple hands of the French-CanadianNursing-Sister made great play.

Yorke saluted her with grave courtesy. "Sister," he said anxiously, "howis Constable Redmond doing? Can we see him?"

She glanced irresolutely a moment at the handsome, imploring countenanceof the speaker, and then her gaze flickered to his huge companion. Thesilent, wistful appeal she read in the latter's grim, cadaverous facedecided her.

"Eheu!" she said softly, "'e is a ver' seeck man . . . but come then,m'sieurs, if you wish it!"

Cautiously they tip-toed into the room behind her.

Yes! They decided, he was a "seeck" man all right! So sick that hecould not raise his flushed, hollow-cheeked young face from the pillow tosalute his comrades with his customary impious bonhomie. Now, gabblingaway to himself in the throes of delirium, ever his feverish eyes staredbeyond the hospital-walls westwards to Davidsburg.

With his brow contracted with an expression of vague worry, he was livingover and over again the memorable night in which he had gotten his wound.

"Slavin!—Yorkey!" he kept repeating, in tones of such yearning entreatythat moved those individuals more than they cared to show. Yes, theywere both of them there, standing by the side of his cot; but the poorsufferer's unseeing eyes betrayed no recognition.

The deep sorrow that oppressed Slavin and Yorke just then those worthiesrarely—if ever—alluded to afterwards. Passing the love of women is theunspoken, indefinable spirit of true comradeship that exists between somemen.

For one brief, soul-baring moment the comrades stared at each other,their self-conscious faces reflecting mutually their inmost feelings;then Yorke turned to Sister Marthe.

"What does the Doctor say?" he whispered anxiously.

The nurse was about to make answer when the door was softly opened andthat gentleman entered the room, accompanied by Captain Bargrave andInspector Kilbride.

Involuntarily, from long habit of discipline, Slavin and Yorke, stiffenedto "attention" in the presence of their superiors, until, with a kindly,yet withal slightly imperious gesture, the O.C. mutely signified themto relax their formal attitude. The Regimental Surgeon, Dr. Sampson, atall, gray-moustached, pleasant-faced man, nodded to them familiarly andproceeded to make minute examination of his patient's wound. From timeto time he questioned and issued low-voiced instructions to SisterMarthe. Perfectly motionless, the grave-eyed quartette of policemenstood grouped around the cot, silently awaiting the physician's verdict.

Throughout, poor Redmond had continued to toss and rave incessantly.Much of his babbling was incoherent and fragmentary—breaking off shortin the middle of a sentence or dying away in a mumbling, indistinctmurmur. At intervals though, his voice rang out with startling clearness.

"Ah-a-a! Here he is!" he cried out suddenly, "Gully!"—all eyes werecentred on the flushed, unquiet face and restless hands. There seemed acurious, morbid fascination in watching the workings of thatsub-conscious mind. "No use, Gully! You can't make it from there!"—thetwitching hands made a motion as of levelling a carbine—"No use, man!I've got you covered. . . . You' better give in! . . ."

He paused for a space, panting feverishly, then his eyes became wilderand his speech more rapid.

"No! no! Gully!" he gasped out imploringly, "it's Yorkey, I tell you—oh,don't pick off Yorkey! . . . Drink? . . ."—the unnaturally bright eyesstared unseeingly at the motionless figure of the O.C., standing at thefoot of the cot—"Not so much—now—since—looking after him. . . . Nota bad chap. . . . We fought once. . . . Yes, Sir! . . . had—hell of afight! . . . Pax? . . . sure!—bless you!—buried ruddy hatchet—auldlang syne—Slavin. . . . St. Agnes' Eve! . . . How he sings—! Oh,shut up, Yorkey!—Sings, I tell you—! Hark! . . . that's him singin'now—Listen! . . . What? . . . it's Stevenson's 'Requiem'. . . . Burke!Burke! . . . the ——'s always singin' that . . . goes—"

And the weak, fretful voice shrilled up in a quavering falsetto—

"Under the wide—and—starry sky
Dig—the grave, and—let me—lie;
Glad did I—live, and—gladly die,
And I laid—me down with—a w——
"

The shaky, pitiful tones died away in vague, incoherent mumblings.

Yorke uttered a queer choking sound in his throat, and turned his faceaway from the little group. Slavin, in silent comprehending sympathy,laid a huge hand on the other's shoulder to steady him. In customaryBritish fashion, the O.C. and the Inspector strove to mask their emotionsunder an exaggerated grimness of mien, only their eyes betraying theirfeelings. The former, toying with his sweeping, fair moustache inagitated fashion, gazed drearily around the sick-room till his stern, yetkindly old eyes finally came to rest upon a framed scriptural quotationwhich was hanging on the wall above the head of the cot.

In corpulent, garish, black, red and gold German text the inscription ran:

At even, when the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh in what divers pains they met!
Oh in what joy they went away!

Abstractedly, the old soldier read and re-read the verse till his eyesached, and he was forced to lower them and meet the tell-tale ones ofKilbride.

The Doctor, with a final satisfied scrutiny of his patient's wound, whichhe had laid bare, bade the nurse dress it afresh, then, beckoning to theothers, he withdrew from the room, followed by the O.C. and hissubordinates. The Doctor's first words reassured them in no littledegree.

"Oh, I've good hopes of him," he said. "He seems to be doing all right.He'll pull around—that is, unless any unforeseen complications set in.It's that journey down here yesterday that's upset him. Absolutelynecessary under the circumstances, of course, but—terribly hard on a manin his condition. I think it'll be best for nobody to visit him—forawhile anyway . . . must be kept as quiet as possible. Well! let's havea look at the others!"

The remaining wounded men occupied a large, semi-private ward lower downthe corridor. Of these last Hardy's case was by far the most serious.He had been shot through the body; the high-pressure Luger bullet luckilymissing any vital organ. McCullough had been drilled through the calf ofhis left leg, Davis through the arm, and Belt had had the knucklesstripped from his right hand. All of them were resting quietly, thoughweak from loss of blood and the train journey,

The O.C. and Kilbride remained for a short time in the ward, manifestingmuch kindly sympathy for the injured men, then, deeming that perhaps theparty was retarding the nurses' ministrations, the O.C. withdrew,beckoning his subordinates to follow him.

Slavin and Yorke walked slowly down the hospital steps and climbed intothe Police drag again. Sloan gathered up his lines and swung around onhis high seat.

"Hullo!" he remarked sleepily. "Here you are again, eh? Begun to thinkyou were both in there for keeps! Well, did you see him?"

"Yes!" answered Yorke tonelessly, avoiding the teamster's eyes, "We'veseen him. Home, James!"

Firm, measured footsteps sounded in the hospital corridor and halted witha jingle of spurs outside the door of room Number Fifty-six.

"Come aboard!" came the clear, boyish voice of its occupant, in responseto a knuckle-tattoo on the panel, and the visitors, Slavin and Yorke,entered.

Redmond, sitting up in bed, comfortably propped with pillows, threw asidethe magazine he had been reading and greeted the new-comers jovially andwith a light in his eyes which did the hearts of those worthies good tosee.

A month's careful nursing and absolute quiet had transformed theirwounded comrade into a somewhat different being from the deliriouspatient they had beheld when last they stood in that room. Allowing fora slight emaciation and the inevitable hospital pallor, he appeared to bewell on the road to convalescence.

"Sit at ease!" he said, with a fair semblance of his old grin. "Smoke upif you want to, they don't kick about it here. I've tried it but ittastes rotten as yet. Well! What's doin' in L?" (He referred to theDivision.)

"Hell, yu' mane," corrected Slavin grimly, as he and Yorke proceeded todivest themselves of their side-arms and unbutton their tunics. "Notmuch doin' now, but—later, p'raps. . . ."

"Just got back from Supreme Court," explained Yorke. "Gully! . . . He'sto be 'bumped off' this day-month. . . ."

There came a long, tense silence.

"G—-d!" broke out Yorke suddenly, arousing Redmond out of the deep
reverie into which he had sunk on receipt of the news—"the look on that
Eugene Aram face of his when the jury filed in and threw the book at him!
I can't forget it somehow."

"Well! yeh want tu thin!" remarked Slavin bluntly. "Quit ut! . . . d'juhear? . . . 'Tis no sort av talk, that, for a sick room. . . ."

And hereafter they all avoided the sinister subject.

Presently McCullough came limping in on his crutches, and ere long thatwily individual succeeded with his customary ingenuity in inveigling thecompany into a facetious barrack-room argument. Later they commencedrelating racy stories.

Slavin's deep-set eyes began to twinkle and glow, as he unburdenedhimself of a lengthy narrative concerning a furlough he had spent in hisnative land many years back, in which Ballymeen Races, a disreputable"welshing" bookmaker, himself, a jug of whiskey and a blackthorn stickwere all hopelessly mixed in one grand Hibernian tangle.

"Beat ut, he did, over hedge an' bog an' ditch, wid all our money, th'dhirrty dog. But I cud run tu, in thim days, an' whin I caught up Ishure did play a tchune on th' nob av um!" concluded the sergeantthoughtfully. In pursuance of his daily round of the wards, Dr. Sampsonpresently came swinging in amongst them and saluted the party with hisusual breezy bonhomie. A universal favourite with the members of theForce his entry was acclaimed with delight. They promptly bade him sitdown and contribute—à la Boccaccio—to their impromptu Decameron, whichrequest he (sad to relate) complied with.

Amid the roar of laughter that greeted the Doctor's last bon mot, thatgentleman looked ruefully at his watch and prepared to depart.

"Twenty past twelve!" he ejaculated, "and I've got four more patients tosee yet. . . ! Behold the retarding influences of bad company!"

"Say, Doctor," enquired Yorke, "how's Hardy doing? Is he bucking up atall? He was pretty down in the mouth last time I saw him."

The Doctor's genial countenance clouded slightly. "Well, no!" he said,gravely, "he's not doing well at all. I've been rather worried over himlately. The man's relapsed into a curious state of inertia—seemsincapable of being roused. Organically he's nothing to fear now; I'llstake my professional reputation on that. But when a man gets down likehe is now, why, the mind often reacts on the body with serious results.If he was in a tropical climate he'd snuff out like a candle. That's allthat's retarding his otherwise certain recovery now—if we could only——"

Here, McCullough, who had been an interested listener broke in. "Rousehim, Doctor?" he queried, "you say he wants rousing? . . . Is thatall? . . . All right then! . . . I know him better than you do—I'llbet you I'll rouse him!" he concluded a trifle brutally.

And he swung off on his crutches and presently levered himself into theward where Hardy lay.

In actual bodily recovery the latter's physical condition fully equalledRedmond's, but the brooding, listless demeanor of the patient confirmedonly too well the Doctor's diagnosis. Now, sunk in the coma of utterdejection, Hardy was lying back on his pillows like a man weary of life.

Sometime earlier, in response to his earnest solicitations, he had beenallowed to have his beloved parrot in hospital with him. All day longthe disreputable-looking bird gabbled away contentedly as it climbedaround in its cage, which had been placed on a small table alongside thecot.

McCullough's first move was to resort to the never-failing expedient ofarousing the parrot's ire by puffing tobacco-smoke into its cage.Mechanically the outraged bird responded with a shocking blast ofinvective, winking rapidly its white parchment-lidded eyes and swingingexcitedly to and fro on its perch.

Hardy admonished the joker—lethargically, but with a certain degree ofmalevolence in his weary tones.

"Aw, chack it, Mac!" he drawled. "W'y carn't yer let th' bleedin' birdalone? Yer know 'e don't like that bein' done t'im. Jes' 'awk t'imtellin' yer as much!"

McCullough turned on his crutches and leered awhile upon the speaker witha sort of mournful triumph, than he lifted up his voice in a very fairimitation of Hardy's own unmusical wail——

"Old soldiers never die, never die, never die,
Old soldiers never die—they simply fade aw-ay."

"I don't think!" he concluded sotto voce to Davis, as that individual,sitting down on the next cot began preparing his wounded arm for theministrations of Sister Marthe who had just entered the ward.

"No use!" McCullough rambled on. "I tell yu' th' man's as good as 'goneup.' Harry. . . . Well! I'll have old Kissiwasti when he pegs outanyway. I won't half smoke-dry th' old beggar then! I'll teach him toswear. . . !"

"Eh! . . . 'Ere, wot abaht it?"

The cockney's voice held no trace of lethargy now. The sharply-uttered,vindictive query was matched by the blazing eyes which were regarding thefarrier-corporal with undisguised hostility.

"Wot abaht wot?" mimicked McCullough, though his heart smote him for thecold-blooded evasion.

"Wot abaht wot you sed abaht me. . . ?"

"Well, wot abaht it. . . ?"

Speechless with rage, for a moment Hardy gazed into the other'snonchalant mask-like visage, then, with a gesture of maniacal impotence,he raised his clenched fists high above his head.

Sister Marthe now judged it high time to intervene. During the enactmentof this little tableau she had stood looking on in mute bewilderment.Despite her imperfect knowledge of English, and especially thevernacular, she had a shrewd intuition of what had passed between the twomen.

Seizing McCullough by the arm, despite his protestations of injuredinnocence, she gently, but firmly, escorted him out of the ward.

"Vas! vas!—Now you go, M'sieu McCullough! . . . out of ze wardright-away! . . . Vat you say—vat you do—I do not know, but you 'aveexcite 'im 'orrible! . . . Oh, pardonnez-moi, Docteur!" sheejaculated, as she bumped into that gentleman in the corridor.

"Hullo!" said the latter inquiringly, as he remarked the little nurse'sflushed, angry face. "What's up, Sister Marthe?"

For answer, that irate lady pointed accusingly to McCullough. Thatworthy, his questionable experiment accomplished, was retreating up thecorridor as fast as his crutches could carry him.

"First, Docteur," began the nurse indignantly, "'e blow smoke in ze eyeof ze parrot, then 'e turn roun' to pauvre M'sieu 'Ardy an' 'esing—oh, I 'ave not ze English, but 'e blaguè 'im so—

"Vieux soldats ne meurent! jamais! jamais! jamais!
Vieux soldats ne meurent jamais!—ils simplement passent!
"

"An' M'sieu 'Ardy 'e say: 'Vat about?' an' then 'e raise 'is two 'ands è
Ciel—so! an' 'e tell Le Bon Dieu all about it. Oh, 'ow 'e pray!
Ecoutez! Docteur! you can 'ear 'im now! . . ."

And awhile Doctor Sampson listened, a grim smile lurking around thecorners of his firm mouth, as he leaned against the open door of the ward.

"Praying, Sister?" he ejaculated. "It's the queerest kind of praying
I've ever heard. But is it him—or is it the parrot?"

Two days later he remarked to the O.C. and Kilbride: "I'm glad to be ableto report a decided improvement in that man Hardy's condition. His pulseis stronger, his appetite is increasing and—he's beginning to grouse.That old ruffian of a farrier-corporal, McCullough, was right, begad!—heknew the man better than I did. As a general rule I'm inclined to berather sceptical of such drastic experiments, but in certain cases, er—"

"Something of the sort might be beneficial if applied to young Redmond,too," remarked the O.C., testily. "He's down in the dumps now; though togive him his due . . . he tries hard not to show it whenever I happen tobe in the hospital. Dudley, my Orderly-room sergeant, is leaving nextmonth—time-expired—so I thought I was conferring a great favour on theboy by promising him the step-up—good staff appointment—give him achance to recuperate thoroughly. But no!—my young gentleman courteouslydeclines my munificent offer. Nothing must serve him but he must go backto me Irish 'ginthleman' and that d——d dissipated scamp of a Yorke."

"It's the spirit of comradeship," remarked Kilbride quietly. "If I mightsuggest, Sir, . . . I think it would be better if you do decide to lethim go back there. They pull well together and do good work, thosethree."

"'Ullo, Reddy!" called out Constable Hardy, as he directed his wobblysteps towards the bench on the hospital balcony where George was seated,"'ow long 'ave you bin up 'ere? Th' O.C. an' Kilbride was round jes'now. You didn't see 'em, eh?"

"No," answered Redmond listlessly. And thereupon he relapsed into moodysilence.

"Wy, wot's up?" enquired Hardy presently, scanning the other's downcastcountenance. "Wot's th' matter wiv you, son? . . . you don't look'appy! . . ."

"You bet I'm not, either!" burst out George suddenly. "The Old Man'soffered me Dudley's job, but I don't want a staff job. I want to go backto Davidsburg. Who cares to be stuck around the Post?"

"Me for one!" retorted the old soldier grinning, "Jes' now, anyway.Listen, son! Th' Old Man 'e sez to me: ''Ardy!' 'e sez, 'you've bin 'itpretty bad and I find you deserve a softer class of dewty than goin' backt' prisoner's escort. I think I'll recommend you for Provo'-Sorjint, incharge o' th' Guard-room, w'en you're able t' return t' dewty,' 'e sez."

With an effort Redmond roused himself to the point of congratulating theCockney upon his prospective promotion. He had no desire to act as a wetblanket on such an auspicious occasion as this, his own troublesnotwithstanding.

"That ain't all," continued Hardy, with a gloating chuckle. "Th' OldMan, 'e sez 'Belt's bein' invalided, McCullough's gettin' 'is thirdstripe, an' Dyvis is goin' dahn t' th' Corp'ril's Class at Regina, butthat there young Redmond worries me! I don't know wot t' do abaht 'im,''e sez—jes' like that—sorter kind-like—not a bit like th' O.C. o' aDivision torkin' t' a buck private.

"'Beg yer pardon, Sir!' I sez, 'but if you let 'im go back t' Dyvidsburg
I fink 'e'll be quite contented. Seems like 'e wants t' be wiv Sorjint
Slavin an' Constable Yorke agin.'

"'Fink so?' sez 'e, pullin' 'is oweld moustache, 'I sure do, Sir,' I sez.'So be it, then!' 'e sez, turnin' t' Kilbride, but th' Inspector 'e seznothin':—'e on'y larfs. An' then they went away."

Redmond, giving vent to a delighted oath, came out of his sulks on theinstant.

"Hardy!" he cried, "you're a gentleman! . . ."

"Nay!" was the other's disclaimer. "A dranken oweld soweljer, son . . .that's all."

But Redmond heard him not. With elbows resting upon the balcony-rail hewas looking beyond the Elbow Bridge, beyond Shagnappi Point—westwards toDavidsburg, his face registering the supreme content of a man who hadjust attained his heart's desire.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LUCK OF THE MOUNTED: A TALE OF THE ROYAL NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE ***

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The Luck of the Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police (2024)

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