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Title: Spirit-of-iron
        (Manitou-pewabic)

Author: Harwood Steele

Release date: December 25, 2024 [eBook #74974]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRIT-OF-IRON ***






[Transcriber's note: Unusual or non-standard spellings are as
printed.]





SPIRIT-OF-IRON

HARWOOD STEELE



"_He is a living link with the Empire's great traditions, with the
blood of British heroes in his veins ... the personification of the
best type of British officer, whose soul is in his corps, who thinks
only of the steep and narrow path of Duty ... the embodiment, in one
individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted Police ... the
embodiment of Western Canada.  Out there, they call him by the name
the Indians gave him--Manitou-pewabic--a tribute to his personality,
for the phrase means 'Spirit-of-Iron.'  Surely this is the spirit
which has made, not only the man, but the Force to which he belongs
and the country which is its environment--Spirit-of-Iron!_"

--BOOK IV., CHAP. V., 2.




  SPIRIT-OF-IRON

  (Manitou-pewabic)


  AN AUTHENTIC NOVEL OF
  THE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE


  By HARWOOD STEELE



  A. L. BURT COMPANY
  Publishers New York

  Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
  Printed in U. S. A.




  COPYRIGHT, 1923,
  BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


  SPIRIT-OF-IRON. III

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES




  TO
  THE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE
  "ORIGINALS" OF 1874,
  THE ADVANCE SCOUTS OF THE ARMY OF
  WESTERN CANADIAN CIVILIZATION




FOREWORD

"Spirit-of-Iron" is an attempt to present fact in the form of
romantic fiction.  It portrays the development of North-Western
Canada in the pioneer period, the main events of which, with one or
two exceptions, have been closely followed.

The characters are types.  Hector Adair is intended to represent the
ideal Mounted Police officer in particular and the ideal British
officer generally.  He is not to be identified with any historical
figure connected with the Force.  The plan, here employed, of
symbolizing and tracing the development of a country through the
development of an individual such as Hector is, I think, new.  The
politician, Welland, similarly, is a type, and has no definite
connection with any famous politician of real life.  The men of the
Police--the Marquis, Sergeant Kellett and others--are also types,
true to the extraordinary calibre of the Force.  The remaining
characters--whom the reader may identify if--and as--he chooses, all
had their originals in the old Canadian North-West.

Practically every incident and episode of the story had its origin in
fact.  The arrest of Wild Horse, the Whitewash Bill man-hunt, the
holding of Hopeful Pass and innumerable minor incidents all occurred,
though not necessarily in the circumstances described, while the
details of the dangerous plot confronting Hector in Book IV are
drawn, almost line for line, from a great if obscure page in the more
recent history of the Mounted Police in the North.  Hector's long
struggle with Welland is not based on any particular conflict of this
kind in real life, but that such things occur, in Canada as
elsewhere, any man acquainted with the Services and politics can
vouch for.  Finally, the locale of each episode is not necessarily to
be identified with any particular point in our North-West.

The word "Royal" is everywhere omitted from the title of the Force
because the honourary distinction of "Royal" was not theirs when the
events covered in this novel took place.

I have described the book as "An Authentic Novel of the North-West
Mounted Police" because I wish to emphasize that it endeavours to
present the Force as it was and is and not as portrayed by
well-meaning but ignorant writers of the "red love, two-gun" variety,
and it is my hope that, through this book, the reader may obtain a
clearer conception of the marvellous devotion to duty, the high
idealism, the splendid efficiency which have made the Mounted Police
famous than any to be derived from these inaccurate romances.

HARWOOD STEELE.




CONTENTS

BOOK ONE: _On the Anvil_

BOOK TWO: _Spirit-of-Iron_

BOOK THREE: _The Clash_

BOOK FOUR: _Coup-de-Grâce_




BOOK ONE: _On the Anvil_



Chapter I


I

The time had come for the North-West Mounted Police to say goodbye to
Lower Fort Garry, the home of the Force since its inception some
months before.

In the clear spring dawn, the scarlet-coated column fell in, ranging
behind it a long tail of ox-carts and wagons.  Sergeant-Major
Whittaker, of 'J' Division, a straight-backed, dapper, sinewy little
man with a pair of fierce moustaches, called the roll.  The
Regimental Sergeant-Major, trotting over to the bearded
Assistant-Commissioner, reported all ready to march.  Orders cracked
down the line.  With a shout, a thunder of hoofs and the roll of
heavy wheels, the cavalcade surged into motion.

In the rear of the column rode Constable Hector Adair.


II

A fine, big, handsome fellow, Hector, a splendid specimen of what the
Province of Ontario could produce when it tried, and looking every
inch what he was--the son of a hardy soldier-father, that Colonel
Adair who had been one of the pioneers of old Blenheim County, at
home, and who, before that, had served under the Iron Duke himself in
the Peninsula and at Waterloo.  This young giant's broad shoulders
and deep chest would have been the envy of many heavy dragoons, and
he was six feet tall.  His face, bronzed, with straight nose, strong
chin, firm mouth and steel-grey eyes, had in it a great power and yet
an idealism unspoilt by contact with the rotten side of Life.  Men--a
keen observer felt--though knowing him still a boy--he was actually
twenty--would regard him as a man, fear him intensely and follow him
anywhere.  Women would thrill at his physique, linger over his brown
hair, know him a man, regard him as a boy and love him with a love
largely maternal.

More than this, he looked the soldier-born.  No finer school for the
making of men ever existed than the old, partially developed Upper
Canada where Hector had first seen the light and spent his childhood.
It had been rough, crude and half civilized but also vigorous and
strong.  Its immense forests, its rapid streams, its solitudes
possessed by dangerous wild animals, had given him resource,
self-reliance, endurance, courage.  The most ordinary affairs of
life--a visit to the nearest settlement, the routine journey to
church or school--tested the quality of many a grown man.  The barest
necessities were won only by the hardest of hard work.  Even the
pastimes of the district round about demanded much pluck and stamina.
Blue blood went without luxuries and handled axe or plough.  Men were
men there, boys were men in miniature, and women were worthy of their
sons and husbands--more could not be said in praise of them.
Altogether, the natural environment which had been Hector's as a boy
could not help but develop in him the first requisite of the born
soldier--true manhood.  And the sports to be enjoyed in Blenheim
county--shooting, fishing, big game hunting in the heart of the great
wildernesses--had made him a giant at last, with a heart that nothing
shook and no nerves whatever.

If all this were not enough, Hector's boyhood associates had been of
a character which must inevitably have shaped him into what he was.
Take the Colonel, who, coming out to Canada to occupy land under one
of the earliest settlement schemes, had built up prosperity for
himself and constructed Silvercrest, his fine estate, from the
trackless wild.  The Colonel, from the first, had intended that his
son should have a Commission in the Army and carry on the fighting
traditions of a martial family.  He believed, besides, in King
Solomon's adage concerning the rod and the spoiled child, considered
that boys should be seldom seen and never heard and held other ideas
equally as uncomfortable.

The Colonel had not been able to spare much time to Hector, but, such
as it was, it was well spent.  He had not only thrashed him when he
needed it, but had educated him.  Knowing that the little country
school could give his son only a rudimentary education, he expended
an hour or so a day in teaching Hector many things in literature,
geography, history and mathematics--particularly literature.  By
great effort, labouriously bringing many of the books all the way
from England, the Colonel had formed a fine library at Silvercrest.
The old classics were there, with later and contemporary
writers--Scott, Coleridge, Dickens and Alfred Tennyson, the handsome
lion of the Old Land.  Father and son had toiled most studiously over
these treasures and it was worth something to see the small,
brown-haired boy struggling with the heroes of Greece under the stern
eye of his white-haired parent.  Hector had the run of the room and
on rainy days all the giants of romance and chivalry took full
possession of that book-lined haven in the wilderness.  Such passages
as this rang like far trumpets in his ears:

  _I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
  To reverence the King as if he were
  Their conscience and their conscience as their King;
  To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
  To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
  To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
  To honour his own word as if his God's,
  To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
  To love one maiden only, cleave to her
  And worship her by years of noble deeds
  Until they won her...._


These stirring lines, from the beginning, had filled him with strange
longings and given him a great ideal.

Besides these more general things, much of the Colonel's teaching had
been devoted to building up the boy into that splendid product, 'an
officer and a gentleman.'

Then there was his mother--a sweet, gentle, dainty woman, of
marvellous housekeeping ability.  From her, Hector had learned such
of those fine, old-fashioned principles as the Colonel had been too
busy to teach.  Hector's little sister, Nora--his constant companion
in his boyhood doings, rendering him profound homage and devotion and
regarding him as a demigod, the mover of mountains, the achiever of
impossibilities--had done much to make him chivalrous.  His cousins
Hugh and Allen, boys of his own age who lived close by, could not be
said to have much influenced him, except to make him one of the most
reckless lads and finest sportsmen in the county, though from his
older cousin, John, he had learnt all he knew of woodcraft and
athletics.

But the men on his father's farm had done more to make a soldier out
of Hector than even the Colonel.  They were all veterans of many
campaigns, or at least members of the local militia--none but these
were granted work at Silvercrest.  Grey old, lean old Sergeant
Pierce, the Colonel's right-hand man, had marched with the 28th, the
Colonel's own Regiment, from Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees.  Corporal
Hardwick, late of the 95th, had served in the Kaffir Wars and
accompanied the 'Green Jackets' in the attack on the Sevastapol
Ovens.  Private Toombs had aided the 57th--the famous 'Die-hards'--in
suppressing the 'Sepoy Rebellion.'  'Maintop' MacEachern, senior
naval representative, a lean, white-whiskered old sea-dog, had been a
powder-monkey under Broke when the _Shannon_ took the _Chesapeake_.
And 'Long Dick' Masters, the 'daddy' of the whole crowd, barring
Sergeant Pierce, and so tall that he could give even the Sergeant a
couple of inches, had long ago led the rush of the York Volunteers at
Queenston Heights.

The influence of such men on a youngster's development was inevitably
potent.  Thanks to them, Silvercrest had overflowed with Service
tradition.  As a small boy, Hector had been allowed to form them into
a little company, which, under the Sergeant's supervision, he drilled
with unflagging zeal, until he was as efficient as the smartest
instructor in the smartest regiment of the Guards.  They told him
yarns of a hundred fights and fields.  They sang him marvellous
choruses--'Ranzo,' 'We'll Fight the Greeks and Romans on the High
Seas-O,' 'The Bold Soldier Boy' and many others--which in their day
had startled the French outposts in Spain or enlivened the fo'c's'le
of the _Victory_.  They gave him such formulæ as this, which he had
from Sergeant Pierce: 'Don't knuckle down to a bully.  Don't start
the trouble but take on anything that breathes if there's good
reason.  Stand up to your man like a soldier, even if you know you're
licked, and fight--d'you see, little master?--till the last shot's
fired.'  And, between them, they drove him wild to serve the Queen.

No wonder, then, that he rode out today in the midst of the Mounted
Police.

But why was he only a ranker--when the Colonel, from the first, had
trained him for a Commission?

Of this--a word later.


III

So the years of Hector's boyhood had been passed in an atmosphere of
idealistic tradition.

His first attempt at soldiering in earnest was made when he was
twelve years old--with the Fenian raids on the Niagara Peninsula.

The Blenheim Rangers, one of Upper Canada's finest militia regiments,
being called out on this occasion to defend the frontier, Hector
yearned to march away with them.  He thought, poor youngster, that he
might be allowed to serve as a bugler or a drummer, for he was big
and strong for his age.  Born, as Maintop put it, with a sword in his
hand and epaulettes on his shoulders, accustomed all his life to hear
of 'sallies and retires, of trenches, tents' and such matters, his
daily course shaped with the idea that he was eventually to have a
Commission, this was only natural.  The Colonel, equally naturally,
refused point-blank to let him go.  And--again of course--Hector took
the law into his own hands and ran away.

All was confusion and anxiety at Silvercrest during the following
three days and a hue and cry sought Hector over half Upper Canada.
When eventually he was brought back, a dishevelled, unhappy little
figure, the Colonel found he had not the heart to punish him as he
deserved.  He could only gently reprove him and promise that, in any
future emergency, provided the authorities would have him, he would
be allowed to go.

Though Hector's share in the repulse of the Fenian raids was thus
brought to nought, the attempt had at least shown that the spirit of
soldiering was strong within him.

The Colonel's promise was tested and Hector's second opportunity came
with the expedition sent to crush the rebellion on the Red River.
The boy was then sixteen and already of fine physique.  John, who had
a Commission in one of the regiments, requested and, to Hector's
rapture, received permission to enlist him in his company.  But again
Fate stepped in, cruelly.  Hector got as far as Toronto, where the
expedition was assembling, when a telegram recalled him.  His adored
little sister, Nora, always delicate, was dying of pneumonia caught
in a summer storm.  Hector reached home in time to hold her dead body
in his arms.  He was heart-broken.  Grown pale and stooped and
haggard in a night, his father made him a piteous appeal.

"Hector," he had said, "I want you to give up this idea of going to
Fort Garry.  It would have been different had--had Nora lived.  But
your mother needs you now.  She can't lose her two babies at once.
Everything can be arranged.  My friends in the Rifles will give you
your discharge.  I hate to disappoint you a second time, boy.  I'm
asking you to make a big sacrifice."

And Hector--with a great effort of real courage--had answered quietly,

"Of course, in that case, sir--I'll not go."

So he moved a step nearer true manhood.


IV

At Toronto, while waiting to go to Red River, Hector had a strange
experience--an isolated thing, as incongruous as a wreath of flowers
in the mouth of a cannon.  He had not, at that time, the perception
to realize that it was the first shadow of things to come, sent to
open his eyes to his dawning power.

One evening, walking by himself, he struck up an acquaintance with a
young fellow named George Harris.  Afterwards, they saw each other
frequently.  Hector enjoyed George's company, because he was
refreshingly unlike any other boy he had ever met, an amazing
complexity, made up of many extremes.  He had odd fits of melancholy,
when he said nothing, alternating with bursts of liveliness, when he
chattered away for hours on any subject.  Though he neither smoked
nor drank, he could swear with marvellous fluency--like a schoolboy
in the role of man-about-town.  Possessed of an extraordinary eye for
a well-dressed woman or a handsome man, he yet hated Hector to look
at either.  He had rooms in town, but persistently refused to ask
Hector into them.  No persuasion would induce him to go out except at
night.  Altogether, he was a curious fellow.

Then came the revelation.  The childish side of George's character
showed itself one evening in enthusiastic declarations that he wished
he was a soldier.  Hector agreed it was a fine life.  That fairly
launched George.  Real soldiering did not appeal to him.  It was the
glamour of display--the great reviews, the bands, the gleaming
scarlet.

Quite carried away, he halted in the street, clasped his hands and
exclaimed ecstatically:

"Oh, I love to hear the jingling of the spurs!"

Instantly Hector's suspicions, till then stupidly dormant, had flamed
up.  He glanced around the dark street.  No-one was in sight.  They
were in the bright glow of a lamp.

Sending George's hat spinning, he caught him by the wrists in a
fierce grip.  And--a mass of fair hair came tumbling down the
captive's shoulders--a pretty face, distorted with alarm, sprang into
view--

A girl!  All the moods and caprices were instantly explained.  A girl!

Hector's heart beat furiously.  He held her tight.

"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling.  "You're hurting me.  We'll be
seen!  Let me go!"

Hector flamed into frightened rage--he was very young and knew
nothing of women.

"Who are you?" he panted.  "What do you mean by it?  Supposing we'd
been caught like this?  You fool--you fool!--"

"Let me go!" she begged.

"Answer me, will you?" he stormed.

Realizing that this was a woman several years older than himself, he
became suddenly conscious of his helplessness in her hands and felt
something not far from terror seize him.

"What am I to think of you?"

"Shut up!"  White, with agonized tears in her eyes, she looked
defiantly into his face.  "I won't have you talk to me like this.
Oh, I know I've run the risk of ruining myself and hurting you, but I
don't care--no, I don't!  I'm just as straight as--as--"  She
mastered herself with an effort.  "Listen!  Do you think I'd have
dressed myself up like this otherwise?  Gone to all this trouble?
And taken these chances?  And kept you out of my rooms?  You bet I
wouldn't!  I'd have dressed myself up to kill and stopped you on the
street.  But a--a straight girl can't do that!  So I had to do this.
It was the only way.  Oh, can't you see?"

"Had to!  The only way!"

Bitter scorn lashed her.

"Yes, it was," she said.  Suddenly she dropped her voice and turned
her face to his.  "I saw you out walking several times.  I had to
know you.  Hector, don't you understand?"

He was dazed.  He clung to her wrists.

"You fool--" she went on, with a strange little laugh.  "You are the
fool, funny, silly boy!  Don't you see--I'm mad about you, Hector?"

This frightened him more than ever.

"The devil you are!" he ground out.  "Who are you, anyway?  What am I
going to do to you?"

Desperately humiliated, she fought to escape.  He held her strongly.
She gasped and prayed for release but he would not listen.

"Hector," she had implored, at last, "if you're a gentleman--if
you've any sense of chivalry--!"

Any sense of chivalry?  She had struck the right note.

He let her go--watched her run away until the night swallowed her.
Then, in a sort of stupour, he picked up his swagger stick and walked
back to his quarters....

Nothing in his experience, before or since, had so closely resembled
a 'love affair.'


V

Strangely enough, it was to his father's death that Hector eventually
owed his opportunity to achieve the life for which he had been
trained since birth--life in the service of the Queen; and the
realization of his boyhood dreams of chivalry.

To this, too, he owed the fact that, when eventually he donned the
scarlet tunic, that tunic was, not the gold-laced vestment of an
officer, but the plain coat of a ranker, in the Mounted Police.

The status under which he entered the Service was a heavy
disappointment.  His early enlistments in the militia or the Rifles
for the Red River had been merely preliminary canters regarded at the
time as useful training for the future Commission.  Hector was not
ashamed of his ranker's uniform.  He knew the true worth of the man
who carries the rifle and pack.  Though the sword points the way, the
bayonet must follow--or there can be no victory.  But the high heart
aspires to the sword rather than the bayonet.  It is not always easy
to follow.  It is always difficult to lead.  He wished to lead--had
been trained and moulded for leadership.  To have to relinquish
leadership or give up the Service altogether had been a terrible blow
to him--how terrible only those who come of Service blood and have
lived for years in a Service atmosphere can really appreciate.

For to such as these--to such as Hector--the Army is no machine, no
hide-bound association of slaves marching in the lockstep of brutal
discipline; nor is it a great dramatic society devoted to meaningless
ritual and pompous display.  At its worst, it is not the raving
monster of ignorant fancy, revelling in sacrifice and blood.  But it
is something so wonderful that no pen on earth can picture it.  It is
a glorious brotherhood, a religion giving and demanding much of its
votaries--demanding dauntless devotion, iron endurance, inflexible
loyalty to God, King, division, battalion--giving the knowledge of
work well done and petty selfishness voluntarily set aside for the
good of the common cause.  To such as these there is marvellous music
in the wild voice of the bugle--hallowed by sacred memories and
age-old traditions--and the majestic dignity and power in the mere
sight of a brigade presenting arms will bring a lump to their
throats, while the Colours, tattered, stained with the blood of
heroes, emblazoned with the names of great victories, have about them
something almost divine.  They have one mistress--these Service
men--one mother, one sister, whose honour is in their hands and for
whom they will die without a murmur.  She watches them, rewards them,
punishes them, loves them, guards them, from the 'Reveille' of their
first morning to the 'Last Post' and three rounds blank of the last
night of all.  She is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as
an army with banners.  They call her The Regiment.

A place in this great brotherhood belongs to every soldier.  But the
officer is the High Priest of the order.  It is for him to guide and
encourage his men, to rally the broken line, halt the retreat, give
fresh life to the failing charge and gather the spears into his
breast to make a place for them to follow.  Rob a boy trained for
leadership of his birthright and he loses everything he considers
worth while.  Cut him off from The Regiment and--break his heart.

The Colonel had succumbed to a stroke.  His fatal illness had not
come suddenly.  From the day of Nora's death, it had begun.  Nora
seemed to have taken away the Colonel's vigour with her.  But the
decline was not solely on her account.  For years, though Hector had
not known it till too late, the Colonel had laboured under a heavy
financial burden--notes endorsed--bad harvests--family honour--the
old, old story.

To this state of affairs, above everything, the change of plans for
Hector's future had been due.  The old gentleman had torn his heart
out when he told his son that he must give up the idea of a Regular
Commission or even of enlisting because it had become his duty to go
into business and redeem the family fortune.

The hideous truth had revealed itself by slow degrees after the
Colonel's death, when it was seen that practically nothing was left
for Hector and his mother, that Silvercrest and everything in it must
go, that Hector would have to get some kind of work at once and that
Mrs. Adair must transfer herself to John's, for the time at least.

Came into Hector's hands, at this crisis, a clipping, like the blast
of a trumpet sounding specially for him.

'Recruiting for New Police Force Commences,' said the headlines of
the clipping.  'Officers in City.'

There followed a description of the measures which were about to
enforce the new North-West Mounted Police Act.  It seemed that three
hundred men 'who should be mounted as the Government should from time
to time direct,' were being assembled for duty as military
constabulary in the North-West Territories.  'No person shall be
appointed to the Police Force unless he be of sound constitution,
active and able-bodied, able to ride, of good character, able to read
and write either the English or French language and between the ages
of 18 and 40 years.'  This extract had shown Hector that he could
easily qualify.

The clipping came from a Toronto paper and was dated August, 1873.

Here was his chance.  It was 'now or never.'  Fate or Destiny had
placed that item in his hands, for a purpose, and that purpose must
be fulfilled.  Then and there, Hector had resolved to accept the
chance....

There was in the dining-room at Silvercrest, carved in stone above
the fireplace, a crest and motto, the coat-of-arms of the Colonel's
branch of the Adair family.  Hector, in the old days, had eagerly
gained from his father a full knowledge of the meaning of every
device and had even become capable, in time, of reciting every
syllable of the heraldic language describing the coat-of-arms.  This
had been placed upon the shield to commemorate the gallantry of an
Adair at Bannockburn; that to symbolize the endurance of another at
Sluys.  The history of the family was written in the design.  And it
bore not one vestige of dishonour.

"Remember, Hector," the Colonel had often said fiercely, "the shield
is clean.  Mind you keep it so!"

Beneath the clean shield was the motto, consisting of two words only,
but in these words also might be read the story of a mighty line:

'Strong.--Steadfast.'

All that 'Strong' can mean, all that 'Steadfast' can imply,, the
Adairs had always been.  Woe betide the luckless wight who should be
the first to deviate from it!

'Strong!  Steadfast!'

Strong and steadfast Hector would have to be if he was to maintain
the honour of the Adairs in the times before him.  His feet were on
the sunset trail.  At its end was Life, swift and fierce and
terrible.  Years and years of battling through wild winters and
blazing summers, on barren mountains, lifeless prairies, and
death-dominated rivers lay before him and in that Western land the
hands of many men--merciless Indians, murderous horse-thieves,
gamblers, whiskey-traders and desperadoes--would be against
him--against him and his comrades of the Police.  He knew it.  He
knew that the Force would be but a handful scattered over a vast
wilderness which it must protect and eventually free from the
domination of innumerable enemies.  He knew the greatness of the task
to be achieved before the Flag could wave in security from sea to
sea.  Here was a wonderful opportunity, a real fight to win, a
splendid objective.  It should have frightened him.  Instead he
welcomed it.  He was as fitted for the work before him as any man
could be.

'Strong.  Steadfast.'




Chapter II


I

At Winnipeg, straggling its hundred-odd houses, its dozen stores, its
sturdy churches and its garish saloons along the muddy trail, the
column found the entire population awaiting them.  During the winter
the Police had made many staunch friends.  There were cheery
greetings enough and to spare for Hector as he rode along with his
comrades through the little crowd.  Here was a shout and a wave from
Big Jim Hackett, owner of the _Hell's Gate_ saloon, there a smiling
blush from pretty Miss Sinclair, one of the local lights, which drew
upon him a volley of chaff.  Stout, grizzled, jovial and 'unco'
canny' Andrew Ferguson, the village baker, received him with a round
of Gaelic and a burst of Cree which betrayed his parentage.  Johnny
Oakdale, the little hardware man with whom Hector had become
pleasantly intimate when they erected stoves at the lower fort months
before, gave him a shake of the hand which was worth a dozen noisier
welcomes.

Now that the hour when he must part with these great-hearted friends
was actually upon him, Hector found himself stirred with regret.
Recalling happy times, he almost wished that he could remain in the
settlement forever or, better still, take the entire population into
the North-West with him.


II

Arriving at Dufferin, they joined in preparing for their tremendous
march.  The Commissioner and the rest of the Force came into camp,
bringing more horses and wagons and an army of agricultural
implements--they would be dependent entirely on themselves for food
in the country to which they were going.  A marvellous atmosphere
took possession of the camp.  The crews of the _Golden Hind_, the
_Santa Maria_ and the _Nonsuch_, which carried Drake and Columbus and
the first officers of the Hudson's Bay Company into the new and
unknown world, must have felt just such an atmosphere as they got
ready for sea.  La Verandrye, Champlain, La Salle were close kin to
the men of the Mounted Police assembling at Dufferin.

Languid June drifted into the sunny splendors of July and the
white-helmeted, red-coated little column began its march Westward.

To establish posts through that great wilderness, now tenanted only
by a few white settlers, Hudson's Bay traders and other traders who
dealt in poison-whiskey with nomadic bands of Indians; and from these
posts to enforce over every yard of that immensity the laws of
Canada--that was their task.  They played the dual role of
soldier-pioneers.

But they were soldiers and soldiers only in the routine that governed
them in camp and on the march.  From dawn to dusk, each day slipped
easily by.  The advance led them over mile on mile of wind-swept
prairie blazing with wild flowers, trilling with the songs of birds
and insects, dappled with sun and shadow, sweetly perfumed, a hundred
tales of hoof and claw on its broad surface and the cloudless sky
above.  Sunset, when the tired teams halted, the tents sprang up, the
wagons marshalled themselves into line abreast, the scouts and guards
came loping in and the smoke of cooking fires arose--sunset, when the
glories of the Kingdom of Heaven flamed for a moment in the dusk, was
an hour of splendor.  Then, after supper, the older officers told
them strange stories, they sang choruses to the accompaniment of
mouth-organ, concertina or violin, and the happy half-breed drivers
danced the Red River jig on a special door they carried in the carts.
Coffee followed and a general departure to the tents; more laughing
as all hands settled down for the night; and so they came to the last
bugle-call of a day punctuated by bugle-calls, 'Lights Out' quivered
dolefully through the lines, the orange cones of glowing canvas
vanished one by one and the deep silence of night in vast spaces,
broken only by the occasional stamping of restless horses, descended
on the camp, leaving the sentries to watch the stars alone.

There was plenty of hard work and much discomfort, rising towards the
end, for some of them, to real hardship.  But they were young and as
keen and vigorous as steel blades.  They cheerfully stood it all.

Hector preferred duty with the advance-guard or scouts to anything
else.  There was much more to see and do there, and courage, strength
and intense vigilance were essential.  Many useful lessons were to be
learned in front and, above all, the teacher was the finest scout,
the wisest plainsman, the surest horseman in the column, old in
Indian fighting, versed in all the legends of the country, knowing
the Indians as a mother knows her children and the prairies as a
postman knows his beat.  Though usually silent and distant, this
giant seemed to take a fancy to Hector and unbent to him always.
After a time they made a custom of riding together.  He was guide and
interpreter; a quarter breed; and Martin Brent his name.

Old Martin told Hector everything he knew, and started him fairly off
towards being one of the best men in the Force.

As they moved forward, week by week, through sun and storm, intense
heat, dead calm, cold rain and blustering wind, the country changed.
The wide levels of plain dotted with small bushes became little
ridges, sharp bluffs and rounded hills.  Then a maze of rivers
appeared before them, running in all directions but Martin led them
unerringly through.  Next came a bolder roll of prairie, with wider
valleys and steeper, larger crests, sweeping on again to blend with
the confused jumble of foot-hills which fringe the Rocky Mountains.
The Commissioner at last turned back Eastward.  The
Assistant-Commissioner pushed on, Hector's division with him.
Indians hovered restlessly on their flanks and came to visit them
with tokens of friendship.  Not a shot was fired against them.  Once
they passed through immense herds of buffalo, covering the plains for
miles like a restless sea, the rear-guard of a tribe fast
disappearing.  At last the long-expected mountains rose in the
Assistant-Commissioner's path, marking the limits of their journey, a
line of blanketed chiefs, a ridge of wintry sea hurling silvery
crests against long palisades of angry sunset.

Here they halted and prepared to build their barracks, the great trek
ended.

A thousand miles, or little less, had been covered since they left
Dufferin.  In their trail blossomed flowers of law and order.  The
wilderness became a Land of Promise as they passed.  Today the iron
road, laden with the traffic of a continent, gleams where their
wagons rolled.  Prosperous farms rise everywhere on the expanse which
to them was only an Indian hunting-ground.  Young towns stand where
they pitched their lonely tents.  Proud cities blaze and thunder
where they built their lonely forts and in peace and ease a People
reap the harvest sown by them in peril and privation.


III

Before winter took full command the barracks were built--rough
cabins, enclosed in a stockade--and the Flag hoisted.  They
christened the place Fort Macleod, in honour of their chief.

In the meantime, callers came and left their cards, came from
everywhere--white men and Indians--but especially Indians.  One of
the first visitors was Crowfoot, chief of the Blackfoot Nation, who
rode in with his fellow-chiefs of the Bloods and Piegans, a Prince of
the Plains surrounded by his Court.  They were tall, straight,
fearless men, well armed, dressed in buffalo-robes or gay blankets,
richly beaded moccasins and leggings, brass rings round their neat
black braids, feathers in their hair.  Martin began the pow-wow by
presenting them to the Assistant-Commissioner.  Then they squatted in
a semi-circle before him and passed around the pipe of peace.

When the Colonel had explained the why and wherefore of the Force and
Martin had interpreted, his long hair thrown back, his eyes blazing,
the chiefs stood up in turn and gave thanks.  They told of the
devastating fire-water, of women carried away, of robes and horses
stolen, of pillage and butchery endured at the hands of beastly white
men.  They showed themselves facing starvation through the wanton
destruction of the buffalo.  But now, they said, those days were past.

"Before you came, we crept in terror of our lives," said The Gopher.
"Today we walk erect and are men."

Most eloquent of all was Crowfoot himself.

"Hear me," he began, "for I speak for every man, woman and child of
the Blackfoot Nation."  Then, baring his arm and with proud gestures,
he went on.  "I thank the Great White Mother and the One Above who
rules us all because they have sent to us the Shagalasha, the
red-coats, to save us from the bad white man and from ourselves.  The
Shagalasha are our friends.  When we see them we lower our rifles and
show them the open hand.  What you have said is good and what you say
shall be the law.  I have spoken."

Hector, hearing these words interpreted, remembered how they had
marched unchallenged through thousands of Indians, looked at his
scarlet coat and, with a strange thrill of pride, understood.

Other visitors came to Fort Macleod in those early days--white
men--spies sent by the whiskey-traders, curious American horsemen,
and a few settlers, who thanked God, as Crowfoot had done, for
sending the Police to deliver them from the drunken Indian and the
low-down white.  Of the settlers, none was so thankful, none became
so popular in the course of a few calls, as Joe Welland, who lived on
a homestead of sorts some sixty miles to the south, on St. Mary's
River.

A keen-faced, clean-shaven, strong-handed man was Welland,
tawny-haired, lean, sinewy as a broncho and as hard.  He came in one
day from what he called his 'ranch,' riding a fast mustang which he
handled as easily as an expert dancer handles his partner on a
ball-room floor.  First he called on the Assistant-Commissioner, hat
in hand, showing him the respect which was his due and telling him
that the arrival of the Police was something for which he had prayed
ever since he first came West.  Thence he went to see 'the boys,' who
received him cordially and consented to smoke some excellent cigars
which, somehow, even in that wilderness, he could offer them.  He
revealed a quiet, congenial manner and wits which were as sharp as
needles.

His antecedents, such as they were, were satisfactory, representing
all his respectable neighbours knew of him, which was not much.  From
them the boys learned: First, that Welland was well educated; second,
had been born in North America, none knew exactly where; third, had
lived in the country at least ten years; fourth, was of unimpeachable
character; fifth, seemed apparently well off; sixth, was one of the
'livest' men in the Canadian North-West; seventh, like most of his
fellows, was a squaw-man.

"You'll like Welland," said the honest traders.  "He's dead against
the whiskey-men.  And he'll surely help to make things lively!"


IV

A short time before Christmas Welland met and halted Hector on the
trail outside the fort.

"We're going to have as real a Christmas here as you can get in this
God-forsaken country, Hector," he announced.  "The officers and men
will chip in a day's pay.  The store-keepers will help us out and
we'll form a citizens' committee.  We're going to have a dance and
dinner and ask every decent man and woman we can lay our hands on.
The Old Man's consented, but it's a secret so far.  So mum's the
word."

"That's fine, Joe," said Hector--there had grown up quite an intimacy
between them.  "Who started the idea?  First I've heard of it."

"S-s-h!" replied Welland, twinkling.  "Not a word, boy.  I--I started
it myself.  You see, I thought this-ud be a lonely Christmas for you
young fellows, the first in a strange land, and we'd better help to
make it a merry one.  A sort of combined affair, it'll be, d'you
see--welcome on our part, house-warming on yours."

"Good of you, Joe," Hector asserted.

"Bosh!  Another thing--I'm going to suggest you for your committee."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Hector.  "Don't do that, Joe."

"Why not?" asked Welland, smiling a little.

"Well--you see--first of all--I--the boys might think I'd put you up
to it.  They know we're friendly.  Second, I don't want to push
myself.  If they want to elect me, let them do it on their own.
Besides, I don't know anything about these things."

Welland set out to crush this youthful modesty.

"Now, look, Hec'.  This will be done quiet and nice and proper.
There won't be any harming you in the eyes of the boys.  I'll just
tip Sergeant-Major Whittaker that I want you on the committee because
I think you're one of the most suitable men they can elect.  He'll
put you forward--he thinks as I do--and then you'll get a place.
You're a gentleman born.  You've seen how parties should be run--yes,
you have!--and you're popular.  Young?  Hang it, boy!  What does your
age matter?  There's not a more manly or popular character in the
whole Force.  Come, Hec', to oblige me!  Well, I don't care whether
you like it or not--you're going on this committee!"

With that he rode away.

Hector hated this favouritism but was none the less flattered.
Welland, it seemed, had taken a fancy to him at the first
meeting--had apparently singled him out from the ruck.  And now this
remarkable demonstration of the man's esteem had come.  Welland was
one of the best friends of the Force in the country.  To be singled
out for his favours was a high compliment.  But Hector didn't want to
be on the committee!

A few days later, at Sergeant-Major Whittaker's instigation, he found
himself elected.  Preparations commenced.  Welland was mainly
responsible for their success.

Welland it was who acted as the link between the Police and the
civilians, advised the Assistant-Commissioner on a hundred points
and, though he modestly refused a place on the committee himself, did
more than any other man to help the thing forward.  He won the
co-operation of the grouchiest store-keepers; solved the difficulty
of obtaining enough flags to decorate the ball-room by having them
manufactured at Fort Benton, in Montana, the nearest town; soothed
all disunity among the members of the citizens' committee with a
quiet word here, a story there; and oiled all the wheels of the
preliminaries with a master-hand.

And, when the festivities had actually started, Welland was always at
hand.  If a guest became unruly, he brought him to his senses without
disturbing for one moment the smooth tide of convivial joy.  If the
fiddlers got drunk before the dance, Welland had them in their
places, tuning up, as fresh as daisies, when the hour for music came.
To crown it all, he was so self-effacing that he might have been a
helpful unseen spirit rather than a man.

As for Hector, the Colonel afterwards congratulated him on the part
he had played in the arrangements.

"I owe this to Welland," Hector thought, a sentiment which would have
greatly pleased that honest gentleman, as it happened to be true.




Chapter III


I

But there was more work than play for the Police in those early days,
when they were striking at the roots of disorder.

The most powerful of their foes was the whiskey-trader.  To the
extermination of the whiskey-trader they directed a special campaign.
Hardly a day went by through all the winter which did not see an
expedition starting out to raid some distant outfit or returning with
prisoners and spoil.  A long ride through solitary darkness, a
careful bit of scouting to surround the blissfully ignorant camp, a
sudden swoop at dawn with levelled carbines and sometimes with a
flurry of resistance; the guilty parties taken, the robes and liquor
confiscated--thus went the programme.  Courage, endurance, cunning,
endless patience were all required to win success in the great game
and no man employed on a whiskey raid could claim that his talents
were wasted.

'Red-hot' Dan was operator, single-handed, of a den near the
boundary-line.  He was also a desperate character.

But no law-breaker, however desperate, could go unchallenged now.
The Police must deal with him as with all.  An exception, however,
was made to this extent: the party was picked unusually carefully.

Sergeant-Major Whittaker led it.  Martin Brent went with him as scout
and guide.  The three others were Constable Cranbrook; Constable
Bland, the finest marksman in the Force; and Constable Adair.

The trumpeter was sounding 'Reveille' as they left Fort Macleod and
turned their horses southward.

At dusk they reached Joe Welland's shack, where they proposed to pass
the night.  A light gleamed through the grimy panes.

"The King's in his Castle," remarked Cranbrook.

Sergeant-Major Whittaker knocked.  Welland opened the door, a
startled exclamation springing to his lips at sight of the scarlet
coats.

"Good God!" he cried sharply.  Then, "Oh, it's you!  You scared me,
boys.  I never know who's prowling 'round in parts like these.  But
welcome--come right in."

"Did you think we'd come for you, old chap?" laughed Cranbrook, as
they clanked across the threshold.

"You might have done, at that!" Welland grinned.  "But what's the
game, boys?  Eh?  Never mind that now, though.  Whatever it is,
you'll eat and spend the night here.  I won't take 'No.'"

"Here's our orders to you, Welland," replied the Sergeant-Major.  "A
place for five horses; water for the same; use of your fire for
cooking grub for four hungry men and a boy"--with a smiling nod at
Hector--"and shelter till we choose to move."

"Done!  I know you're after some darn whiskey-trader; so you're
welcome more than ever," cried Welland.  "Hey, Lizzie; fix fire, get
table ready--quick, mighty quick.  You're going to eat on me,
Sergeant-Major."

At Welland's command, his squaw, a poor, bedraggled object, in
home-made skirt and blanket, her hair braided and looped up behind,
emerged from a corner and began to obey the orders of her lord and
master.

"Now, the stable.  Not a soul will guess your horses are there!"

He was a shrewd customer.

The horses put up, they all sat down to supper, while Lizzie waited
on them.  Welland treated her roughly and Hector's estimation of him
bumped down suddenly.  As they ate, Hector studied the room, which he
had never seen before.  It gave a not unfavourable insight into the
owner's character.  Surprisingly well furnished, it was carpeted in
buffalo robes, its walls were hung with wolf skins, and pictures of
places and people dear to Welland alternated with cuts from magazines
to give it a touch of civilization.  A couch covered by a gay Navajo
blanket occupied a corner.  Several first-class rifles stood in
racks.  There were books on shelves.  This was the home of a man of
at least some culture.

"Think it funny to see those bindings here, Hec'?" the observant
Welland asked.  "I tell you, Joe's not as rough a diamond as he
looks.  I couldn't leave Bill Shakespeare behind me when I first came
West; and I find a lot of people in these parts remind me of Don
Quixote!"

Hector wondered if that was a dig at the Police.  But he let it pass.

After supper, Welland for the first time broached the subject of
their expedition.

"You'll find that 'Red-hot' Dan a real tough nut to crack," he said.

Hector wondered how Welland had guessed.  Trained by this time to
conceal his thoughts, however, he gave no sign.  The laconic Martin
did not move a muscle.  The road was clear for Sergeant-Major
Whittaker.

"I've heard he is," he answered smoothly.  No blind betrayal of their
purpose there!

"You have?  Then you'll be careful what you do."

"When we arrest him--yes."

"I'd shoot at sight if I were you."

"We never shoot at sight in the Police, Joe."

"But 'Red-hot' Dan does."

"What's he got to do with us?"

"See here, Sergeant-Major--why not trust me?  You needn't play you're
not going after Dan, because I know you are.  He's the only
whiskey-trader operating 'round here and----"

"Trust you?  Why, of course we trust you!" laughed the cunning
Sergeant-Major.  "But we don't talk about our work to--outsiders."

"I guess I should be snubbed!" said Welland.  "That's a nasty slap to
a man who wants to help you.  I'm talking for your good when I tell
you Dan's a devil.  Wait till I tell you----"

And he narrated several stories of the trader's daring.

"Now," he concluded, "if that won't satisfy you, ask Martin there.
Isn't Dan a dangerous man, Martin?"

Martin, apparently asleep, pricked up his ears like a dozing dog.

"You bet," he said.

"There!" Welland declared.  "The whole country knows these things.
You're new--and you should be warned."

"Trying to frighten us?" the Sergeant-Major asked.

"Yes, I am.  If you'll take my tip, you'll go back to Fort Macleod
for reinforcements.  Five of you can't take Dan without bloodshed."

"You don't think much of us, that's sure."  Whittaker smiled.  "Now
look, Joe Welland!  We appreciate your warnings--but--how d'you know
we're after 'Red-hot' Dan?  And suppose we were--could we go back to
the fort without trying to get him?  How about Dan?  Wouldn't he get
wind of us and skip while we were away?  How about our orders?  But
what's the use?  Who said we're after him?"

"You're taking chances!"

"We can take 'em!" said the Sergeant-Major, fiercely brushing his
moustaches.

"All right.  Have it your own way!  I've warned you, anyhow."
Welland was obviously disappointed.  "My hands are clean!"


II

At four o'clock, having covered the twenty miles between Welland's
and the trader's in excellent time, they found themselves near the
scene of action.  The Sergeant-Major ordered Cranbrook to stay behind
with the horses and the rest of them crawled to the edge of the ridge
overlooking 'Red-hot' Dan's cabin.

Hector's heart beat fast.  This was the first experience promising
real danger which had fallen to him since he joined the Force.

Down in the long valley they saw the hut--grey, lonely, forbidding,
in the dawn.  But--unexpected blow!--it seemed deserted.  In all the
valley there was no sign of life.  The shack was like a skull in the
desert.  Life had been there.  It was there no longer.  Had the wolf
scented their coming and--taken to his heels?

"By the Lord!" muttered the Sergeant-Major, between clenched teeth,
"the beggar's gone!"

Martin smiled cunningly.

"You think so?  _I_ don't!  You see no trail going away--no.  The
beggar home, all right!  But he play dead.  No time get away, so he
think: 'Pretend me gone.  Foolum.'  See?"

Light dawned on the Sergeant-Major's countenance.

"Now, listen: Dead snake always most bad snake.  Always be more
careful with dead snake.  Make good plan now--he there, I bet you."

And so, assuming Dan at home, they made their plan.  Keeping under
cover, they crept to a point very near the shack.  Sergeant-Major
Whittaker posted Bland to cover the door from one hand, Martin from
the other.  To order the trader to come out was, they knew, quite
useless.  He would not surrender while the shack afforded him
shelter.  They must persuade him to admit them--then seize him.  At
the first sign of resistance, Martin and Bland were to shoot the man
dead as he stood in the doorway.

"Come on, Adair," the Sergeant-Major smiled coolly.  "You an' me must
do the dirty work.  Keep the bracelets handy."

So, their revolvers in their holsters, the pair of them approached
the shack on the blind or windowless side.  The sun was almost over
the horizon.  No sound, no movement betrayed a human presence in the
shack.  But one significant fact became obvious as they crept 'round
to the front.  The windows had been stoutly barricaded.

Close to the door they were, now--the air taut as a violin string.

The Sergeant-Major, motioning to Hector to remain where he was,
strode boldly from cover and rapped thunderously on the heavy portal.

They heard only the echoes dapping through the rooms.  Was there
really no one there?

Again the Sergeant-Major knocked--twice--three times--without result.
Then, like a drill instructor on the square, he bellowed:

"Open that door there--in the Queen's name!"

And then the answer came.  A streak of flame flashed out, and a
deafening report.  Hector heard the bullet zip past him.  The
Sergeant-Major pitched down upon his face.

'Red-hot' Dan was 'Red-hot' Dan indeed--and decidedly at home!


III

Hector acted as his natural courage bade him; but how he got the
Sergeant-Major away he never rightly knew.  Bullets buzzed all 'round
him as Martin and Bland maintained a rapid fire to cover his retreat.
Through a tiny loophole in one of the barricaded windows keen eyes
watched him as he dropped on his knees and crawled out to the
motionless form.  From this loophole other bullets came ringing, in
quest of his life.  Mechanically he lifted the little Sergeant-Major
and slung him over his shoulders--his hot young strength standing him
in good stead.  A minute more and he was safely back with Bland and
Martin, gazing stupidly at the Sergeant-Major, now lying on the
ground, and asking, "Is he dead?"

His clothes were shot through, his hands bloody and he felt sick and
shaken.  But the spasm passed, leaving him--ready for anything.

Bred and trained for leadership, this was his opportunity.  The
Sergeant-Major knocked out, command of the party fell naturally into
Hector's hands, hands preordained and long prepared to grapple with
just such a menace.  He had no thought of the benefits which would
come to him if he dealt with it successfully.  He only saw that
someone must take the Sergeant-Major's place.  He felt his powers
rising to the occasion like a thoroughbred rising to a leap.

The Sergeant-Major, shot through the chest, was not dead but in great
pain.  Obviously, he must be sent away at once.  Hector, now firmly
in the saddle of authority, was already at grips with his problems.

"Tommy," he said to Bland, "I want you to take the Sergeant-Major
back to Cranbrook.  He'll manage it if you take your time.  Then get
on your horse, put the S.-M. on his, and ride back to Welland's.
After you get there, leave him with Welland and go on to the fort.
Report to the Colonel and he'll send a cart and medical help to
Welland's.  Is that all clear?"

Bland nodded.

"Then listen.  When you start for Welland's, ride with the
Sergeant-Major over that ridge there, in front of the shack.  Tell
Cranbrook to follow you, leaving the other horses hobbled for the
time being.  After you're over that ridge, make straight for
Welland's, while Cranbrook will go back by a detour, under cover, to
where he leaves the horses and wait till we come.  I'll tell you why
I want this done.  The fellow in that shack only knows that there are
three of us--the S.-M. and myself, because he saw us, and someone
else who fired at the house while I brought the S.-M. back.  So when
he sees three of you, one wounded, ride back over that ridge, he'll
think you the whole party--that we've all gone off.  Then he'll come
out or get careless and we can surprise him.  Savvy?"

"You're a corker, Hec'!" said Bland.

Hector's instructions were carried out precisely.  In half an hour he
saw three horsemen move slowly over the ridge, one supported by a
rider on each side.  They were in full view from the barricaded
windows and their scarlet coats could be seen.

But the garrison of the shack was in no hurry to emerge.  An hour
passed--two--three.  Hunger dug its claws into Hector.  Nevertheless,
he decided to wait till doomsday.  Patience, he knew, would decide
this battle.  The force that held out longest would win.

If only 'Red-hot' Dan and his colleagues--if he had any--would show
their noses for just a minute, the whole thing would be over.
Hector's game was to hold them up, keeping under cover himself and to
shoot them out of hand if they resisted.  Dan, however, was too sly a
bird.  The afternoon wore on and still no sign of him was seen.
Either he feared a trap or was perfectly content to spend the day
indoors.

It was when his patience was exhausted that Hector evolved his second
scheme.  Pondering the situation, it came to him in a flash of
inspiration.  He confided in Martin.  The interpreter's patience was
inexhaustible and, knowing that the waiting game was the sure game,
he had not troubled to seek out any other.  But now he vowed that the
little tenderfoot was a clever little fellow and threw himself
whole-heartedly into the plan.

Hector, taking off his boots, crawled up behind the shack and so to
the roof, taking pains to make no noise.  Then he awaited
developments.

In time another actor came upon the scene, but from the front and
marching openly forward.  He was a half-naked Indian carrying a rifle
in his hand.  He knocked at the door.  Hector's spirits leaped.  The
first sound of a human voice from within came floating gruffly upward:

"Who's there?"

The Indian, in Blackfoot, demanded fire-water.  A panel in the door
was opened and a face looked out cautiously.  The moment, now, was at
hand.  Would the trader open the door?

'Red-hot' Dan, the Police forgotten, emerged, a cupful of liquor in
his hand.  The Indian raised his eyes--the signal meaning they had
only one man to conquer.  Straight and true, with deadly force and
swiftness, Hector launched himself full upon the trader.  The
Blackfoot dropped his rifle, too.  Their enemy resisted desperately,
the atmosphere electric with his fair round oaths.  But Hector's
weight and strength and Martin's powerful aid--the Blackfoot was only
Martin, undressed for the occasion--were far too much for him.  In
half a minute all was over.  Hector had the handcuffs on his victim
and 'Red-hot' Dan, terror of the plains, fiercest whiskey-trader in
the country, lay sprawling beneath him, a hoodwinked prisoner.


IV

The Assistant-Commissioner promoted Hector to corporal for that day's
capture, and set his feet on the long, steep road to victory.




Chapter IV


I

From beneath the skirt of the teepee a young prairie chicken
emerged--no ordinary prairie chicken, but an absurd thing dressed in
a little pair of trousers and a scrap of scarlet blanket.  Hector
grinned.  The chicken stood irresolute, looking wildly 'round for a
favourable avenue of escape.  While it hesitated, two small brown
hands and arms appeared from under the teepee and frantically
searched the air.  The chicken danced away.  A dishevelled head next
wriggled its way into the open air, two bright black eyes flashed a
pitiful appeal to Hector, a soft voice cried:

"Oh, pony-soldier, please, pony-soldier--catch my prairie
chicken--catch my baby!"

Burly Corporal MacFarlane, Hector's companion in this stroll through
the Assiniboine encampment, smiled heavily but made no move.  Hector
started off in pursuit.

The ground was rough, his boots and spurs were very heavy, the
agility of the baby was amazing and the crowded teepees were serious
obstacles.  Hector dashed 'round and 'round, close behind.  He
tripped, scraped his hands, stumbled up, heard MacFarlane's
encouraging "For'ard on!" made another desperate effort, crashed over
a box and emerged from the wreckage triumphant, the baby shrilling in
his arms.

"Got him, Mac!" he called.  "Now, where's the owner of this
independent bird?"

He was at the teepee in a moment, but of the owner nothing could be
seen.  Two years and more had taught him that most Indian women were
intensely shy with white men.  He had learnt something of their
languages from Martin Brent--the knowledge was useful in his
work--and by this time could speak them fairly fluently.  The little
squaw had been overcome by shyness but was not far away.

He summoned her in her own tongue:

"Here is your prairie chicken, O chieftain's daughter!  Come and get
your prairie chicken!"

No answer came.

"O chieftain's daughter," he cooed seductively, "do not keep the poor
pony-soldier waiting.  And your baby!"

The charm brought results in time.  Two hands were thrust from the
door of the teepee, the fingers stretched to take the bird, but of
the lady herself nothing was visible.

Hector was disappointed.

"Why don't you come out?" he coaxed.  "Surely you will thank the
pony-soldier--the poor pony-soldier who ran so far to bring your baby
back?"

She came.

Hector had leisure now to confirm first impressions.  She was very
pretty, in her Indian way.  Her gentle eyes, clear and limpid as a
fawn's, glanced shyly upward at his own.  Her lips, on which the
smiles were trembling, were red petals from the prairie rose.  The
two thick plaits in which her hair was braided were of that rich
blue-black which is the exclusive birthright of Indians and Latins.
She wore an elaborately beaded buckskin dress, which truly marked her
as the daughter of a chief.  The rare beauty of her body, unspoilt by
heavy work, the looseness of her dress could not conceal.  Hector
could not place her age, but she was delightfully young; and that was
good enough.

"Take it," he said gravely, handing her the bird.

Taking it, her small fingers mingling with his, she spoke at last, a
swift smile bringing light to her face, like a rainbow in sad skies.

"Thank you, pony-soldier, for catching my baby."

Serious, then, both were, till all at once the humour of the
situation struck her and her smile flashed back to break in little
rills of laughter.  She laughed like a child, with her whole body.
Hector burst out laughing, too, his spirit echoing back her mood.
MacFarlane, behind, growled peevishly.  A moment more and her shyness
was back again.  Her pet on her breast, a final word of thanks on her
lips, she vanished, leaving Hector standing there.

"You laugh with my daughter, my son?  That is good--for to laugh is
to be happy."

Hector turned, surprised.

Before him stood a chief--a minor chief, as chiefs went, but as fine
a figure as the plains could boast of, the very soul of
chieftainship.  He was tall and spare, straight and majestic as a
pine, dressed in a barbaric splendor which became him to perfection.
But his greatness was written mainly in his face.  The wisdom of a
hundred medicine men, made rich by long years of life, was in it,
with strength, true strength--which is utterly devoid of arrogance or
vanity--the calmness of a meditative mind, vast dignity and high
authority.  And his long white hair and mighty war-bonnet framed it
all with glory.

"You laugh with her--is it not so?" he said.

"She has a cheerful heart," Hector answered, finding his voice.

"And you," the chief asserted, "you have one, too.  But kind
also--few white men would run to catch the pet belonging to a little
squaw."  He smiled.  "You are interested in us?  So you walk through
the camp to see us?"

"Yes," said Hector.

"That is good, for we are brothers, you and I, though I call you
'son.'  You must come and see us when you will.  We are--you know
it?--of the Assiniboines.  My name is Sleeping Thunder, and my
daughter's name is Moon-on-the-Water.  So you will find us."

Moon-on-the-Water!  She was like her name.

"I will come and see you soon, Sleeping Thunder," replied Hector.

As they walked away, MacFarlane threw in a ponderous comment.

"Funny old man!  Girl's pretty, though--for an In'jun.  You made a
hit there, Hec'!"


II

Sleeping Thunder's camp was only one of many gathered together that
day in the Fort Macleod country, where the Indians were to meet the
Queen's officials to make a treaty.  Hector's division was there on
escort duty.

The years had brought swift and sweeping changes.  To-day Hector was
a senior sergeant, though still in the early twenties, knowing his
work inside out, intimate with the red men, an expert catcher of
criminals and particularly of whiskey-traders, his special game.
Honest, hard, dangerous work had put the triple chevrons on his arm.
And drawing nearer every day, though still a dreary distance off, the
first faint flashes of the higher light he sought were slowly opening
before his eyes.

The Police had wrought great things in the few years behind them.
The whiskey traffic had been much reduced and the old system of
trading posts was gone, entirely and forever.  The effect had been to
convert the Indian to ways of peace.  This in turn had brought the
settler in who, up till now, had barely dared to show a timid nose in
the country south of the Red Deer.  Already the plains were dotted
with homesteads, and cattle roamed along the grass lands soon to
become tenanted by the immense herds of prosperous ranches.  More
settlers and more settlers were pouring out from the East.  Before
they could be accommodated, some title to the lands they wanted must
be given them.  The red men claimed the whole of the Northwest
Territories.  They were willing to relinquish them in return for
certain privileges.  So treaties were made with the great tribes in
turn.  And now the tribes of the Macleod district had come together
to make their treaty too.


III

"You have a love for our ways and an interest in our customs?" asked
Sleeping Thunder.  "You admired our warriors?"

"Yes," Hector answered.

They were standing with Moon outside the chief's teepee on the last
day of the treaty celebrations.

"Would you like to see more of them?  You have not really seen us
until you have seen the Sun Dance, which we hold each year in the
summer."

"I want to see much more," said Hector.  The romance of the things he
had recently witnessed had fascinated him.  "I would like to see the
Sun Dance."

"Then hear me.  If you do not mind camping with Indians, come to us
next year and I will show you.  I will teach you all our practices,
our stories and legends and more of our language.  It is too late
this year, but next year--.  I will send a messenger to tell you
where to come and when.  I would like you to come--and so would Moon."

"_You_ would like me to come?" Hector asked, smiling at Moon.

She flashed a demure answer with her eyes.

An attractive little thing, this Indian girl!

"Then I will come," said Hector, seizing the opportunity.

With that promise they parted.


IV

In June of the following year, Hector, in frontier outfit; his
uniform laid aside, rode out to meet Sleeping Thunder and to see the
Sun Dance.

MacFarlane saw him off at the stables.

"Who is she, Hec'?" he asked, raising his bushy brows and smiling
meaningly.  "That pretty little squaw, isn't it?"

Hector, whacking the pack-pony into motion and touching up his horse,
looked down and smiled in return.

"You will have your little joke, won't you, Mac?" he said.  "The
girl's got nothing to do with it."

"Hasn't she?" MacFarlane mocked.  "Oh, no--not at all!"

On the trail Hector headed southward, thinking of many things.

His interview with Sub-Inspector Lescheneaux, a wizened, bird-like
French-Canadian commanding Hector's troop, when asking for leave, had
been a droll but pleasing affair, ending very flatteringly.

"No leave ov h'absence since we first cam' out 'ere," the worthy
little man had ruminated; "one ov bes' N.C.O.s in dis de-vision,
_oui_; 'as don' more to stamp out d'illicit wheesk-ey traffic den any
oder sergeant I know; desires leave ov h'absence for one for'd'night;
_vraiment_, 'e deserve it, too.  Eef Inspect-eur Denton 'as no
_ob_jection, Sergeant, you go by all means.  I t'ink, Sergeant-Major
Whee-taker, we say dis request granted, eh?  Good luck,
Sergeant--_bon voyage_.  _Tiens!_"

The Sergeant-Major, too, had made Hector happy.

"He's right--right, by God, he is!  Since that day at 'Red-hot'
Dan's, Adair, yes, and before that, I marked you for a winner.
You've certainly earned your little rest--damn my buttons, yes!"

This was true, all of it.  Hector had worked hard.  He had acquired a
reputation in the Force as one of the smartest hunters of
whiskey-runners it possessed.

But there were flies in the ointment and snakes in the grass.  He had
not yet been able, for all his hard work, to put down the traffic in
the district allotted to him.  Most of the traders and runners had
long since fallen into his hands.  Yet there was still a great deal
of trading the source of which he could not trace.  Some underground
current was pouring through the district carrying liquor to the
Indians.  During the past few months he had made a particularly stern
effort to dam the flood.  Success would temporarily reward him.
Then, suddenly, without warning, the stream would bubble out in some
new spot--in twenty spots at once.  The mystery troubled him.  The
hold it had secured on him made itself obvious in the fact that,
though he had fixedly resolved to forget it for a fortnight, it had
him now.

But the glorious appeal of the morning soon drove it from his mind.
It was full June, the sky was a light blue dome, golden at bottom,
where the sun blazed, and flecked elsewhere with baby clouds drifting
before the lazy wind.  The long grass, clean, shining, went rippling
to the edges of eternity.  The larks piped in the hollows and the
little gophers sat up to watch him as he passed.  Hector was young,
the day was young, and troubles fly light as thistledown over the
heads of Youth when the time of the year is June.

In a minute or two he was singing a jibing song beloved by the Force,
that band of happy warriors who would not take things seriously:

  _So pass the tea and let us drink
    To the guardians of the land.
  You bet your life it's not our fault
    If whiskey's contraband!_


When he sighted Welland's place, where he planned to spend the night,
his roving fancy clicked sharply back to roost and turned to Welland.

The friendship between them, though it had prospered in the years now
gone, had never reached real intimacy.  But Welland's fortunes had
been amazingly strengthened during recent times.  Prosperity seemed
to come to him unsought There was something almost strange in it.
Probably he had money invested elsewhere.  As men count wealth in
other places, he was not yet a Crœsus, of course, but a great
improvement was palpably evident.  Several new sheds and stables;
acres of cultivated ground; cattle and horses; two wagons in the
yard; the shack extended and freshly painted--these were obvious
additions to the real and personal property owned by Welland when the
Police first came to the country.  Had he fallen heir to Aladdin's
lamp?  How, otherwise, had he acquired all this so easily?

As Hector rode slowly down upon the homestead through the velvet
dusk, a strange thing happened.  From the house he heard an awesome,
chilling sound--dull, measured, heavy,--like blows on raw beef.  And
this sound was punctuated by several low screams, each whimpering,
one by one, into a moan.  Completely baffled, he dismounted near the
stables, raised the 'long yell' that common courtesy demanded, and
waited.

Welland came out, peering through the gloom.

"It's me, Joe," Hector called.  "Adair!"

"Oh, that you, Hec'?" Welland responded with genuine pleasure.  "Good
boy!  What brings you here this time o' night?"

Hector told him, still wondering----

"Leave, eh?  Going down to Milk River, eh?  Fine!  Fine!  Of course
you'll spend the night here, and feed, too.  Come on!  I'll take your
horses."

When they entered the house, Lizzie was there, smiling cheerily
enough on Hector, whom she knew well by this time--Lizzie, in a new
striped skirt, sharing her man's prosperity.

"It couldn't be," Hector decided.  Thereupon he placed what he had
heard aside, in one of those innumerable pigeonholes of memory, where
facts and incidents are unconsciously stowed away till wanted.

In the morning Welland gave him surprise No. 2.

"Hec', you're interested in the suppression of the liquor traffic,"
he asserted.  "I don't know if you've come across this arrangement,
though.  It's one of the neatest things devised yet."

He handed him that common relic of the prairie, a buffalo skull.

"The horns, as you know, are hollow.  The tips have been cleverly cut
off and made into caps, to act as corks.  You pour in the whiskey and
put the caps on.  Perfectly tight--perfectly safe!  Load a cart up
with buffalo skulls, same as all the Indians are doing now, mix a few
of these among 'em and you can get your stuff into any reserve in the
country without being caught.  Who'd suspect a wagonload of buffalo
skulls?"

Hector examined it, brain busy.

"Where did you get it?"

"One of those In'juns you arrested about two weeks ago gave it to me.
I did him a good turn once.  Want it?"

"I might get it when I come back.  Here's how!"

"All right.  Good hunting!"

Trouble brooded on Hector's face as he turned his horses out into the
morning.

He was miles on his way before the holiday spirit came back to him
and the buffalo skull went bang into its pigeon-hole.

Milk River, now!  And Moon!  And Sleeping Thunder!


V

The nights between the days which witnessed the Sun Dance Hector
thought wonderful, for it was then that Sleeping Thunder opened his
heart.  Each night they sat beside the crimson fire, before the
teepee, under a splendid canopy of purple strewn with stars.  The
silence of the plains, with only the howl of a lonely wolf by way of
contrast, was about them as they sat, their voices took on mystic
qualities unknown to them by day, the air was tense with hidden
forces.  Nothing stirred and there was nothing to divert them but the
flitting form of Moon, attending the fire.

Hector spoke of one thing which dominated his mind, puzzling him.

"At this meeting, Sleeping Thunder, I have seen two ceremonies: one
the making of a brave, the other the renewal of the vows of wives and
maidens.  To me these are as far apart as sun and earth.  The first,
to me--and I speak for all white men--is barbarous and cruel.  But
the second is very beautiful.  Why do we find these things in the
same race and practised by one people?"

Sleeping Thunder, answering him, revealed the entire sum and
substance of his Indian philosophy:

"Because you find a thing you think terrible standing side by side
with something that is beautiful, you are puzzled.  But there is
nothing strange in this.  It is true to Nature.  In one man, to say
nothing of peoples, you will find great evils dwelling with much that
is good.  In the white race, as in the Indian, practices that are
beautiful and practices that are ugly walk hand in hand.  The white
man's law, shielding the weak from the strong, is beautiful.  The
white man's gambling dens and saloons are not.  The Indians, my son,
are not the only people possessed at once by good and evil!"

The old man smiled, his bright eyes fixed on Hector.

"But is it evil----" he resumed, "this ceremony of making warriors?
What, after all, do we most admire in a man?  White men and red
alike, we especially admire strength, courage and fortitude.  You are
content to await the great test of action to prove that your comrades
possess these qualities.  Till then you credit them with all the
strength, courage and fortitude they should rightly have.  But we
Indians, we are not so easily satisfied.  We demand that a young man
prove himself before the hour of action.  When danger rises in your
very path and Death awaits you with his arrow on the string, that is
no time, we say, to test a man for the first time.  Your safety,
perhaps your life, depends, in that moment, on the courage, strength
and fortitude of those about you.  Then surely you should see that
those about you are brave and strong and hardy before entrusting
either life or safety to their keeping?  That is wisdom, my son, that
is right.  The boy must show that he is fit to go before we take him
with us.  Therefore, we try him in the Sun Dance.  If he
succeeds--then, we need have no further doubts.  If he fails--the
lives of men are saved and no needless risks are encountered by the
remainder of the tribe.  The test is severe?  Yes; because,
otherwise, it would be worthless.  But no lasting injury results.
What, then, are a few drops of blood, a little agony?

"My son, the Indian does not shun, he embraces the opportunity of
that ceremony.  Does it not show that he has courage, strength and
fortitude, which crown a man with glory as his antlers crown the
caribou?

"Now in a woman--what do we admire?"  The chief's voice grew tender.
"Is it gentleness, is it obedience?  These things we honour, yes.
But greater than these, and higher than them all, is Purity!  White
men and red alike, that is the thing we would have especially in
woman.  We are ourselves weak and corrupt.  We feel in our hearts the
need of something to help us to be better.  So we ask that help from
these, our women.  We make of Purity a torch of light and put that
torch in the hands of those we love, to guide us through the storm.
We would have our women--" here he swept a hand towards the
skies--"as high above us, as white and clear as yonder stars, to show
the way, as they do.  We would have them like the peaks of the
World's Backbone, which you call the Rocky Mountains, looking always,
like them, upon our deeds, landmarks, like them, to guide us by day,
as the stars guide us by night, crowned with that virtue, Purity, as
the peaks are crowned with spotless snow and, like those peaks, so
glorious, so unchanging, so near the Great Spirit--nearer, far, than
we!--that only to look on them fills our hearts with awe and wonder.
So we would have our women.

"But here again the white and red man part.  Your women shrink from a
public declaration such as ours endure.  Unlike you, we do more than
teach our women purity.  We ask them to dedicate themselves to purity
before the eyes of all.  We hold that virtue up before them as a
thing to be prized.  Then is the shame which follows any falling from
the heights made trebly terrible.  So do our women learn that it is
for them to be true to the laws of the Great Spirit and leave
love-making to the male--as with birds, animals, fishes, so must it
be with men and women."

Moon, in the shadows, stirred restlessly.

"Both these ceremonies, my son, are beautiful, for they glorify
strength, courage and fortitude in men, purity in women.  Then there
is nothing strange in the observance of these ceremonies by one and
the same people.  I wonder--do you understand now?"

"I think--I think I see," said Hector.

He looked for Moon; but she had disappeared.


VI

When the great meeting was over, Hector said goodbye to Sleeping
Thunder.

"You go from us, my son," the old man exclaimed, extending his hand,
"knowing far more of my people than when you came.  The Indian's ways
and the white man's ways are not the same and it is not good that one
should take to himself the habits of the other.  The Great Spirit
made us different and so we should remain.  For one, vast cities,
such as you have pictured to me--buildings of stone--sheltered lives;
for the other, open plains--teepees--and roving lives that are wild
and free.  But it is good that we should know one another, since,
though you are white and we are red, we are not less brothers.  For
this, at least, you will not regret your visit, O my son, and I will
always hold you as a friend--in time of need, especially, a friend.
And now you ride back to your people and no-one knows when we will
meet again.  But we shall meet again, be sure of that!"

Hector smiled.

"I hope so, Sleeping Thunder," he said; then added regretfully, "Tell
Moon I am troubled that she was not here to say goodbye.  Tell her I
do not understand."

Pain momentarily darkened the chief's face.  Then he also smiled.

"Who shall read the mind of a woman?" he questioned.  "Go your way.
I will tell her."

Again they shook hands.  Hector wheeled his horses and rode away.

An Indian watched his going from a clump of bushes on the outskirts
of the camp, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

From the shadows, night after night, he had sullenly watched the
stranger talking with the chief outside the teepee, watched him
sitting with the father of Moon.

Loud Gun was glad to see the last of the white man.




Chapter V


I

The country round Fort Walsh lay deep in snow.  The cold was intense.
Darkness was falling.

Hector, turning back to the stove from this cheerless prospect,
thanked God that no law-breaker--no whiskey-runner especially--was
likely to be out on such a day, and hence, that he himself was
unlikely to be required to take the trail.

He looked at the thermometer hanging in the window.

"Thirty below!" he said to himself.  "I pity the poor Nitchies in
their teepees."

The poor Indians well merited a little pity.  This was, for them, a
small-pox winter, a famine winter.  Throughout the district, they
were dying by thousands.  The Mounted Police were working hard to
save them, issuing rations and ammunition to the bands that crowded
to them for aid.  There were men out on the job at that moment.  But
they could do very little among so many.

Hector, dozing by the fire, thought suddenly of Moon and Sleeping
Thunder, contrasting the terrible situation of to-day with that seen
in the happy camp at Milk River months before.  He wondered if any
harm had come to them.

The door swung open to admit MacFarlane.

"Come in, Mac," Hector welcomed him.  "Guard mounted?"

"Yes," said MacFarlane.

He plumped down in his ponderous way upon his comrade's cot.

"There's an In'jun outside, Hec'--wants to see you."

"An Indian?"

"Yes.  Funniest thing," he chuckled.  "Won't see anyone else.
'Sergeant Adair'--those were exactly the words.  The nerve of these
confounded In'juns!  What d'you think?  There's the small-pox in camp
and they want you there, to save someone or other.  As if your life
didn't count a damn!  I'd have thrown the creature out, but she's so
thin and drawn and came so far.  You'll have to go and say 'No'
yourself," he roared again, slapping his big thigh.  "That comes o'
making yourself too nice to 'em, Hec'!  That comes of your trip to
Milk River!"

"Eh?"

Hector had risen.  His face reflected none of his comrade's mirth.

"Why, didn't I say?  It's that little squaw, Hec'----"

"Where did you leave her?"

"Why, she's out in the yard, Hec'!"--MacFarlane's jaw had dropped.
"You're--you're not--_going_?"

"You fool," Hector flashed.  "Certainly I'm going!"

In the yard he found her--haggard, worn out, snow-encrusted, terrible.

"Moon!" he gasped, pity and horror in his voice.

"My father--" she answered dully.  "He is dying."

Pleading desperately, trembling hands outstretched, she told him
everything.  The plague had suddenly appeared on the reserve some
weeks before.  Sleeping Thunder, to escape it, had taken to wandering
with his band in the loneliness of the prairie; but without success.
Two--three--had died.  Then the chief himself had been stricken.
Fear conquered loyalty, and the braves, closing their ears to the
prayers of the old man and his daughter, left them to die.

"And Loud Gun?" asked Hector.

She smiled wanly.

"He was kicked by a horse long before.  He was in the care of the
white doctors--is still there.  We were alone."

In this extremity, Sleeping Thunder had thought of Hector.  By
gigantic efforts Moon had grappled with the difficulties surrounding
her and fought a way to Fort Macleod, her father helpless in the
sledge behind her.

"We believed you were there," she explained simply.

Despair had almost mastered her when she learned that Hector and his
division had been transferred to Fort Walsh.  But she had bravely
turned her face to the new trail.  That morning she had reached a
spot some miles distant, pitched camp, made her father as comfortable
as possible and pressed on to reach Fort Walsh before dark.

"I know that you will come," she ended.

For a moment he marvelled at the girl's strength and resolution.

Then he voiced another thought.

"But why did you come to _me_?  You might have gone to your Indian
agent--to any detachment.  At Fort Macleod they would have helped
you.  Did you try them?"

"No," she said.  "We wanted you.  _You_!  You alone can save him.  We
know you will give us what he needs.  At Fort Macleod, they would not
have helped us as you will help us."

"They would certainly have done so.  I can do nothing more than they."

"You can save my father!" she repeated.  "Say you will come!"

Hector tried to grasp the beauty and wonder of this thing.  He had
heard and seen a little of Indian fidelity and trust but until now
had never guessed the depths they could fathom.  Moon, travelling
through all the difficulties confronting her, ignoring every hand
that might have helped her, had come to lay her plea before him, with
absolute faith that he alone could save her father.  The thought
humbled him.

But had she thought of the risks he must undergo?  She was asking him
to face almost certain death, at a time when her own people had
deserted her, on the slight justification of their friendship.  It
was plain that she had thought of all this and in spite of them had
not hesitated.

"I will always hold you as a friend--in time of need, especially, a
friend."

There, in Sleeping Thunder's words, was the whole substance of the
matter.

This was a time of need.

Hector did not waste an instant in considering the risks.  He
accepted them, in the spirit in which soldiers accept the perils of
battle, as inevitable.

"These people--God knows why--" he thought, "rely on me more than on
anyone else in the world."

"I will come--at once," he said.

Moon dropped on her knees at his feet and burst into tears.


II

On a fine spring evening, Sleeping Thunder sat with Hector outside
the teepee.

The chief, by this time, was fully restored to health.

"In a few days," he said wistfully, "I return to the reserve.  The
agent has sent for me."

"You should never have left it," Hector reproved him.  "You know the
law."

"Did the law save me and mine?" the old chief countered.  "It could
not have done for me what you have done."

Hector smiled quietly.  He had given up trying to disillusion the
Indian.

"And that," Sleeping Thunder resumed, "brings me to what I wish to
say.  Have patience.  I am old and it is not easy for me to put my
thoughts into words."

He gazed steadily out towards the West.  The sun was sinking in as
perfect a spring sky as Hector had ever seen.  The wind rustled the
long grass.  A bird piped drowsily.  A tethered horse stamped.  All
else was silence.

The figure of Moon, busy round the cooking fire, stood black against
the sunset.

"My son, you may remember, long ago, when we were at the Sun Dance
camp, I told you that the white man's ways are not our ways and one
should not adopt the habits of the other."

"I remember," Hector answered.

"I have changed my mind.  That is, I think sometimes the law may be
set aside.  I wish to set it aside now--today--or soon."

"Go on," said Hector.

"You saved my life.  I owe it to you; I know it.  No man can owe to
another man anything more precious.  Then how can he repay such a
debt?  In this manner only, my son--by offering him the thing he
values most in all the world--values as highly as--perhaps more
highly than--his life, by tendering it as a gift.  So shall he repay
the debt he owes."

Hector waited, wondering.  The old man sat for a long while silent,
his face very tender.

"You see my daughter there--Moon-on-the-Water?  Is she not beautiful?
She has the eyes of a young deer, her hair is like the sky at
midnight, her form like a willow drooping by the river and, when she
laughs, we hear the voices of the prairie winds.  She is the daughter
of a line of mighty warriors and the blood of many chiefs is in her
veins.  She loves me with all her heart--has she not proved it?--and
I know that she would gladly die for me.  She is a light among all
women.  Where will you find her like?"

Hector, remembering her mellow voice, the mystery of her smile, the
graceful swaying of her dress, answered,

"Yes, she is beautiful.  She loves you."

"She loves me--yes.  And _I_?"  The old chief's voice trembled.  Far
off, through the stillness, faint and doleful, they heard the sound
of a trumpet at Fort Walsh.  "And I?--I hold her dearer than anything
I possess.  Many have wooed her, my son, and I have been offered much
for her.  Ten ponies, fifty rifles, have been offered me by more than
one lover.  She is worth twenty ponies--compared with other women!
And so--you see how dear she is to me and how high the value young
men have set upon her."

"Yes," said Hector.

"Then, to repay the debt I owe you with that which is most precious
to my heart, I offer you my daughter Moon, to be your wife."

"Your daughter Moon?"

"Yes."

Sleeping Thunder glanced keenly at Hector.  The white man was silent;
and he could not understand it.

"I know that I am pledging much.  It is a great honour I do you, my
son."  Smiling, the chief stretched out a kindly hand and patted
Hector's shoulder.  "But of all the world there is no man to whom I
would more gladly give my daughter.  You are a good man--strong,
just, brave, true-hearted.  And the debt I owe is great.  Be not
afraid."

The sunset glow was melting rapidly into the mauves and blues of
night.  Moon had stopped her work and Hector saw her gazing
enraptured towards the West.  The light was on her face and, in that
moment, she was very beautiful.

But an agony of pity and despair possessed him.

"Sleeping Thunder," he said at last, scarcely knowing what he said,
"I know how you have honoured me.  Beautiful though your daughter is,
faithful and precious to you, you are wrong, my friend--yes, I say
it--you do not owe your life to me.  The Great Spirit is my witness I
speak truth.  No, do not disagree with me.  My comrade, Murray, he
who nursed you through the winter--saved you, not I.  This gratitude
is lavished over nothing.  I value it more than I can say, but still
I know it is so."

Struggling with his thoughts, he steeled himself to go on.

"I cannot take this gift, Sleeping Thunder.  I have not earned the
right.  I honour Moon, but--but--there is no love between us--not the
love there should be between man and wife."

The old chief flinched and his grey head sank on his breast.

"Then how could good come of such a union?  We do not love; and even
if we did, your words were truth, Sleeping Thunder.  The red man's
ways are not our ways.  How could she be happy in our life, among our
people?"

"There are squaw men among you."

Hector had foreseen the interruption.

"Yes, but do they treat their wives as they should?  You know they do
not.  They make slaves of them and when they are tired or they fall
in love with a white woman, they cast them off.  I could not do that
and would not.  But, aside from this, the girl would not be happy.
My people--they would look on her with contempt.  And as the years
went by and cities came where the prairies are desolate today, life
would become intolerable for her.  You know that is true."

The chief's head had fallen lower still.

"It is true," he whispered.

"I would give my right hand rather than that this should have
happened.  It cannot be--you know it, Sleeping Thunder."

The old man raised his head suddenly and looked up at the towering
young form.  He smiled sadly.

"It is true," he answered.  "I will say no more."

The night swallowed them.


III

Returning to Fort Walsh, Hector had time to grasp the full
significance of the chief's proposal.  He had not even faintly
foreseen that the old man's gratitude would express itself in the
form it had actually taken.  Marriage was far from his thoughts.
Moon?  He was fond of Moon and admired her in many ways--but not in
that way.  He admired and loved Sleeping Thunder.  Hitherto relations
between them had been ideal.  But this sudden rock had split them and
emphasized the unalterable differences in race and life.  He wished
with all his soul that things could have remained as they were.

Well, the thing was done and over!  Only one course of action now
remained for either party--to forget it all as soon as possible.

But here he found himself mistaken.

He had just come off duty on the afternoon when Sleeping Thunder was
to start for the reserve when he was informed that an Indian was
asking for him at the entrance to the fort.

The Indian was Loud Gun, recently back from hospital.

"How!" said Loud Gun, raising a hand in salute and looking down on
Hector with his keen, proud eyes.

"How!" returned Hector.  "What do you want?"

In a few words, the Indian explained.  Moon-on-the-Water Water had
sent him.  Would Hector go with him and ask no questions?

A few minutes later Hector was in the saddle.

In a little coulee some distance short of Sleeping Thunder's camp,
they came suddenly upon Moon.

She was alone.  In her richest dress, she made a striking
picture--the picture of an ideal Indian princess--calm, strong,
beautiful.  They greeted her solemnly.  As Hector dismounted, she
turned to Loud Gun.

"Go over the ridge there," she said, "and wait till I come."

The tone was pitilessly cold.  Loud Gun bowed his head submissively
and departed without a word.

They were alone, the Indian woman and the white man, face to face.

Moon began.

"You wonder why I sent for you?  Perhaps you think I step beyond the
rights of squaws?"

Something of her dignity was gone.  She smiled wistfully.

"I do wonder why you sent for me, Moon," responded Hector.  "But that
is all."

There was an awkward pause.

"What is it?" Hector prompted.  "Come, what is it, Moon?"

She seemed dumb for a moment.  Her head was turned away and her face
hidden.

"Is it about your father?"

"Yes," she answered swiftly, with a sudden straightening of her head.
"It is about my father--my father--and--"

"Nothing has happened?"

"No.  But this matter--I was saying--it is about my father--and--and
you--and me!"

He waited.  She made a strange, gasping sound in her throat.  He
began to see a light.

"Moon!" he exclaimed, alarmed.

Her voice came thickly to him.

"My father said he did it as an act of gratitude.  You said--you said
there was no love between us.  He did not do it as an act of
gratitude.  He did it--"  She dropped her bands suddenly and all her
strength came to sustain her in that crisis.  Her eyes were fearless.
"He did it--because I wanted him to do it.  You say there is no love
between us."  Her voice was half a laugh, half a moan.  "No love with
you, perhaps--but love--great love for you--there is with we!"

"No, Moon, no!"

"Yes!"--a whisper now--a sob that choked her--"I love you,
pony-soldier!  Pity me!  Pity me!"

Amazement, deep concern, an overwhelming grief, swept over Hector.
Why had she sent for him for this?

His talk with Sleeping Thunder had been nothing beside the
possibilities before him now.

"Moon--"--he fought for words--was the soul of gentleness--"You are
not yourself.  This cannot be."

She wheeled suddenly, half turning her back.  He saw her struggling
fiercely with an emotion far more powerful than he had thought could
move an Indian woman, least of all Moon.

"I know!  I know!" she began.  Bitterness, an agony of injured pride,
a would-be scornful disregard of the humiliation she was facing,
blended in the words that tumbled from her lips.  "I know!  I know
that I--a chief's daughter--am not good enough for you.  I know my
love would bring you to contempt, would be a drag upon the wheels
that take you on to greatness!  I know that I would be a jest--a
thing to scorn--a--a--"

"Moon," said Hector hotly, "that is not true!  Why do you speak so of
me?"

She calmed herself with an effort.

"It is not of you I speak," she smiled, with a glance towards him.
"You are too kind, too generous for that.  You would not scorn me,
think that I dishonoured you, consider me a hindrance--no!"  Her
burning passion mastered her again.  "But all your world--the white
man's world--would do so.  I am the daughter of a chief--I have said
it--I am as good, in the eyes of the Great Spirit, as they are.  I
would be faithful to you and steadfast!  I would work for you while
life remained in me.  But they would spit and laugh at me and call
you 'fool' because you married me!  Your white world--your white
men--ah, and your white!  women, your white women!--they would do
that.  And why?  Why?"  She rocked in anguish.  "Just because I am an
Indian--an Indian!"

He could not answer her.

She turned again towards him, terribly overwrought, clutching her
breast.

"That is true!  You know it!"

"Moon--please do not say these things."

"It is true--will you not admit it?  Ah, you will not speak--that
means you agree.  Because you do not wish to hurt me, you will not
speak--but you answer with your silence."

A long pause came.  Hector wheeled and looked, unseeing, towards Fort
Walsh.  Waiting, he heard her fighting back to calmness.  She brought
herself at last to look at him.  His cap was off, his profile cleanly
cut against the strong sunlight, his hair ruffled by the soft wind
and his scarlet tunic was like a flame to her senses.  Her love for
him welled up like a strong, deep tide in her desolate heart,
mastering her.

"Yet I must face the degradation," she said suddenly, vast tenderness
giving a pleading beauty to her voice, "because I love you--I cannot
help myself.  If I might be your wife--Oh, then I would laugh at all
the cruel contempt that poor Indians like me have ever known!  But if
that cannot be--then let me be your servant and slave.  Only to see
you, to give my life to your service!"

"Moon," he declared, "I will hear no more.  I will not have you speak
like this to me!"

"Oh, do not think to save me from shame."  She laughed bitterly.
"Already I--the daughter of a chief--have broken the laws of my
people in telling you my love.  I will be an outcast.  The sin is on
my head.  Then let me speak and beg that I may be your slave.  I
could keep silent no longer.  Long have I loved you.  You would not
hear my father.  But I cannot bear to give you up.  So I sent for
you.  And all I ask from you is pity--pity!  As for the scorn of my
people and yours--I do not care!"

Her passion died away, exhausted, in a little while.  And he took her
hand and answered her.

"Listen, Moon," he said.  "No-one will ever know that this has passed
between us.  There is no shame in this for you.  I hold you too
highly ever to grant this prayer of yours.  It is not right.  Your
father said that white men and red cannot live together as man and
wife in happiness.  There are many Indian warriors, good men, brave
and true, who love you.  There is Loud Gun--"

"I do not love him!" she flashed.

"There is Loud Gun," he repeated remorselessly.  "He loves you.
Marry him--and forget me.  I will always be your friend, Moon--"

"I cannot forget you.  I love you," she persisted.

He shook his head.

"You must.  Be sure, you will be happy with him.  We must not meet
again."

"Pity me!" she whispered.

He turned blindly and heedlessly to his horse.

"Pity me!" she almost shrieked.

But he was mounted now.  And, as she flung out a desperate hand, he
touched his horse with the spur.

He heard her wailing, Indian fashion, behind him--forced his mount to
a fast gallop--faster, faster, to drown that dreadful sound in the
rush of wind.

Weak tears blinded him.

So he left her.


IV

Before another day had passed over Fort Walsh, Hector had pondered
the situation regarding Moon and come to certain conclusions.  First
of all, he must obviously see no more of the girl.  Secondly, he must
do something to repair the damage he had innocently caused.  Here he
ran into a stone wall.  How was he to influence Moon without seeing
her himself?  In whom could he confide his difficulties, knowing that
they would meet with sympathy?  Was there anyone he knew with the
necessary authority among the Indians, whose words carried weight and
whom they loved and trusted?

A battering-ram appeared suddenly from nowhere and smashed the
barrier down.

His man was Father Duval.

Father Duval and his work were equally well known to every man in the
Police or out.  None could say how long he had been in the North-West
but only that he seemed as much a part of the country, as strong and
staunch and vital and even as eternal as the Rockies.  He had made
one at the first Christmas celebration of the Force at Fort Macleod
six years before and at that time was alleged to have already passed
the greater part of his life as a missionary among the tribes in the
district.  His influence with the Indians, converts and otherwise,
was illimitable.  They regarded him as their spiritual and temporal
parent and went to him for counsel in every predicament.  His face
was as familiar to them as those of their greatest chiefs, his
black-robed figure as common to their camps as a travois or a teepee.
The Police recognized him as a useful medium for dealing with the
Indians in matters requiring great diplomacy.  He was the cheerful,
tireless go-between for white man and red, the friend of every
Indian, settler and Mounted Policeman.

Father Duval was obviously the man.

As soon as Hector could get away he sought the priest out, riding
over to the mission.

"Yes, he will see you," said the lay-brother, lifting a cloud from
Hector's heart.

At a knock, the door of the severe little room which was the priest's
sanctum was opened and the renowned Father Duval himself stood on the
threshold, the kindliest and most lovable of men, his hand
outstretched, a twinkling smile upon his rugged face.

"_Ah! Entrez, mon petit!_" he exclaimed.  "_Parlez-vous francais?_"

Hector shook his head and faltered out a negative.  Father Duval's
smile deepened and he shrugged his shoulders whimsically.

"Too bad, too bad!  Teach yourself, _mon petit_.  It ees ver'
important to comprehen' many lan-gwidges, _oui_.  _Eh bien_!  We try
to--'ow ees it?--get along without it.  _Entrez, cher ami, entrez!_"

By this time they had shaken hands.  Hector jingled into the room,
his uniform sounding a note of war in that haunt of peace.  The
contrast between them was very marked.  The older man was like an old
tower, strong in age, solid, the younger like a steel blade, keen,
vivid, highly tempered.  They sat down.

Hector slowly, hesitatingly, began his story.  Father Duval listened,
one hand on his chin, the other in his sash, his eyes, possessed by
just a shadow of encouragement, incessantly fixed on Hector.

When at last Hector ceased, the priest put out a hand and laid it
over his, smiling so sympathetically that Hector knew him a friend
and helper from that moment.

"You--are you of our faith?" he asked.

Hector shook his head.

"_Mon enfant_,"--his face seemed to light up with a holy
radiance--"it does not matter.  I bless you all de same.  You 'ave
don' right to come to me, Sergeant.  All you 'ave don' in dis
_affaire_ 'as been right.  You 'ave acted as a man ov honour, _oui_,
an' wit' such a beeg, beeg 'art.  Ah, _mon petit_, _le Bon Dieu_, 'e
smile, _vraiment_, when 'e look down on men lak' you.  _Mes pauvres
petits_, de Indian, dey do not get ver' much de consideration you
'ave give to dat ol' chief an' 'is leetle girl.  _Maintenant,
regardez_!  'Elp you--but of course--_naturelment_!  _Attendee une
minute_!  I 'elp you, _oui_.  For I am well acquaint' wit' dat leetle
Moon an' _mon brave_ Sleeping Thunder.  Only, 'ow?  'Ow?  What to do?
_Attendez_!  _Attendez_!"

Hector waited.

"You say de name ov dat yo'ng fellow, it is--?" the priest queried
suddenly.

"Loud Gun," said Hector.

"Loud Gun?  _Oui_.  _Bon_!  I 'ave it now.  I feex it all.
_Regardez, mon petit_.  Don't you worry no more.  I will see dat poor
leetle girl made 'appy, _oui_.  She marry some good Indian
fellow--Loud Gun perhaps, perhaps some oder--but she will forget you
an' she will be 'appy, _oui, vraiment_, I will send you a leetle
letter later on an' tell you all about it.  An' now, don' you be sad,
leetle boy."  He patted Hector on the shoulder and beamed up into his
eyes with beautiful benevolence.  "So de poor Moon, she fall in lov'
wit' you, eh?" he added softly.  "_Vraiment_, Sergeant, I am not
sooprise'!  A fine beeg fellow--an' ver' 'an'some, _oui_.  Now,
go--_allez, won petit_!  Forget all dis--an' I write to you.  It all
come out right soon--you see!"

"God bless you, father!" Hector exclaimed.

His spirits had leaped as high as heaven.


V

"Here's a letter, Hec'," said MacFarlane, three months later.  "An
In'jun brought it.  You're a devil for the In'juns, Hec', old boy!"

Hector took the letter curiously.  No Indians were in his mind.

The letter was from Father Duval.  Some English lay-brother had
written it but the priest's unmistakable signature brought it to a
close.


'Dear Sergeant Adair:

Don't fear.  She is happy.  I have married her myself, today, at my
mission here, to Loud Gun.  I promise you, her heart is mended!  She
is happy.

I am always your friend,

FRANCOIS M. DUVAL, O.M.I.'


Slowly Hector read the letter, as slowly tore it into little
pieces--as one who tears something that is past and done with--and,
going to the open window, let the pieces fly from his fingers in the
prairie breeze....

"You're a devil for th' In'juns, Hec'," MacFarlane repeated.

The sweet face of Moon drifted momentarily before Hector's eyes, in
the wake of the scraps of paper--fading, at last, like them--a
something done with--

"You've got a soft spot for 'em, haven't you, eh?" MacFarlane
persisted.

"Yes," said Hector.




Chapter VI


I

Old problems were disappearing now in the North-West Territories, new
problems cropping up, old crimes and criminals dying away, new crimes
and criminals upon the increase.  During the two years which had
passed since Hector first met Moon, he had been constantly dealing
with these matters, old and new, under desperate conditions.  Sheer
bull-dog grinding in the face of gigantic difficulties; days and
weeks of ceaseless exposure to the cruel cold of mid-winter, the
fierce heat of midsummer, drenching rain, stabbing blizzard, rivers
in flood-time, trails knee-deep in mud; innumerable arrests, when,
single-handed he dragged the wanted man, fighting like a mad dog,
from under the very wings of death, in the face of regiments of
carbines; other arrests, quiet, subtle, efficient; cases which took
inexhaustible patience to bring to a conclusion; cases which leaped
from nowhere, demanding instant decision and unhesitating action; and
all these cases and arrests, trackings, traps and desperate fights
requiring at one time or another, the tip-top pitch of courage, zeal,
determination and diplomacy--these things had been Hector's life in
those stirring years.

The whiskey-smugglers, haling their stuff across the border for the
consumption of Indians and whites, still occupied much of his
attention.  These were old hands, dealing in old crimes.  The worst
of the new enemies of the law were the cattle-rustlers, who came in
with the ranching industry.  Some were whites, most were Indians.

Hector had gradually come to the conclusion that--in the Macleod
district at least--the whiskey-runners and cattle-rustlers were
operating hand in glove from some central headquarters.  Some clever
criminal, or group thereof, had organized the two activities into one
gigantic business.  So far he kept these suspicions to himself,
because he had not yet enough evidence to lay before the Inspector.
In the meantime, he worked away steadily and in the working gained a
reputation for physical strength, courage, determination and a high
sense of duty among the officers and men, the settlers and the
Indians which was worth far more than any King's ransom.

In the autumn following the receipt of Father Duval's letter he was
re-transferred to Fort Macleod.  There occurred an incident which
nearly wrecked his reputation for all time.


II

"We've got a shipment here for you, Sergeant Adair," announced
Randall, the keeper of the Weatherton Company's store at Fort
Macleod.  Hector walked over to the counter through the crowd of
Indians, settlers and policemen.

The trader, when he reached him, was busy with a customer and Hector
had to wait.  He passed the time in talking to Welland, who was
lounging at his elbow--Mr. Joseph Welland now, keener, sprucer, more
cordial and certainly more prosperous than ever.

"Well, Hec'--how's the whiskey-running?  Putting it down any?"
Welland began, while he carelessly picked his teeth with a bit of
match.

The question was delivered in a low tone, implying caution.

"So-so," Hector replied vaguely.

Experience had taught him to trust nobody.

"But they're a cunning crowd behind it," he added.

"So they are," Welland agreed emphatically.  "Not a doubt of it.
That bunch in the Calgary country, now--"

"Is there a bunch working in the Calgary country?" asked Hector
innocently.

"You know there is."  Welland twinkled.  "Guileless angel, ain't you?
But, talking of whiskey--"

"Talkin' o' whiskey, are yah?"  The trader's oily voice cut in
suddenly.  "You'll be able to talk o' whiskey for a long time,
Sergeant, when you've signed this invoice!"

He winked meaningly at Welland, whose face for one moment betrayed
surprise, then became intensely vigilant.

"What's this?  What's this?" he exclaimed, half in jest, half in
earnest, while his eyes flashed swiftly to the invoice.

Hector read and signed the piece of paper, which told him that Mr.
John Adair, of Blenheim County, Ont., had recently shipped to him
through Weatherton's chain of stores, evidently as a Christmas gift,
one case of Scotch whiskey.

"Well, I'm shot!" Welland remarked.  "I'll come an' see you when
you've opened it, Hec'.  How'll you get it into barracks?"

The last demand, with its veiled insinuation, irritated Hector.  But
he snubbed Welland by showing no concern.

"Bring it to my quarters next time you're over that way, Randall," he
told the store-keeper.

"You're on, Sergeant," Randall leered, rolling his bleary eyes.  "An'
I hope to drink your health."

"You'll do it in water, then," Hector said quietly.  "This whiskey
goes to Mother Earth and no-one else."

"Wha-a-t?" Welland cried, amazed.  "You're not--?"

"Yes, I am."  Hector gathered up his whip and gloves.  "I'm going to
spill the lot of it, in Randall's presence, too.  Nobody's going to
say I'm a wholesale drinker myself and down on everyone else
drinking."

"But Hec'!  It came in a perfectly honest, legal way--"

"Can't help that.  Shouldn't have come at all.  I can take a drink
with others, on the square or in the mess.  But I'm not going to
stock it myself.  I've got too many people ready to take a crack at
me and I won't run any chances."

"But Hec', it's a crime to waste--"

"_No!_" said Hector, real determination in the negative.

Welland drew back, defeated, shrugged his shoulders, and looked at
the trader with a sneer.

"Hell!" he exclaimed audibly.  "'Course he wants it for himself.
That goody-goody stuff is bluff.  That's the way with these
zealots--no liquor, no!  But that just applies to _you_--not me!"

The tone surprised Hector.  He had not expected this thrust from
Welland.

"Will you come over and _see_ me get rid of that whiskey?" he flashed.

But Welland only laughed derisively.

"Well, Randall will be witness enough," Hector declared.  "Think what
you please, and be damned!"

With that, he clanked fiercely out of the store.

The trader exchanged glances with Welland, his florid face growing
redder with suppressed delight.


III

Though John had sent the whiskey in a perfectly legitimate way,
Hector could not use it, for the reason that, to do his work
properly, he must keep up his reputation as an incorruptible enemy of
liquor.  If he gave way, his enemies would certainly adopt the
cynical attitude that Hector, being able to get whiskey for himself
whenever he pleased, had nothing to gain by winking at the operations
of those less fortunate and so was zealous where he would otherwise
have been slack.  A better course than destroying the whiskey would
have been to ship it straight back to John in Welland's presence; but
Hector failed to think of this at the time.

In the late afternoon, Randall drove his sleigh into barracks.

"I got the case outside, Sergeant," he said.  "Will I bring it in?"

"No," said Hector.  "Dump it on the parade-ground."

Hector took an axe.  They went out together.

"Why, Sergeant!" exclaimed Randall, in great alarm.  "Yah ain't
really goin'--?  Ah, say, don't, Sergeant, don't!  It's a sinful
waste o' the gifts o' Providence, Sergeant--Ah!"

His voice rose to a shriek as Hector reduced the case to a pulp of
splintered wood and broken glass.

"Now you tell anyone who ever mentions it what I do to private stock,
Randall," said Hector, as he pitched the wreckage into the sleigh.
"You understand.  You've got to tell the truth.  _Savvy?_"

"A'right, Sergeant, a'right!" Randall shrank back in alarm.  "But
it's an awful waste o' good Scotch!"

He drove off lamenting.

Hector's mistake had been in securing only one witness to the
destruction of the whiskey.  He was to pay for it later.


IV

Soon after this, Hector noticed a distinct falling off of the
respectful regard held for him by the officers, the men, the
civilians.  They did not force the change upon him but they hinted at
it in a thousand ways.

At a loss for an explanation, he did the wisest thing
possible--ignored the change and went on his way in silence.

One day came light, when Inspector Denton summoned him and revealed
the truth in a private interview.

"You sent for me, sir?" said Hector, entering the Inspector's
sitting-room and saluting smartly.

Inspector Denton was a big man, much inclined to fatness.  He had a
ruddy face eloquent of good living, a drooping, luxuriant moustache,
and an eye-glass which he hardly ever used.  Ignorant recruits,
judging by appearances, took him for a brainless martinet.  As a
matter of fact, the strength of a lion, the heart of a Viking and the
endurance of a grizzly were hidden beneath his deceptive exterior and
when action demanded those who doubted it were rapidly disillusioned.

The Inspector, as Hector entered, was seated by the stove, his tunic
open, his feet in gaudy carpet slippers.

"Ah, Adair!" exclaimed the Inspector.  "Er--just close the door, will
you?"

Hector obeyed.

"I've been--ah--hearing tales about you, Adair," the Inspector began,
composedly.  "I don't like 'em.  My advice is--er--if they're
true--stop!  I find it difficult to believe 'em, Adair.  So I thought
I'd talk it over quietly with you--er--alone."

"Tales about you!"  Hector saw in a flash that the causes of the
mysterious change were about to be revealed to him.

"Very good, sir," he said; and eagerly waited.

"_Are_ they true?"

"I don't know what they are, sir."

"You don't, eh?  _Umph!_"

The Inspector pondered.  Then he looked at Hector again.

"Like me to tell you?  Well--er--fact is, Adair, they say you're
doing a lot of secret drinking, on cases sent from the East an' so
on.  Very foolish, Adair, if so.  Must drink openly or not at all.
Ah--makes your work in suppressing the traffic look so--so
hypocritical, y'know--besides bringing the Force into disrepute.
It's rather hard to explain what I mean but--er--you understand, eh?"

Hector's face crimsoned with passion.

"It's a lie!" he rapped fiercely.  And he told the Inspector
everything.

"I see!" said Denton thoughtfully.  "I _see_!  Well, we must kill
this lie--er--immediately, Adair.  It's done you a lot of
harm--shaken people's confidence in you--er--considerably, very
considerably.  Even I was--er---a bit affected.  Now let's see.  How
can we kill it, eh?  How can we kill it?"

"I'll kill it, sir!" said Hector decidedly.  "I'll kill it, all
right!"

"Right you are, Adair!  Good example, eh?  Even stricter attention to
duty--if that were possible--eh?  But no violence.  Anyway, that's
all about it, s'far as I'm concerned.  Damn' glad it wasn't true,
Adair.  Er--settle it quietly, eh?  Damn' glad, Adair.  Close the
door, er--will you, when you go out?"

So this was the cause of the change in feeling!  Obviously, it was
the work of Randall or Welland, who must at least have started the
rumour, whatever their part in its subsequent growth may have been!
The story must be killed, the Inspector had said.  Well, he would
kill it, there and then!

Conscious of his innocence, Hector, for the first time since joining
the Police, lost that crowning attribute, self-control.

On fire to avenge his honour, he left the Inspector's and went
rapidly over to Weatherton's.


V

The door of the store was dashed open.  Fifty startled men, settlers,
constables, Indians and half-breeds, turned together towards it,
leaving a lane to the counter.

Sergeant Adair came in.  They all knew him--but not this Sergeant
Adair.  The quiet, friendly yet sternly restrained N.C.O. was gone
and in his stead was a passionate giant, fists clenched, eyes like
knives, lips set and cheeks aflame.

A hush fell on the crowd.  It remained for Joe Welland to break it.

The rancher, in a big buffalo coat, was smoking a cigar at the
counter.  Turning with the rest, he looked at Hector coolly, though
with genuine concern, and his voice cut evenly through the silence:

"What's the matter, Adair?"

Hector gripped himself before replying.  He was joyfully conscious of
the presence of many of his friends, assembled, as if by
preordainment, to witness his vindication.  There was MacFarlane,
staring open-mouthed; Sergeant-Major Whittaker, by the stove,
motionless in the act of pulling on his gloves, alert as a bird; Jim
Jackson, master of ceremonies at the first Christmas celebration at
the fort years before, pausing as he buttoned his fur coat for the
trail; Martin Brent, seated on a sack of flour, pipe in mouth,
stoically viewing the proceedings; Cranbrook--Corporal Cranbrook now;
and a dozen others.  For a moment Hector marshalled his words.  Then
he stepped swiftly into the centre of the room, the silent crowd
shrinking before him.

"_This_ is the matter!" he burst out furiously.  "Which of you two
started these lies about me--_you_--or _you_?"

And he pointed an accusing finger, first at Welland, then at Randall.

Deathly silence came again.  Men looked at one another.  Welland
gaped.

"What d'you mean, Hec'?  No-one's----

"Oh, yes, they have!  Someone's been spreading tales that I've been
getting secret whiskey from the East.  Don't deny it!  I know
positively the story's gone 'round for weeks.  Am I right, boys?--am
I right?"

He flung the appeal to the crowd.  They growled assent.

"That's right--that's true."

"Do you hear them?" Hector cried.  "There's proof, isn't it?  Now,
which of you two began it?  You know, Welland, that I had a case sent
unexpectedly from the East.  Randall knows it.  You know I said I was
going to destroy it.  Randall saw me smash it with an axe that same
afternoon.  Now, no one else in the world knew that whiskey had come
to me!  Then, which of you spread the story?  That's what I want to
know."

The crowd waited breathlessly.

Welland calmly flicked the ash from his cigar and smiled.

"Say, you can take this as straight," he asserted.  "_I've_ said
nothing.  If anyone's told any yarns, it's Randall there, not me."

And he glanced with stern contempt at the store-keeper.

Randall started, staring with alarm and consternation.

"Well, say!" he shrilled.  "For God's sake, Welland----"

"You shut up!" flashed Welland.  Then, quietly, to Hector: "That's
your man, Adair."

Hector turned quickly to the crowd.

"Did this man start the rumour?" he demanded, pointing at Randall.

For a moment no-one answered.  Fear of a tempest held them silent.

"Did he?"

"I heard it first from him, Sergeant."

The voice, pleasant, careless but assured, was Cranbrook's.

That broke the spell.  A chorus of "So did I," "I did, too," rolled
solemnly through the crowd.

Hector's fury broke.

MacFarlane raised a husky shout as a dozen bystanders threw
themselves on Hector:

"What'you going to do?  What'you going to do?"

Jim Jackson rushed into action, shouting, "No, Adair--no!"

Then came a babble:

"Hold him!  Hold him!" and a storm of curses----

At the stove Whittaker still stood motionless but smiling quietly----

And Hector burst out of the crowd like a lion from a thicket of
spears, grim, silent, deadly.  He tossed Jackson and MacFarlane aside
with a great sweep of his arm--the powers of twenty men added to his
own giant strength in that moment.  The trader's frenzied shriek,
"Sergeant--for the love of Christ!" he did not heed at all.  Seizing
Randall in a grip that brought a scream to his lips, he dragged him
swiftly across the counter.  The scattered crowd closed in.  Seeing
them, he swung the trader like a flail through the air, dashing them
off their feet.  In the cleared space, he shook his victim as if he
were a sawdust dummy.

"You dog!  You dog!" they heard him crying.

Once more the crowd rushed, to save Hector from murder.

"Get back, damn you!  He's mine!" Hector roared, pinning the maddened
Randall against the counter and staving them off.

"Say you're a liar, you cur!  You swine!" he gasped, "Say it or I'll
kill you--_I'll kill you_----"

"I am!  I am!" sobbed Randall.  "Sergeant--Sergeant----"

"Let him go, Hec'!  Let him go!"

MacFarlane's voice gave Hector back his sanity.  But, shifting his
grip, he tossed the trader, screaming, above his head and held him
there, his eyes roving furiously 'round the room.

Then, taking ten great strides, he hurled him crashing but unhurt
into a pile of hardware.

"I could kill you!" was in his mind.  But instead he said, "Lie
there, you dog; lie there!"

Ignoring the crowd utterly--it parted in his path with awed
silence--he went to the door, flung it wide open.

The crash of the heavy portal slamming to aroused the crowd to tumult.


VI

Within twenty-four hours the whiskey rumour was as dead as a last
year's calendar and Hector was back upon his pedestal.

Mention of his name thenceforward produced this invariable comment:

"Play straight with Adair.  He's an easy-goin' bird, but a
ring-tailed devil when he's roused!"




Chapter VII


I

Some weeks after the clash with Randall, the Chester affair occurred.

Hector was in charge of the Police herd-camp a few miles from the
fort.  One morning the detachment shifted to a new site.  Chester was
a shy, retiring sort of youngster, newly joined.  During the move
Hector placed him in charge of the tools.  As a result, the only axe
was left behind.  At dusk the loss was discovered and Hector sent the
boy off to get it, promising to follow him and aid the search himself.

Darkness fell while he was still some distance from his objective.
He caught himself wondering why he did not meet Chester.  Reassuring
himself with the thought that the boy had perhaps encountered some
unforeseen difficulty, he pushed on.  But no sign of Chester greeted
him.  All about the old camp was lifeless and silent.

Returning to camp as rapidly as possible, he hoped to find the
missing man there before him.  The cook's anxious enquiry
disillusioned him:

"Is that you, Chester?  And have you got the axe?"

"Turn out, the lot of you," said Hector.  "Chester's lost."

Lanterns were lighted and the whole party made an extended search on
foot.  The results were disappointing.  The discovery of the axe
added to their alarm.

Hector reported the affair to Inspector Denton, at the fort, who
promised to send out a large search party at dawn.  To continue the
hunt at night would have been futile.

Next morning, in a little hollow as yet untouched by the wind, they
found the first clue--a sprinkle of blood, among jumbled
hoof-prints--and a wide cast revealed Chester's hat in a clump of
bushes.  They searched the woods.  More evidence of a foreboding
character was then quickly gathered and the reason why Chester's
horse had not returned was made clear.

Hector himself found the horse.  It had been led into the woods, tied
to a tree and shot.

And then they found Chester himself.  The body was lying in the
bottom of a deep ravine, where it had been thrown.  The foulest of
foul work had been done, for he had been shot in the back at short
range.

In the days and weeks that followed, they exhausted every resource,
but the murder remained an unsolved mystery.


II

"Beg pardon, sir," said MacFarlane, waylaying Inspector Denton as he
passed the guard-room.  "The In'juns say they'll talk now.  And they
want you, with the interpreter, sir, and Sergeant Adair."

The Inspector wheeled quickly.

"Good!  Splendid!" he exclaimed.  "Is Brent back?  Then send a man
for 'em right away."

Twenty-four hours previously, Hector had carried out the arrest of a
gang of Indian horse-thieves, accused of stealing stock from the
'Lazy G,' an 'outfit' in Montana.  They had refused to talk, however,
having apparently decided to say nothing whatever until the day of
trial.  Martin was away and the best linguists in the division had
been able to produce no effect.  MacFarlane's announcement relieved
the Inspector's mind considerably.

When all four--the Inspector, Hector, Martin and MacFarlane--were
assembled, they held a consultation outside the guard-room.

"Why in--ah--heavens," said the Inspector, "wouldn't they talk
before?"

"Yes--what was the idea?" Hector agreed.  "I made everything clear to
them.  But they wouldn't speak a word."

Martin laughed.  He knew the Indian mind better than any of them.

"They got what chaplain call 'guilty conscience,'" he declared.  "One
thing--they either 'fraid say a word, fear give themselves away, or
other thing--they think you have um for bigger job than horse-steal
but you won't let on.  You bet your boots, that it!  They either make
confession or give some other feller away.  That why they want me an'
Inspector.  You see--damn quick."

To a number of a dozen, villainous-looking warriors every one of
them, the Indians rose to their feet as the Inspector came in.  A
good deal of parleying then resulted in Bear Sitting Down, who was
their leader, being elected to speak for them all.  And Martin began.

"Why did you not say what you have to say to Sergeant Adair?"

The Indian looked uncomfortable.

"We would rather talk to you," he said.

"Well, what have you to say?"

Bear Sitting Down glanced nervously 'round the room.  The other
Indians watched him intently.

"Come," Martin said in his most commanding voice.  "Answer quickly.
What have you to say?"

Bear Sitting Down shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and at last
exclaimed desperately, with the air of a man goaded to action:

"We did not do it.  We know we have been arrested on that account.
But we had no hand in it."

"No hand in it?"

"No hand in it--none!"

The spokesman's companions seconded him with anxious monosyllables of
approval.

Martin's keen eyes flickered.

"Why didn't you tell the Sergeant so when he arrested you?" he asked.

"He told us he was arresting us for horse-stealing.  But we know
better.  We have stolen horses, yes.  But we had no hand in the
killing of the pony-soldier."

Martin quivered like a dog on an unexpected scent.  Otherwise, he
betrayed no emotion.

"You are known to have killed him," he said calmly, "and you will all
be hanged."

The shot in the dark flashed home.

"No--no--no!" exclaimed Bear Sitting Down.  The Indian fear of the
rope was evident in his face and he trembled in every limb.  "You
will not hang us if we tell you who killed him?"

"Not if you speak truth."

Inwardly, Martin was still completely puzzled, but he went on
bluffing cleverly.

"I will tell all," said Bear Sitting Down.  "The man who did it was
Wild Horse.  He came to us that night and he said, 'I have killed one
of the Shagalasha.  I killed his horse also and I threw the body into
the ravine.'  If you arrest Wild Horse, you will find that this is
so."

The mystery solved--at last!

Martin turned swiftly to the other Indians.

"Is this true?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" they answered eagerly.  "It is true--true!"

"Come 'long outside," said Martin to the Inspector, with as much
excitement as it was possible for him to show at any time.

"That feller," Martin declared very impressively, "He think you lie,
Sergeant.  He think you take him up, not for horse-steal--just bluff,
that--though he say it true he steal horses, but for murder Constable
Chester last spring.  An' he say--all say--did not murder Chester.
'You no hang me if I tell who did it?' he ask.  'No hang you,' I say.
'Then,' he say, 'I tell you.  Wild Horse kill him!'"


III

A fortnight elapsed before Hector was able to attempt the arrest of
Wild Horse.  The Indian had taken alarm with the apprehension of the
horse-thieves and had left the reserve.  Sooner or later, Hector
knew, he would return, thinking the storm blown over.  It behooved
the Police to be ready to take him when that time came.  They placed
the reserve under the observation of Liver-eating John, a half-breed
scout, whose orders were immediately to report to Hector any news
concerning the whereabouts of Wild Horse.

So the fortnight dragged by.  Then, in great haste, one afternoon,
came Liver-eating John.

"Wild Horse, he sneak in 'bout noon," he told Hector.  "Me see
um--self.  He be there p'raps two days.  Hide in brother's lodge.
Go, get him, quick!"

Within fifteen minutes, Hector and his men were on the trail.

Among those who had recently committed themselves to the baby
business of ranching in Western Canada was Colonel Stern, a veteran
of the Indian Mutiny and several other wars.  Failing fortunes had
driven him from the Army to seek a livelihood south of Fort Macleod.
But, though his military service had ceased, his interest in all
wearers of the Queen's uniform was as bright as ever.  He kept open
house for all ranks of the Police and it was an understood thing that
any redcoat passing that way, on duty or otherwise, was to stop off
at Colonel Stern's ranch.  As the place stood on the edge of the
reserve wherein Wild Horse was lurking, Hector headed for Colonel
Stern's as a matter of course.

The Colonel--tall, gray-headed, hook-nosed, weather-beaten, with
bushy brows, a heavy military moustache and eyes like rapiers--met
them at the door as they loped into the yard at dusk, smiling a
welcome and holding out his hand.

"And how are you, Sergeant?" he asked.  "Looking like a young
stallion, as usual.  I'm not going to ask what brings you here,
because that's none of my business."

Hector took him aside, nevertheless, and explained.

"I see," the Colonel commented.  "Well, it's too late to catch him
tonight, Adair.  He'd surely get away in the dark.  Besides, there's
a storm coming up.  It will be a wet night--no night for lying in the
open.  Catch 'em at dawn--that's sound tactics.  They won't be
stirring then, especially with the rain coming down, and you can take
the whole camp by surprise.  Come along--supper now, stay here
tonight and you'll be fit for anything in the morning."

It was raining, as the Colonel had prophesied, when they turned out,
a thin, penetrating, all-day drizzle, and the sky, just lightening,
was heavy with an unbroken pall of dense grey cloud.  Such weather,
all in all, was admirable for their purpose.  Half an hour's careful
scouting brought them within sight of the teepees they sought--a
ghostly group in the wet desolation.  The question was--in which
lodge was Wild Horse?

At this moment, they found an Indian boy, who willingly pointed out
the teepee occupied by The Gopher, headman of the band.  In order to
comply with the custom of the Police it was necessary that Hector
should inform The Gopher of his intentions.

The Gopher was instantly at the door when Hector sent the small boy
into the teepee to awaken him.  Speaking the Indian's own tongue,
Hector rapidly explained his mission and was relieved to find that
the Gopher, far from offering any objection, took the matter
philosophically and himself pointed out the lodge in which Wild Horse
was hiding.

"Keep everyone in their teepees," Hector went on, "until we go.  Then
there will be small likelihood of trouble."

The Gopher agreed.  Hector ordered the constable with the horses up
to a position close to Wild Horse's lodge.  The others he placed one
on each side, ready to seize the murderer should he attempt escape by
crawling under the flap.  For the last time, obedient to one of the
greatest principles of the Mounted Police, he cautioned the men on no
account to draw their revolvers.  Then, removing his great-coat, he
boldly entered the teepee alone.

For a moment unable to see anything, he shortly became aware of the
presence of at least a dozen Indians, who sat up in their blankets
and stared at him anxiously.

"What do you want?" one of them asked, bristling defiance.

Hector pushed back the door of the lodge still further.  The cold
light, streaming in, clearly revealed his uniform.

"I have come for Wild Horse," he answered.

The wanted Indian glared shiftily at the speaker over the edge of his
blanket.

"You hear me, Wild Horse?" Hector queried.  "I say I have come for
you.  You know what that means.  I am waiting."

"I will not come," answered Wild Horse.

"What do you mean?" said Hector sternly.

The Indians had learned to dread that tone.  They stirred uneasily.

"I will not come!" repeated Wild Horse.

The others broke into a loud murmur of applause.  Some of the bolder
threw off their blankets and reached for their rifles.  Hector caught
the sound of angry voices at his back.  A hostile crowd was gathering
outside.  The Gopher had failed, either through weakness or
treachery, to maintain control.  Hector remembered that they were
only four white men among at least a hundred Indians.  The least
misstep, lack of tact or wavering in courage, might have fatal
consequences.

He fixed the murderer with penetrating eyes.

"I say that you are to come," he said.  "Do not look so at me--I will
not have it.  And do not attempt to resist or it will be the worse
for you."

In reply, Wild Horse bounded suddenly to his feet, a knife in his
hand.  The other Indians, muttering fierce threats, stood up behind
him.  A row of levelled rifles confronted Hector.

"Get out of this lodge!" said Wild Horse.

Instantly Hector closed.  A wrench twisted the knife from the
Indian's hand.  Seizing him, he exerted a supreme effort of his great
strength, whirled him off his feet and threw him bodily out of the
lodge.  Before the murderer's friends could pull a trigger, Hector
was also outside.

But it was 'out of the frying-pan into the fire.'

A crowd apparently representing every grown man in camp, to say
nothing of women and boys, was thickly clustered round the teepee.
The men were all armed and many of them were actually covering the
two constables.

One glance revealed all this to Hector; another, that Wild Horse had
been promptly and efficiently handcuffed by his men, who held the
murderer between them.

What now?

"Take him out of this," Hector ordered coolly.  To the crowding
Indians, he gave the stern command, "Stand back!"

They answered with a wild yell and one overwhelming rush.

In the furious struggle that resulted, only the intervening bodies of
the nearest Indians prevented the policemen from being shot.  To hang
on to Wild Horse and to beat their assailants off without drawing a
weapon--these two thoughts occupied Hector's mind exclusively.  He
could trust his men--through it all, they clung to Wild Horse like
grim death.  Meanwhile, all three were knocked down a dozen times,
trampled on, beaten with rifles, bitten, throttled, kicked.  When
opportunity offered, Hector gathered his failing breath and bellowed
for The Gopher.

"Give us Wild Horse!" yelled the Indians, pulling and dragging at the
policemen.  "Let him go!"

"He is our prisoner," answered Hector.  "Where is The Gopher?"

So, like a football scrum, the three undaunted redcoats carried the
crowd with them to the horses.  The mob raved on.  The crash of their
carbines pierced the uproar.

"Put up your gun, will you!" Hector bawled, as the constable in
charge of the horses, a young fellow and inexperienced, drew his
revolver.

Then suddenly, at this crisis, came comparative quiet and The Gopher
pushed his way forward.

"Where have you been?" Hector demanded.  "What do you mean by
allowing this to go on?"

The Gopher pretended not to hear.  Instead, he bent his energies
towards quelling the riot.  Presently Hector found himself beside his
horses, the prisoner and escort with him, the crowd, visibly subdued,
falling back with lowered rifles and the shamefaced Gopher at his
side.

"They know they've done a serious thing," Hector thought.

His troubles were obviously over.  What plain men call sheer 'guts'
had carried the day, as they so often do--as, with savages, they
always do.

Hector struck while the iron was hot.

"Now that you have recovered your senses," he said to the hangdog
assembly, "I have a word to say to you.  You have committed a grave
crime.  You have tried to stop the arrest of one of your number by a
Mounted Policeman.  That is wrong, as you know.  And it is also quite
useless.  You see that we are not afraid of you.  When the Mounted
Police come for any man, white or red, he has got to come, and we
will see that he does come, let a thousand rifles come between.  Wild
Horse will get a fair trial, you know that.  As for you," here he
turned to The Gopher, who hung his head, "you have disgraced
yourself.  Instead of helping us with your authority, you stood
aside.  The Mounted Police have always treated you well--and this is
how you repay us!  You are unworthy of your trust.  Is it not so?"

"It is so," The Gopher muttered sullenly.

"If you have any explanation to make, you must come to Fort Macleod.
And let us have no more of this because, I tell you again, when the
Mounted Police come for any man, he has got to come and it is no use
resisting."

A moment later, with Wild Horse between them, Hector and his little
party rode slowly out of the camp.  In recognition of their superior
authority, courage and determination, the Indians fell back before
them as they passed, lowering their rifles with a gesture that was a
salute.


IV

On the night following the lodgment of Wild Horse in the cells at
Fort Macleod, Hector was called hurriedly to Inspector Denton's
quarters.

Three men occupied the Inspector's parlour when Hector got
there--Wild Horse, Martin and Denton himself.  The air was tense with
drama and breathed secrecy.  The windows had been carefully screened
and the key-hole blocked with paper, measures insisted on by Wild
Horse, who was in deadly fear of spies or eavesdroppers.  The lamp
had also been turned down and placed out of the direct line of the
windows.  The dim light remaining fell on the faces of the men around
the table with an unearthly glow.  All in all, the place might well
have been a noisome den devoted to the most fearful crimes and its
occupants conspirators of the deepest dye.

"That you, Adair?"  The reassuring voice of the Inspector greeted
Hector.  "Right.  This may be a--er--long business, so you'd better
sit down.  Now, Martin, tell him to go ahead--slowly.  I can
understand him myself then."

"What have you to say?" demanded Martin, using the Indian's own
language and speaking with the severity he always adopted toward
redskin criminals.

Wild Horse glanced fearfully round the room and finally broke silence
in a voice little louder than a whisper.  He spoke very rapidly.  The
Inspector attempted to stem the tide with an indignant "Go slow!
Dash it, go slow!" but the Indian paid no heed and even Martin raised
a hand to silence his superior.  Wild Horse ceased at last.

"Well, what's he say?" the Inspector enquired.

"He want to know," Martin replied, "if he tell all trut', we no'
string him up.  He want to know, if he give way man who got him shoot
Chester, we save him from that man.  We promise and he say he talk.
We no promise, then he no talk."

The Inspector entered into a long explanation of the laws governing
evidence and trial, admonishing Wild Horse, for his own good, to talk.

Followed a vehement discussion between Martin and the murderer, which
Martin finally boiled down to one brief statement:

"He no' like talk.  He ver' much afraid white man."

"Tell him the whole Force will protect him if necessary."

More vehement discussion; then Martin said:

"Good!  He talk."

Bit by bit, with many frightened starts and pauses, Wild Horse
unfolded the truth.  Thanks to the hesitating manner of the telling,
Hector followed it with comparative ease, first with interest, then
with incredulity, rising step by step to understanding, conviction
and certainty.  Here was new light on dark places, here, in a few
moments, the perplexities of years were made plain.

Said Wild Horse:

"I did kill the pony-soldier found dead in the ravine last spring.
But I was bribed to do it by a white man; and I was mad with
fire-water.  This white man, he used often to give me that poison.
He knew I had broken the law several times and would never dare to
betray him, so he gave it me without fear, not only for myself but
for others.  I would carry it into camp in all sorts of ways--many
gallons of it.  We would pay him for it with buffalo-robes and other
pelts, even with stolen horses and cattle.  He never gave the whiskey
to anyone but me, as far as I know.  He made sure that he would not
be betrayed in that manner.  He is cunning as a wolf.  And I have
made him rich.

"Well, one day he sent for me and gave me a lot of fire-water and he
told me he would give me lots more if I would do something for him.
And he added, if I would not it would be the worse for me.  So I said
I would obey him, because I was afraid.  Then he told me I must kill
this man, the Sergeant here."

And Wild Horse pointed straight at Hector.

"I knew the Sergeant--have often seen him.  I was afraid, so I said I
would do it.  I went to the herd-camp and hid all day under a
tarpaulin.  Just before the Police moved on to a new place, I heard
the Sergeant tell one of the men he would go with them and come back
later alone.  So, when the Police were not looking, I crept out and
hid in a good place near the trail.  I waited till nearly dark.  Then
I saw a man coming along.  I thought it was the Sergeant.  Had he not
said he was coming back alone?  Besides, I could not see his face at
that hour.  I shot him dead.  When I looked at him, I saw my mistake.
But I put him on his horse and led him away; and the rest you know.
Then I returned to my lodge.  I wanted to hide in some other part of
the country but I knew that if you found me absent you would suspect
me.  So I stayed there.  The chinook wiped out all traces, so I had
nothing to fear from that.  And you did not suspect me.

"I thought it was all forgotten.  Then you came and arrested Bear
Sitting Down and the rest.  That made me afraid.  I had foolishly
told Bear Sitting Down what I had done, while still drunk, and I
thought you had arrested him because of that and I feared he would
betray me.  So I ran away.  When I thought it was safe I came back.
And then the Sergeant came himself and took me.  That is all.  I
would not have killed the young man if I had not been drunk and mad
for more fire-water and in the power of that bad white man.  I swear
that is true.  Now go you and arrest him.  He----"

"Yes?" said Martin, encouragingly.  "Who is he?"

Wild Horse described his master.

"It's Welland!" Hector exclaimed, "Joe Welland!"


V

There was no question of it.  The man who had bribed Wild Horse to
attempt Hector's murder was Welland.

"Why, it's impossible!" Inspector Denton declared, when Hector
explained.  "Welland?  He's one of the--ah--wealthiest, most
influential, most respected men in the country.  He would have no
object----"

Hector shook his head.  The time had come for him to unmask the man
he had long suspected but against whom he had hitherto been unable to
amass enough evidence.  Wild Horse had pieced the puzzle together for
him.

"I'll tell you what I think of Joe Welland, sir!" he said tersely.
"He's the biggest horse-thief, cattle-rustler and whiskey-smuggler
this side the boundary.  Yes, sir," as the Inspector voiced a mild
protest, "that's so.  Oh, I've suspected him for a long, long time.
We've tried to clear the district of those crimes, sir, and made some
progress, too; and yet can't completely stop it.  Well, sir, some
time ago it struck me that the reason why we weren't able to stamp
out the business was that it was being run from a central
headquarters.  This headquarters kept itself well informed of our
movements, so that it could direct operations with the best chances
of success.  It kept itself well informed, with the result that,
capture as many of its tools as we please, we could never nab the men
on top.  This pointed to careful organization, employing men over
whom it had a definite hold only and letting those men into no matter
that did not directly concern them.  The small men had no idea of the
scope of the gang employing them, nor, in fact, any knowledge of the
chief men, to say nothing of their own comrades.  Each was just a cog
in the machine, doing the little job assigned them.  When arrested,
they gave no evidence of value because they hadn't any.  So we just
jailed them as men convicted of a small share in the big game and
went on working in the dark as before."

"That sounds plausible," the Inspector asserted, a little doubtfully.
"But--er--what about Welland?"

"Why, sir,"--Hector was aflame now with the conviction that they were
on the verge of a big thing--"we know how easily Welland became
wealthy, apparently without effort.  All sorts of evidence, too small
to arrest him on but still damning, gradually brought me to suspect
him.  His herds of horses--new buildings--lands--where did they come
from?  The horses and cattle were stolen by gangs of Indians and
whites, who did not know they were working under that man but simply
delivered them to men who in turn handed them over to him--men in his
power.  Selling these herds, he made money.  But the greater amount
by far was made from the sale of robes, horses and cattle received in
exchange for whiskey run into the country by his organization.
That's how he got wealthy, I'm certain of it now.  I could tell you a
thousand little things that show why I suspect him, sir, but it would
take a long time.  Meanwhile----"

"Well, meanwhile--what?"

"We have evidence enough from this Indian, sir.  Welland bribed him
to shoot me.  Why?  Because I've been too hot on the trail of his
whiskey-runners for the past few years!  He was afraid I might get
too near soon, so he thought he'd better put me out of the way first.
What more easy than to have this done by an Indian in his power--an
Indian who wouldn't dare to give him away if caught?  That's why he
picked Wild Horse.  If Wild Horse hadn't made a mistake, I'd be dead
now--and my suspicions with me!  Look at the evidence we've against
him, from Wild Horse alone, sir!"

The Inspector pondered.

"Er--about this idea that he was out to finish you, Adair.
And--ah--about this organization of which he's the--ah--chief.  Can
you give me an example of the sort of thing that made you suspicious?"

Hector was ready for this.

"Yes, I can, sir.  You remember when I settled that whiskey story
and--well, dealt with Randall, the man who started it?"

A flicker of a smile played over the Inspector's face.

"Yes, I do," he replied.

"Well, it comes to me now that that was started to discredit
me--perhaps to make you think I wasn't to be trusted, sir, and get
you to take me off the whiskey-runners altogether.  If Welland is
what I think he is, that's just what he'd do.  Now, Welland was the
only man except Randall who knew that whiskey had been shipped to me.
If he had power over Randall, he could make him circulate those yarns
and take the blame later.  Finding that the scheme wouldn't work, he
next thinks of putting me out for good by getting Wild Horse to shoot
me.  I'm certain if we get Randall here now, sir, and tell him we
know part of the truth and want the rest, he'll give it to us.  Being
in Welland's power, as I believe, he'll welcome a chance to knife
him.  Besides, he's a coward, and will think more of saving his own
skin than of anything else."

The Inspector was slowly but surely marshalling the facts and was
almost finally convinced.

"That's an idea, too," he declared.  "But Welland's always been a
good friend of ours, Adair.  He's--ah--respected everywhere and----"

"He's made a fortune out of that sham respectability, sir," Hector
said.  "His friendship was carefully planned from the time we first
came in--I'm sure of that now.  He was probably whiskey-trading as a
side-line when we arrived and, instead of really welcoming us, he
hated to see us come.  After that he could only carry on with safety
by doing it secretly, while he played the friendly respectable on the
surface.  That tune went down well with the decent people in the
country; and how were newcomers like ourselves to know him for what
he really was?  The only man who could possibly succeed at the head
of the organization I've described, sir, was a man we all considered
respectable--I saw that when I first became suspicious that such an
organization actually existed.  Welland is thought to be one of the
most respectable in the country, as you've said--and tonight what
Wild Horse has said leaves me absolutely convinced."

The Inspector looked Hector in the eyes.

"I believe you're right!" he said.  "Send out for Randall."


VI

Hector's estimate of Randall proved absolutely correct.  He told them
all he knew.

"Ya've caught me with the goods, I guess," he said, nervously
twisting his big hands and rolling his bloodshot eyes, "so I may's
well 'fess up.  But for God's sake, don't give me away to Welland.
That feller, he's a hound o' hell, Mr. Denton.  He beats that there
squaw o' his----"

"Beats his squaw, Randall?" queried the Inspector, astonished.

"Yessir, beats the hide off'n her.  There ain't many knows that but I
know it--blast him!  An' he's----"

"That'll do.  Get on with your story," the Inspector said.

"Well, sir, he come to me an' he says, 'You got to start a story
against Adair,' he says.  'He's been interferin' a sight too much in
my business lately--'  Hector flashed a triumphant look to the
Inspector, a look that plainly said 'I told you so!'--'an' I want him
broke.  I want him ruined!' he says.  'That case o' whiskey,' he
says, 'that gives us what we want.'  Then he tells me I gotta tell
everyone Sergeant Adair was as bad a whiskey-runner as any in the
North-West, that he was gettin' whiskey up reg'lar from th' East--you
know all about it, Sergeant!  I wouldn't 'a' done it, I wouldn't,
Sergeant, that's straight--but that human devil, he made me."

"He's got you, too, eh?" the Inspector interjected.  "What had you
done, Randall--theft or murder?"

"Eh?  Eh?" Randall jerked, jaw dropping.

The shaft had struck him fair and square.

"It wasn't anythin' like that, Mr. Denton, I swear.  That's--"

"Look here," the Inspector rapped.  "You're lying!  You'll deny
you've traded whiskey for him next!"

"Whiskey?"  Randall's face was ghastly.  "Mr. Denton, for God's
sake----"

"I knew it!" the Inspector exclaimed remorselessly.  "Hand in glove
with that Indian there, too, I'll bet!"

Wild Horse jumped uneasily.  Randall cast a frightened glance in that
direction.

"Ah, Inspector," he cried, desperately.  "No--I never seen that
feller before.  That's Gospel true!  I'll admit I smuggled whiskey,
but----"

Hector cut him short.

"You see, sir," he said to Denton, "he's one of the minor cogs in the
machine.  Wild Horse is another.  Both work under Welland--neither
knows the other from Adam!"

The Inspector nodded.

"Tell us what happened after your scandal-mongering failed," he
ordered.

Randall hesitated--then made the plunge.

"Well, sir, 't was like this.  Welland come to me one Sunday, 'bout
three weeks after Sergeant Adair treated me so rough.  He reckoned
the game had failed.  Sergeant Adair was still workin' on the whiskey
business and was more of a hero than ever.  Welland was rip-snortin'
mad--said he'd like to have Adair shot.  'Adair ain't done nothin' to
shoot him for,' I says.  'Oh, hasn't he?' says Welland, 'He's done
more'n you think.  Always pokin' his nose into other people's
affairs.'  That's all he said an' he never mentioned Adair ag'in.  He
never said nothin' to me 'bout usin' Wild Horse to shoot the
Sergeant.  I never knowd nothin' 'bout that."

"All right, Randall.  We'll believe you," said the Inspector.  "At
any rate, Adair, he confirms Wild Horse's statement to this
extent--that Welland actually threatened to settle you.  After the
whiskey fiasco, he thought--ah--murder a better scheme than any.
Taking all the evidence, Adair, we've got about enough to give
him--ah--at least ten years.  Frankly, I--ah--think you've landed the
biggest fish and--er--uncovered the biggest thing you've come across
since the Force started.  This will cause a sensation!  And--er--if
you bring him in and he's found guilty, I--ah--shouldn't be at all
surprised if it meant--ah--promotion.  In the meantime, we must
collar him as quickly as possible.  Think you'd better try the
arrest?  It might be--ah--rather risky, for you!"

"That's just why I want to do it, sir!" Hector declared, with all the
emphasis possible.  "This is a personal fight between Welland and
myself.  He's made it so; and I must see it through.  Besides, he's
my meat, anyway.  I trailed him.  I showed him up.  I must see it
through.  And I'd rather do it single-handed, sir, if you don't mind."

The Inspector leisurely filled his pipe.

"I--er--appreciate your viewpoint, Sergeant," he said at last.  "By
George, if any one should arrest him, it's you!  Where is he?"

"At home," Randall interrupted.  "I know, 'cos he went back there
yesterday."

"Right.  Handle it your own way, Adair.  You'd better start at once,
though there's no particular hurry.  You're sure to catch him by
surprise.  But do as you please.  It's your hand."

"I won't leave anything to chance, sir," replied Hector.  "I'll start
wow."

"Right."  The Inspector lighted his pipe at the lamp.  "I'll expect
him within twenty-four hours.  And, oh--as you pass the guard-room,
tell 'em to send over an escort for two prisoners.  What's that,
Randall?  Why, of _course_ you're going behind the bars, too, my good
man.  You surely don't imagine--Good luck--ah--to you, Adair."

"Thank you, sir."

Hector saluted and was gone.

The Inspector had said there was 'no particular hurry.'  Hector
himself believed that there was 'no particular hurry.'  Both were
lamentably wrong.

One of Welland's spies had overheard every syllable of the discussion
in the Inspector's parlour and, before Hector had saddled up, had
left Fort Macleod two good miles behind and was galloping hot-foot
for Welland's to warn him of his danger.


VII

On clearing the barracks and turning his horse into the trail to
Welland's ranch, sixty miles distant, Hector saw that the moon was
rising among the scattered clouds above the distant foothills, and he
studied his watch by its radiance: eight o'clock exactly.  He planned
to reach Welland's before dawn.  Setting a brisk pace, if all went
well, he should have his enemy under arrest within six or seven
hours.  The trail was so clearly revealed that he could safely
proceed at almost any speed.  He settled down for the long ride.

As he went, he found himself unable to put out of his mind the
night's startling revelations.  Having long suspected Welland of
whiskey-smuggling, horse-stealing and cattle-rustling, confirmation
of these suspicions caused him no surprise.  But that Welland had
plotted his disgrace and afterwards his death came home with
unexpected force.  He saw now that, from the time when they first
met, until that moment, Welland's feelings towards him were nothing
but sham, maintained for purposes of his own.  Welland had recognized
him long ago as a man who would probably become dangerous and had
gone out of his way from the first to hoodwink him--to produce in
Hector's mind an impression strongly favourable to himself.  As with
Hector, so with the Force generally, to a lesser degree, and so also
with the civilians of the district.  To discover that Welland's
friendship had always been false, that, while apparently well
disposed toward him, the rancher had long been plotting against him
and had actually attempted to murder him--this was a very bitter pill.

Running over various incidents, Hector, now that his had been opened,
could see traces of Welland's deceit everywhere.  The warmth with
which he had condemned all evil-doers and especially all
whiskey-traders when he first came to Fort Macleod had been nothing
but hypocrisy, to blind them to his own misdoings.  The energy with
which he had worked to make their first Christmas a success had been
born, not of generous good feeling, but a selfish desire to increase
his own popularity with the Force and thus lend further concealment
to his real character.  He had pushed Hector into prominence on that
occasion simply to strengthen the latter's good opinion.  The
interest he had always shown in Hector's work--as when he enquired so
tenderly after the progress he was making with the whiskey-runners
when they met in Weatherton's store--that, too, was a sham, an
attempt to win useful information.  One by one, Hector took these
things from their dusty pigeon-holes, examined them in this new light
and added them to the damning evidence he had collected against
Welland.

So much for that friendship!

Other matters came back to him, bits of evidence of which he had just
hinted to Inspector Denton.  There was, for instance, the fright
displayed by Welland when the party of Police arrived unexpectedly at
his house on the way to 'Red-hot' Dan's and asked for shelter.  The
rancher had been so startled that one might have almost fancied him
anticipating arrest.  And later, when he endeavored to scare them
with wonderful stories of the desperate character of the wanted
man--what was this but a sign that he was in league with the trader
and desired to gain time to warn him and secure his escape into U.S.
territory, while the Police returned to Fort Macleod for
reinforcements?  They had found 'Red-hot' Dan ready for them, even as
it was, and Hector suspected, now, that Welland had obtained means at
least to warn him in time to put up a resistance.  Hector remembered
the shrieks he had heard on the way to the Sun Dance and knew that
Randall's tale of Welland beating his squaw was true.  It was then
that Welland had shown him the buffalo skull used by the
smugglers--an effort, that, to put him off the scent.  The man had
been cunning as the devil; but not cunning enough.  These things,
together, betrayed him at last as a liar, a traitor, a brute, an
arch-criminal.

And it was with this man--no petty law-breaker but a foeman worthy of
his steel--that Hector had his quarrel.  He was almost glad that such
a man had chosen him as a special enemy, had in fact forced him to
take up as a personal fight what otherwise would have been only a
matter of duty.  He leaped to meet the challenge.  'This is a
personal fight between Welland and myself,' he had told the
Inspector.  'He's made it so; and I must see it through.  Besides,
he's my meat, anyway.  I trailed him.  I showed him up.  I must see
it through.  And I'd rather do it single-handed....'  The words came
back to him as he rushed through the night and he looked forward,
keen as mustard, to the moment which should bring them face to face,
in the struggle which had been approaching year after year and was
now at hand....

He was so absorbed in these pleasant anticipations that, in spite of
the bright moonlight, he failed to notice a hole in the trail.  His
horse, half asleep, though cantering, was as blind as himself.
Somersaulting heels over head, horse and rider fell.  The horse
stumbled wildly to its feet.  But Hector lay stunned.

And the spy ahead went galloping on.


VIII

At three o'clock in the morning Joe Welland woke from a sweet dream
to find his squaw beside him.  On the arrest of Wild Horse, he had
sent Lizzie to Fort Macleod to watch and report developments.  Her
return was now sufficient evidence to tell him that something
momentous had happened.

A horrible fear swept over him and, sitting up in bed, he frantically
ordered her to speak.

In her halting English, Lizzie obeyed.  Long a familiar and pathetic
figure in barracks, no-one had suspected her and she had been able to
maintain a close watch on Wild Horse's prison.  When she saw him
brought to Inspector Denton's quarters, she guessed that vital
developments would follow.  Going round to the Inspector's kitchen,
she begged for food.  Mrs. Denton knew her quite well and thought her
harmless.  She gave her a seat in the kitchen and a bite of supper.
Lizzie, when left for a moment alone, slipped into a hiding-place
under the stairs, whence she overheard everything going on in the
parlour.  As soon as she learned that Sergeant Adair was to start for
Welland's, she escaped from barracks unobserved, mounted her pony,
which was tethered in a gully not far off, and had ridden over the
sixty miles at the best speed possible.

Then she gave the rancher full details of the conference.

It was typical of Welland that he had no word of thanks for the woman
who had dared and endured so much for his sake.  Day in and day out,
through the years, he had used her as a slave, working her to
exhaustion and often flogging her.  Yet, with the dumb devotion
characteristic of the Indian woman, she had borne it all, content to
suffer his injustice if only she might dedicate her life to him.  And
now, in his great need, when she might have left him to the fate he
well deserved, when circumstances had offered her an opportunity for
retribution, she had unhesitatingly done her best to save his
wretched hide.  Years of selfish brutality had made him incapable of
gratitude for the greatest of services, and he would have regarded
the sacrifice of her life for him as a matter of course.

It did not take him long to see that flight was his only refuge.  His
day was done.  The Police--represented, in his view, by Hector--had
at last unmasked him, had gathered conclusive evidence against him
and were at that very moment on their way to take him.  When they had
him safely in jail, he realized, they would set about gathering more
information.  With the Chester murder against him, it would be at
least a life sentence.  To attempt to bluff it out was madness.  If
the Police laid hands on him, he was doomed.  The United States
boundary was only a few miles away.  Once on American soil, he could
quickly hide himself so that not even the Yankees could find him.
After that, he could begin life over again somewhere.  This life, the
life of Mr. Joseph Welland, rancher--had crumbled to pieces round him
and only instant action could save him from burial in the ruins.

A man of quick decisions, his mind was at once made up.  Jumping out
of bed, he began to dress, throwing instructions at Lizzie the while.

"And don't make a noise, or I'll kill you," he adjured.

Fear lent him swiftness and strength.  Already, he fancied he heard
Hector's voice, summoning him to surrender.  Hector!  At thought of
him, Welland was possessed with fury.  To Hector, he knew, he owed
his downfall.  With infinite patience and cunning, beginning years
before Hector's arrival, the rancher had built up a criminal machine
of amazing efficiency, a machine which had made him rich.  He had
hidden his own connection with the machine so cleverly that, as time
went on, he began to consider himself absolutely safe.  One by one
his vassals were jailed but no evil consequences for himself
resulted.  He had taken good care, from the first, to see that they
were men who knew it best to keep their mouths shut.  So, to all the
world, he had continued to be Joseph Welland, most respectable of
ranchers.  The world might have lingered on in this illusion for
Heaven knows how long, at least until the day when, made wealthy by
the machine, he might have scrapped it and became truly respectable.
That day, of late, had seemed near; and he looked forward to it,
since, to do him justice, he was not a master-criminal for the love
of it nor a secret associate with low-down whites and Indians for any
love he bore them.  That day had seemed near; and now, thanks to
Hector, it was gone forever.

It was no satisfaction to him at this moment to recall that from the
first he had recognized the quiet, immensely keen young giant as a
dangerous factor.  But the knowledge that he had been unable to
maintain Hector in ignorance of his real character, that he had
failed to realize until too late that Hector was on his track, and
that, when realization came, he had made so poor a job of his attempt
to 'settle' him--this knowledge tortured him.

Well, he would see to it that he was not taken by Sergeant Adair or
any other Mounted Policeman!  If he hurried, he might still get away
to such a start that no-one could overtake him.  But he must hurry.
Hector could not have been far behind Lizzie in leaving Fort Macleod.

The black horse stolen from 'Lazy G' was the best in the stable!  He
ran out into the moonlight to saddle him.


IX

Hector's struggling return to consciousness ended when he felt
something soft and warm against his hand and found his horse
anxiously nuzzling him.  For a minute or two he was powerless to
think or move.  The moon and stars went wheeling weirdly round and
round, while a sticky stream coursed slowly down his cheek.  Feeling
horribly sick and weak, he yielded to an intense desire to sleep and
closed his eyes again.

Meanwhile, precious time was flying.

From this condition he recovered with a start and a dawning sense
that something important was hanging in the balance.  His next
thought was to get to his feet; but, when he tried to rise, agonizing
pains shot through him, dragging a groan from his lips and forcing
beads of sweat to his face.  He sat up gasping, teeth clenched.  The
spasm past, he tried again, got to his knees, then, catching at the
stirrup, dragged himself slowly up and so at last to a standing
position.  Had he not had the saddle to cling to, he would certainly
have fallen.  As it was, he reeled drunkenly and only the dim
knowledge that he must pull himself together gave him the power to
hold on.

So, as he hung there, everything came back to him.  He remembered
that he was on the trail to Welland's to arrest the rancher.  Then he
saw that the saddle was twisted to one side and the oak cantle
broken.  The horse, too, was cut and grimy about the knees and blood
had dried in its nostrils.  Next he realized that his tunic had been
ripped up the back and was hanging in shreds.  His hat was gone, his
face covered with dirt, the clammy streams on his cheeks were blood,
flowing from wounds in his forehead.  Then he recollected the fall.
The horse had apparently put its forefoot in a hole and turned a
somersault.  In the fall, pinned beneath the horse, he had been torn
along the ground.  Gradually he realized that had he not been
exceptionally strong, he would have been killed by the fall, in which
he had been dragged twenty feet.

As things were he was in no condition to go on.  Even the iron code
of the Mounted Police had no quarrel with a man who yielded when in
such a state as Hector found himself.  But his first thought was for
the business in hand.  The moon was going down.  His watch had
stopped at three o'clock.  Then probably he had lain there hours
afterwards.  In desperate haste, he set about making up for lost time.

The whole secret of his reputation was revealed in that crisis.

He was sick and sore and his brain was whirling like a top.  Yet
somehow he twisted the saddle back into its rightful position,
thanking God that his horse had remained faithfully beside him
throughout, thus enabling him to complete his journey on horseback
instead of on foot.  Then he got somehow into the saddle, somehow
started the horse and so, the reins twisted round his hands, while
his fingers clung to the mane and he held on from hip to heel, urged
gradually into a steady gallop.

"Am I in time?  Am I in time?"

Drumming in his head with the beat of hoofs, that was the only
thought he could retain.

The rest of the ride was sheer torture, without dimensions of time or
distance.  The road staggered under him, the horse rocked, the moon,
now almost out, did idiotic things.  Every shooting pain, every bump,
went through him with terrible violence, his desire to end this agony
and get to grips with Welland became a consuming fire.

"Am I in time?  Am I in time?"

More dead than alive, he pounded into Welland's yard at last.  Dawn
was gilding the mountains.  The shack showed only one feeble light.
In a daze, biting back the cry of torment beating at his lips, he
slid to the ground.

Now!

He opened the door cautiously.  From Welland's bed-room, the light
burned dimly.  Hector entered.

At the entrance to the room, he found confusion everywhere.  A dark
form crouched, moaning, in a corner.  She looked up at him--Lizzie!
The sight gave him a nasty shock, for he fancied her at Fort Macleod.

Suddenly possessed of a vague uneasiness, he strode quickly in.
Welland, acting on some strange freak, had left a message for him
under the lamp on the table.  He snatched it up and read:

"You have won this time.  But I will win yet.  I owe you my ruin and,
if it takes me twenty years, I'll get even.  Remember, I'll get even,
if it takes me twenty years."

The threat was lost on Hector--at any other time he would have
laughed at it.  But now he turned swiftly to Lizzie.

"Where is Joe?" he demanded.

Surely, surely Welland had not escaped him, after all that had passed?

"Where is Joe?" he repeated fiercely.

Lizzie laughed in mad triumph.

"He gone--hour ago!  You no' catch him.  He over the medicine-line!"

Hector rapped an inward oath of agony.  White man--ghastly in the
lamp-light, with pale, bloody face, and tattered scarlet--and Indian,
they stared at each other.




BOOK TWO: _Spirit-of-Iron_



Chapter I


I

Until comparatively recently, the destinies of nations depended
mainly upon roads.  A nation might be judged by the state of its
roads.  Civilization and Progress moved along good roads, bad roads
were the symbols of Barbarism.  Rome, the Imperial power of the
ancient world, the greatest apostle of Civilization and Progress born
before the Renaissance, built the best roads ever made.

For the past century the railway has been to nations and Empires what
the road once was.

Western Canada, marching under the wing of the Mounted Police, had by
this time emerged from barbarism.  A decade of strong government had
done its work.  Homesteads dotted the vastness of the plains, small
islands in wide seas of grass.  Little towns were rising up like
magic at the forks of the long, lone trails.  The country was slowly
waking, like a young giant, from the sleep of untold centuries,
awakening to a vague yet definite conception of its destiny.  Faintly
visioning its mighty future, it carefully took the measure of itself
and looked around for what it lacked to fill its deficiencies.  Where
one homestead stood it knew there should be a hundred.  Where little
shack-towns rose, it knew there should be cities.  The future held
its promise of these things.  But until the country's crying need was
filled, the future remained a promise--nothing more.

The country's crying need--what was it?

The railway.

And the railway was coming now.  From Atlantic to Pacific, one poem
with an heroic theme was in the making--the epic of the
Transcontinental.

To the East, in this epic, belong the giants of vision, the planners,
the intellectuals.  The West saw only the men of action, the giants
who did the bidding of the fathers of the dream, the surveyors,
plate-layers, navvies, engineers.  These men of action were organized
like an army.  Like an army, they had their officers, their N.C.O.s,
their rank and file, their hangers-on and camp-followers.  The men
who supervised--the construction-bosses, skilled engineers, managers
of one thing or another--were the officers; the foremen and
master-mechanics were the N.C.O.s; the lesser labourers--mostly
called Dagoes--who laid the road-bed, dug ditches, carried sleepers,
rails and fish-plates--were the rank and file; while the
camp-followers and hangers-on--gamblers, whiskey-smugglers, robbers,
cut-throats and lost women--were scum clean through.

Though organized like an army--these people--they were actually a
crowd.  An army is distinguished from a crowd by its discipline.  And
they had very little discipline.  It was necessary, for the good of
the great work, that their unruly elements be kept in hand.  As far
as such men could be, they were kept in hand.  And, through their
labours--this fact will help them at the Day of Judgment--the great
work marched steadily towards completion.  Slowly but surely, the
thin thread of steel pushed its way through the trackless wastes of
rock and burnt-out timber north of the Great Lakes; thrust itself
across mile after mile of sunlit plain; climbed step by step over the
foothills and into the mountains; clambered along sheer precipices,
sprang over dizzy gorges, bored through vast walls of granite; and,
tracing always the pathway of the pioneers, pushed forward month by
month in the wake of the setting sun.

The crowd was kept in hand--partly by the iron rule of its chiefs but
mainly through the unceasing vigilance of the Mounted Police, who
soothed their discontent, caught their robbers, suppressed their
gamblers, baffled their whiskey-smugglers and forestalled their
murderers.

The 'end of track,' by this time, had reached Regina; and Hector was
the senior N.C.O. of the Mounted Police on that division.

When Sergeant-Major Whittaker, six months before, had left the Force
to take up land in the North, his departure had left a great gap in J
Division; but nobody had been surprised when Hector was called upon
to fill it.

"He's one of our best N.C.O.s," was the general comment.  "Besides,
he has the luck of the devil, anyway!"

So Hector was now Sergeant-Major, at twenty-eight, and it was more
than probable that before he was thirty he would easily realize his
dream of a commission.  There was no cloud on his horizon.  He was
very happy.

For some time after Welland's escape Hector had feared for his
prospects.  A criminal involved in innumerable crimes had slipped
through his fingers; he thought the Big Chiefs would consider this
inexcusable.  Hector's fall, which to some minds might have
exonerated him, seemed to him to add to the disgrace.  The result of
sheer carelessness--so he considered it--that fall should never have
happened to a Mounted Policeman; and he was certain the Big Chiefs
would hold the same opinion.  But when the Commissioner and Inspector
Denton heard the details of his condition when, ragged, gory,
white-faced and held up only by his indomitable will, he returned
from Welland's, and realized just what he had done, they acted as
they thought best.  Hector, after all, had unmasked the man--one of
the most dangerous in the country--and at least driven him out by his
own unaided effort.  It was good riddance of bad rubbish; and
Welland's escape did him no harm.

That was two years ago now and Hector had almost forgotten the whole
affair.  Even Welland's dramatic little note, with its vindictive
threat, 'I'll get even, if it takes me twenty years' he had
contemptuously banished from his mind.  And today he was
Sergeant-Major of J Division, maintaining the law along one hundred
miles of the line of construction.

The job carried very heavy responsibilities, which aged him
daily--not physically but mentally.  He had, where duty was
concerned, the outlook of a man twice his age.  He was the
connecting-link between officers and men, his task to see that every
order and regulation was obeyed.  Besides these matters concerning
the internal economy of the Force, he had also to deal direct with
law-breakers.  So he came in touch with all the vice, wretchedness
and stark tragedy abounding in the tent-towns and construction camps.
He knew all the thieves, 'rollers,' toughs, shell-game experts,
whiskey-peddlers and ladies of doubtful reputation by sight and most
of them by name.  When the scarlet-coated patrols swooped down on
crowded caboose or side-tracked box-car at dead of night to catch the
drunks in full carouse, he was almost always in the offing.  When a
gambling-joint was raided, he led the rush.  When, in pauses between
dances, the dirty men and painted women at the little tables in the
reeking dance-halls became suddenly silent to watch a lone man in
uniform pass vigilantly among them, the lone man was generally Hector.

In his turn, through all the seething, howling world whose axis was
the railway, his was the most familiar figure.  They knew him as the
kindest and best-hearted of men to those who slipped through
ignorance or foolishness, and, to those who slipped from choice, the
most merciless; loved him or hated him, according to their lights;
went out of their way to meet him or to avoid him; and feared him,
one and all, far more than they feared God.


II

In spite of all his responsibilities and hard work, Hector found
opportunities to have a little harmless fun; as witness Mr. Augustus
J. Perkins, gambler and whiskey-smuggler, temporarily resident in the
mushroom city of Regina.

Hector first spotted Mr. Perkins on the way to Qu'appelle, a few
miles down the line, where Sergeant Cranbrook was stationed.  His
attention was drawn to Mr. Perkins because, firstly, the man's face
was unfamiliar, secondly, he was a book-agent.  Book-agents were
frequently seen along the line and Hector had learned to regard them
all with suspicion, as most of them adopted the profession to hide
their true identity, which was generally criminal.  And Mr. Perkins'
appearance was against him.  He was a plump, ruddy, cheery soul and
might have passed muster but for his eyes, which were shifty and
bloodshot; also, his nose was red.  His hands were pudgy, too, and
covered with cheap rings.  He wore a little bow-tie, a wide-awake
hat, a vile flowered waistcoat, a Prince Albert, very baggy trousers
and a dazzling gold watch hung with many seals.  His face was too
good to be true and he studiously kept his eyes away from Hector.
These things condemned him.

"I'll try him out," thought Hector.

He approached Mr. Perkins, who greeted him with a convincing smile
but was still unable to hide his aversion to Mounted Policemen.
Hector noted the fact.

"Nice day," he began, sitting down opposite the book-agent.
"Augustus J. Perkins, I presume?"

"Yes."  Then, doubtfully, "Le's see now, where'd we meet before?"

"It wasn't in jail, was it?" Hector smiled.

"Quit your jokin'," Mr. Perkins returned, shifting uneasily.  "Where
was it, though?"

"I don't know.  I saw your name on your grip, if that's what you
mean?"

"Oh, yas.  Yas."  Followed a pause, Mr. Perkins evidently searching
his whirling brain for something to say.  "Have a cigar?"

"Thanks.  I'll smoke it later, when no-one's around."

The book-agent lighted up.

"How's business?" Hector resumed.

"Pretty good," Mr. Perkins admitted.

"Sold lots of stock?"

"Oh, yas.  Yas!"

"I wonder if he's foolin' me?" Perkins was thinking.  But Hector was
perfectly serious.

"I'm quite fond of reading myself," said Hector.  "You've a lot of
books there.  What have you?"

The book-agent pondered.

"I've got Scott, Thack'r'y, Dickens, an'--Dickens--an'--le's see; the
Waverley Novels, Shakespeare, Pickwick Papers--that's a new book,
just out, by--by----"

"Scott, isn't it?" Hector suggested.

"Yas, Scott--tha's right," Mr. Perkins hastily affirmed.  "Oh, an'
lots more."

"Good, I'd like to see one or two.  Fetch down the big bag and let's
have a look at it."

The agent reached a hand to the rack, laying hold of a small bag.

Hector did not let the action pass.

"The _big_ bag, I said," he reminded the agent pleasantly.

Perkins pretended not to hear.

"The _big_ bag," Hector repeated.

"Eh?"  Mr. Perkins jerked suddenly.

"I want to see the big bag."

The agent found his voice.

"Hell, that's my stock," he protested.  "My samples are in this."

And he pulled the small bag down.

"All right, my buck," Hector thought.  "I understand."

They looked over the books together.

"Well, you've a fine stock," Hector asserted, after a time.  "Now,
I'll tell you where to find me in Regina.  Come up there when you're
next in town and I'll buy twenty books from you."

"Say, that's real white of you, Mr. Adair.  An' I'll be there first
chance."

Though he tried thereafter to pump Mr. Perkins, the book-agent would
not be drawn.  But he was well satisfied.

"A smuggler and probably a gambler," he thought.  "He'll never come
within a mile of my quarters, of course.  That's a certainty.  Never
mind.  We'll land him."

They parted at Qu'appelle.  Cranbrook was waiting for Hector, who
pulled him under cover and pointed out Mr. Perkins, instructing him
to keep an eye on the gambler.

Together, they prepared a combined plan for the downfall of Mr.
Perkins.

Returning to Regina that night, Hector delved into certain records
and finally unearthed data concerning a gambler answering closely to
the description of the suspect.  Moreover, he was nicknamed 'Artful
Gussie.'

Hector advised Cranbrook of this discovery and passed word along the
whole line setting detachments on their guard.

In one week's time they amassed sufficient evidence to arrest Mr.
Perkins, and landed him behind the bars.


III

The Press Association's special train was speeding towards
Qu'appelle, its whistle screaming, its noisy little engine pouring
out long trails of sparks.  From the windows of the cars were thrust
serried rows of heads and strings of handkerchiefs.  As they neared
the little town, one lively young lady, wearing an especially smart
hat and a particularly large bustle--her name was Nita Oswald and she
represented a leading Eastern paper--gave voice to the sentiments of
the company:

"Oh, here's another of these horrible holes!  When _are_ we going to
meet the _real_ 'Wild West'?  I've seen plenty of picturesque scenery
and some lovely cut-throats.  But I do want to see something truly
romantic.  _Please_ send us something romantic, O Lord!"

And she rolled her very alluring eyes towards Heaven.

Whereupon, suddenly, the prayer was answered.  From the woods
fringing either side of the line at some distance, came all at once a
startling succession of blood-curdling yells.  Everyone became
galvanized to attention, with thoughts of Indian attacks and gory
massacres.  But they had no time to yield to their alarm.  The first
war-whoop was still echoing through the August woods when out burst
two racing lines of horsemen in dazzling scarlet.  They dashed across
the intervening ground, swung to left or right with thrilling
precision and so, at utmost speed, galloped alongside the train.

"Oh, oh!" screamed the young lady with the bustle, "How lovely!  A
whole army of the Mounted Police!"

The windows of the train grew clamorous, the handkerchiefs fluttered
like frantic birds, the engine answered the continued yells of the
flying horsemen with shriek on shriek.  A trumpeter at the head of
the troop stirred the watchers with a glorious ripple of music and
the horse at the tail, wildly enthusiastic, put down its head and
tore over the ground with terrific bucks but without lagging a yard
behind or disturbing its impassive rider by the breadth of a feather.
The gleaming scarlet and steel, the brilliant horsemanship, the dash
and movement of the whole picture roused the journalists to mad
applause.

_This_ was something like the West and no mistake about it!

At Qu'appelle, a halt was made, and journalists and policemen
fraternized.  A group of admiring press-men offered respectful
congratulations to the tall young Sergeant-Major who had argued with
the horse.  Attracted by the little crowd, a man on the platform of
the nearest car came down and joined it.  A moment later the
journalists were thrust aside.

"Hector!"

And Hector, wheeling, gave joyous answer:

"Hugh!"

After that, of course, there was nothing for it but that Hector
should hand over his horse to one of the men and to return to Regina
with Hugh.  This was easily arranged; and, while the train rattled on
to the 'end of track,' Hector and Hugh enjoyed a splendid chat--the
first in ten long years.

There was naturally a tremendous lot to tell, but certain facts stood
out.  Hugh had been a journalist a long time now--Hector knew this
already, having watched his career with a good deal of interest--and
when the editor of his paper in Toronto looked for a man to send
Westward with the Press Association, his choice had fallen upon Hugh.
Why had he kept his coming secret?  Oh, he wanted to give Hector a
real surprise.

"Well, you've done that, all right," Hector declared.  "You're the
first man from home I've seen since I came West, Hugh!"

Speaking of home inevitably led to a cross-examination covering all
the latest doings of Hector's mother--Cousin John--Allen--and the
others.  Hugh, to satisfy Hector's craving, described everything in
detail.  Then, suddenly, he was struck with an inspiration:

"But look here, Hec'.  You've earned a holiday, God knows.  Why not
come back with me and see it all for yourself?  I can't possibly do
it justice, you know.  Now, Hec'!"

The suggestion brought a light to Hector's eyes.  But presently he
shook his head.

"I can't, Hugh," he said.  "We're up to the neck just now.  I can't
be spared.  Don't argue.  There's no-one to take my place."

"Oh, bosh!" laughed Hugh.  "You're not so darned important.  Of
course they can spare you!  You've got swelled head, old boy."

Hector rapped him playfully.

"Yes, haven't I?" he replied.  "Never mind--it can't be done.  No
such word as 'can't' in the Police vocabulary?  There is, in this
case!"

Hugh thereafter exhausted his arguments.  Hector was a Gibraltar.

"Oh, tell us--who's your C.O.?" asked Hugh, at last.

"Superintendent Denton.  Why?"

"Never mind," said Hugh, abruptly changing the conversation.  And
Hector forgot the matter.

But, later on that day he was greeted with the dazzling information
that Hugh, while Hector was absent a moment on duty, had seen the
Superintendent and the latter had consented to allow Hector six
weeks' leave.

"Six weeks' leave, Hec'!  Six weeks!  Think of it!  He didn't say a
word against it.  Said, in fact, he'd been contemplating sending you,
as ten years without leave was quite enough for any man.  And when I
told him you'd refused to ask for it and I was seeing him without
your knowledge, he said it was just like you--that you had a
wonderful sense of duty!  What more can you want?  Isn't that great?"

"Hugh!" said Hector.

He was going home!


IV

News of all kinds runs swiftly through organized formations and
within an hour every man at headquarters, including the prisoners in
the cells, knew that Hector was going East.

While he was putting the finishing touches to his hurried
preparations, the Sergeant in charge of the cells came to him.

"Sergeant-Major, can you spare a moment?"

"Well?"

"You know that gambler that's awaiting trial--the fellow Sergeant
Cranbrook arrested at Qu'appelle?"

Hector smiled.

"Oh, yes--Perkins.  What about him?"

"He's heard you're going home, S.-M., and he wants to know if you'll
go and see him first."

"Eh?"

"Yes, that's right."

Hector considered a moment.  What could Perkins want?  It was not in
him to refuse.

"All right.  I'll be over in a little while."

When Hector entered the cell, the gambler greeted him with a cry of
joy.

"Here I am, Perkins," he said.  "What do you want?"

Perkins looked abashed and his head dropped.

"Come along," said Hector, more kindly.  "Speak out, man."

"P'raps I ain't entitled to it, Mr. Adair--but--but--I want to ask a
favour--a favour of you."

"Go on," Hector encouraged him.

"The boys have been tellin' me about you, Mr. Adair.  An' it appears
you come from--from th' same part o' the world as I do."

"Where's that?'

"You're a Blenheim county man, ain't you?"

"Why, yes," replied Hector.  "And you----?"

"Me?  I'm from Arcady,"--Perkins was grinning with sheer joy--"just
in th' next county.  You know it?"

"The little village of Arcady?" Hector asked, in an uncompromising
tone.  "I know it well.  I thought you were an American."

Perkins looked sheepish.

"No--ah, that's just a--a business nationality, with me.  I'm a
Canuck, born in Arcady, Ontario.  An' I want--if it ain't asking too
much, Mr. Adair, I want you to do me a little favour there."

"What is it?"

"My old mother lives there yet, Sergeant-Major."

Hector felt his sternness melting; but he said nothing.

"I wasn't--wasn't always a--a shell-game expert, Mr. Adair.  I ran
away from home, though, when I was nineteen--more than twenty years
ago--I was wild--couldn't stand the apron-strings.  Well, for a while
I ran straight--an'--my mother, she forgave me, when she heard I was
doin' well--an' for a long time I ust to write to her an'--an' tell
her, God help me, what a fine feller I was.  Then--well I left the
straight an' narrow, Mr. Adair, but I couldn't bear to let my mother
know, 'cause it 'ud 'a' broken her heart.  So' I just kep' on
pertendin' I was doin' awfully well.  I wrote her a pack o' lies, Mr.
Adair, but if she'd known the truth, I guess it 'ud have killed her.

"So all these years I been foolin' her, Mr. Adair.  I ain't wrote to
her just lately but that wasn't my fault.  An' now--well, I want you
to help me out, Mr. Adair."

Perkins had fired the one shaft capable of piercing Hector's
otherwise impregnable armour.  Before Hector left the cell he had
pledged himself to go and see the gambler's mother and give her that
message from her prodigal son.

And perhaps--who knew?--it might be the turning-point in Perkins'
career.

"God, you're a white man, Mr. Adair," declared the gambler, as they
parted, "the first white policeman I've ever met."

"None of that," growled Hector.  "And mind you behave while I'm away."

"It's not much to do," he thought, as he walked back to his quarters.
"A small thing----"

A small thing, yes; but then he did not know that on it was dependent
an epoch in his destiny.




Chapter II


I

The journey Eastward was one bewildering revelation to Hector.  The
changes in the past ten years had been marvellous.  It pleased him to
think that without the Mounted Police they would have been impossible.

Staying nearly two days in Winnipeg--now a thriving town--he enjoyed
a personal triumph.  Word of his arrival brought hosts of people to
see him and showers of invitations.  Big Jim Hackett, one-time owner
of the _Hell's Gate_ saloon, now proprietor of one of the best
hotels, insisted in quartering Hector and Hugh under his roof, though
the place was already jammed.  Andrew Ferguson, whose bakery had
grown stupendously, fought with little Johnny Oakdale, now monarch of
a bustling hardware store, for the pleasure of showing Hector round;
and so on; and so on.

But what amused Hector was their anxiety to know just why he was
going home and their unshakable conviction--in spite of all he could
say--that his was a mission of love.

"Of _course_ you're going home to get married, Mr. Adair!" pretty
little Miss Sinclair--Mrs. Jim Hackett now--declared, a roguish look
in her eyes.  "Now, listen to me--don't deny it, because I know
better.  I can see it in your face.  And is it any wonder?  What else
should a man go East for, I'd like to know?  You men are all
alike--lose your hearts to the first pretty girl who comes along to
tell you about 'Home.'  Who is she--one of those prying visitors,
perhaps, or that moon-faced newspaper girl I saw you with when the
train came in?--The hussy!  But I don't blame her, Mr. Adair.  You
know, I once had quite a soft spot for you myself--and _now_!  Such a
fine, big, bronzed fellow, handsome as a dream, so young to hold the
rank, that beautiful red coat--oh, don't blush!  You know it's true,
young man!  Yes, you do!  Would any of your men dare to talk to you
like this?  I guess not, eh?  Never mind.  Don't deny you're bringing
a bride back with you, because you surely will.  She's a lucky girl,
whoever she is!"

"I tell you, you're talking nonsense," Hector laughed.  "What should
I get married for?"

"I like that!  'Nonsense!'  'What should I get married for?'!  It
isn't nonsense.  It's quite time you were thinking of it."

When the sojourn was over and Hector was once more in the comparative
solitude of the train, he began to ponder over this attitude.  It was
a strange thing that all his friends should naturally assume that he
was going home to get married and, finding themselves in error,
should insist that it was time he began to think of it.  Obviously,
they considered it inevitable that he should now contemplate entering
into the holy state.  As he had never given it a moment's thought
till now, it was equally obvious that he must be unlike the general
run of men of his age, by whom his friends, of course, judged him.
Strange that he had never realized it before!

Struggling against this knowledge--the knowledge of his peculiar
individuality--he next tried to tell himself that most men of his age
were unattached or, at any rate, single.  But his own experience
rebelled against the lie.  He saw that most men had at least been in
love--honestly, desperately in love--before they reached his years;
and he had never been in love; no, not once.  Perhaps, though, this
was easily explained.  He had left Eastern Canada while still far too
young to feel a great passion; since that time he had been so busy
with his work that he had not had time to think of anything else.
Besides, he had never found in the North-West a woman of such radiant
beauty and soul as to meet with his ideal, which he knew was
extraordinarily high.  Many had pitched themselves at his head; none
had satisfied him.  In the East, where women were so much more
numerous, now that he was to see the women of the East with a man's
eyes, he might come across some-one who could light the divine spark.
On the other hand, he wondered if he was one in whose life love had
no place.  There were people, after all, who had gone through life in
that loneliness.  Or perhaps he was one of those to whom Destiny
allots one and only one grand passion, which was still to come.

In the end he laughed, calling himself a sentimental ass.  Time
enough to think of love when it came, and when love came, of marriage.

At Alma John met them and Mrs. Adair.  And Hector gathered her into
his arms, murmuring rapturously:

"Mother, I'm so glad to be home!"


II

The week following Hector's homecoming was a strange, swift medley of
joy and sorrow, gaiety and festival and pain, of renewing
acquaintances, paying visits, exchanging reminiscences.  Hector
passed a sad half-hour in the churchyard where so many of those he
loved best--his father, Maintop, Long Dick, Nora and the gallant
Sergeant Pierce--were sleeping.  He made a special journey, also, to
have a look at Silvercrest; but at the last moment could not bear to
see the old place in a stranger's hands, and came away.

At the end of the week he remembered Arcady and his promise to
Perkins.  As it happened, no-one could spare the time to go with him.
So he went alone, bearing as passport a letter of introduction to a
Mr. Tweedy, friend of Allen's and owner of half the village.

Tweedy was all that could be desired.  He insisted on carrying Hector
home with him for supper and later on demanded that he should stay
with them for the duration of his visit, whatever that might be.

After supper Hector broached his errand, intending to lead up to the
main point in a roundabout way and to conceal such facts as he deemed
advisable.  But Mrs. Tweedy--a bright little woman with glasses and a
tireless but mercifully charitable tongue--in her first reply, made
further questioning almost unnecessary and settled poor Perkins'
perplexities for ever.

"Mrs. John Perkins?--Mrs. John Perkins?--Let me see, now.  A widow,
eh?  There was a Mrs. Perkins here--very old--son ran away--only
child--the rascal!--you say that's the one?  Oh, yes, I know whom you
mean.  Oh, _she's_ dead!"

The news gave Hector an unpleasant shock and his heart went out to
Perkins.  A little later, he decided to confide everything to the
sympathetic couple.  Tweedy shook his head a great many times, Mrs.
Tweedy wiped her glasses and murmured "Poor thing!  Poor boy!  Oh,
dear!  Well, well!" and both offered to do everything possible to
assist Hector if he wished to give the affair any more attention.

"Then," said Hector, "You'll take me over to the Post Office and the
old lady's grave.  I want to make some enquiries about Perkins'
letters and I'd like to be able to tell him----"

In the morning, Hector learned that Perkins' letters had been duly
delivered to the old lady up to the time of her death and that those
received since had been sent to the dead letter office.  Perkins had
received nothing from the dead letter office.  But then, he moved
round so much that this was not surprising.  Tweedy then took his
guest over to the tumbledown shack which Mrs. Perkins had occupied.
The afternoon found him too busy to drive to the cemetery.  Hector
obtained full directions as to the route and made the journey on
foot, took a mental photograph of the grave for Perkins, and turned
homeward.

He forgot all about Perkins a few minutes later, in the beauty of the
autumn evening.  The sun, a paling disc, was dropping slowly down
towards its sanctuary behind the far blue hills.  Arcady, loveliest
of all havens in Ontario, lay below him, in a wide valley brimful of
golden sunlight, glorious with the mingling greys and browns and
scarlets of woods and fields and orchards.  The road on which he
stood ran winding into the distant town, resting like a sleeping
child in the middle of it all.  Harvesters still lingered in the
grain.  The orchards glowed with crimson apples.  From the chimneys
of Arcady and the summer cottages which fringed the sparkling,
rippling lake beyond, thin threads of blue-grey smoke rose straight
upwards through the bracing, sweetly scented air and on the lake a
single sail gleamed like a flake of snow.  Somewhere, near at hand, a
bird called, mournfully, persistently, while a church bell tolled
with mellow voice a long way off.  The picture was all that Home and
Peace and Canada could mean to Hector and for a little while it held
him, fresh as he was from raw, unsettled wildernesses and scenes of
fierce toil and sordid crime, in a rapturous enchantment.

He felt, then, as if be was poised upon the edge of Paradise, as if
marvels that he could not even guess were about to be made known to
him.

In this strange mood, he walked steadily down into the valley and
along a lane which would take him to Tweedy's by a short cut.  Tall
hedges bright with changing leaves enclosed this lane and it was
fringed by autumn flowers and overhung by loaded boughs.  A wind
brought to him the rich smell of hay and apples and stirred the
rustling leaves which strewed the ruts before him.  A small bird
piped drowsily.

Then, suddenly, as he pushed aside a screen of branches, he knew that
this visit to Arcady was not to be fruitless after all, that there
was a purpose behind it; and learnt, suddenly, why Destiny had sent
him there.

For, suddenly, he saw her.


III

His coming took her by complete surprise and, for a time which might
be measured in seconds, she remained unconscious of his presence.
She was sitting on a stile which led into an orchard on the left side
of the lane, her face and figure steeped in the golden sunlight and
boldly framed by sprays of scarlet leaves against a background of
clear sky.  Her head was partly turned away but Hector could see that
she was unusually pretty.  The soft freshness of girlhood blended in
her face with the character of womanhood and her hair--he had never
seen anything like her hair, a kind of ruddy gold, almost copper,
shot with sunbeams which played in it as if they were alive.  She
wore a dress that was soft and white and billowy and from her arm
hung a small straw hat on two blue ribbons.

So much he saw in the first swift moment.  And then he perceived that
she was crying, not noisily or violently, but quietly, with slowly
welling tears.  He wondered why.  Presently he noticed that she was
holding out her skirt in front and staring at it with a world of
misery in her eyes.  There was a jagged rent in the skirt.  A tiny
bit of stuff fluttering on a nail in the stile told him everything.
And now she found relief from her vexation in the customary feminine
manner.

Hector, sensing nothing more than its rarer beauty, was for a moment
lost in admiring contemplation of the perfect picture.  The moment
passing, he wavered between pity and amusement.  From this mood he
slowly fluttered back to earth, to a realization that he was staring
with unforgivable rudeness, that he was intruding on a lady's privacy
and that courtesy demanded he should make his presence known without
further delay.  But still he could not bear to speak and break the
spell.  And, while he hesitated, she glanced up with a startled
expression and met his eyes with hers.

Had he been a Chinese mandarin in full regalia she could not have
looked more astonished or alarmed.

"What--what--who are you?" she asked him.

And Hector, stepping back in some confusion, like a boy caught
stealing jam, stammered:

"Excuse me--er--I beg your pardon!"

By this time she had jumped hastily to her feet, dropping the jagged
tear into concealment and swiftly dabbing her eyes with the tiniest
of handkerchiefs.  Annoyance crept into her face.  Then came an
awkward pause and her annoyance seemed to conflict with a sudden fit
of shyness.  They faced each other in silence.

"How--how long had you been there?" she enquired at last.

Hector, self-possession rapidly returning, came out from among the
screening leaves into which he had temporarily recoiled.

"Not long," he said.  "Only a second or two, in fact.  I had no idea
you were there, of course; and then--when I saw you--I was rather
caught unawares and I hated to disturb you because----"

He paused, the ghost of a laugh in his eyes.  'Well, because what?'
was what he wanted her to say.  But she continued to look at him in
silence and he finished the sentence himself:

"Because you looked so beautiful."

She flushed a little.  He wondered if she would reprove him.
Instead, she bit her lip and a hint of laughter played about the
corner of her mouth, reflecting back his whim.

"I know I ought to have coughed or something.  I most certainly
should have coughed.  I really am very sorry."

The apology was genuine.  She accepted it and said so, not in so many
words, but in continuing the parley.

"I tore my dress," she explained ruefully, as if in self-defence.  "I
wanted to go home by a short cut.  So I thought I'd try this lane.
The stile here makes it a shorter cut than ever.  I--I wanted to get
over it ... and couldn't.  And my dress caught on that nail; and it
was a new one, too!"

She struggled with a fresh outbreak of grief and an obvious confusion
which seemed to say: 'I know that ladies don't scramble over stiles.
But the truth is the truth and must be told.  What do you think of
me?'

Hector looked at her gravely.

"That really is too bad," he sympathized.  "It's a fine dress; and a
very awkward stile."

She was grateful.

"Yes, isn't it--or aren't they--is that what I mean?  I shall have to
walk back by the long way now."

With that, she prepared to go.  The dialogue was obviously over and
Hector had received his dismissal.

But he could not let the matter end so soon and in this manner!

"Excuse me," he said, gently extending a detaining hand, "excuse me
for intruding further and for contradicting, but--you don't really
have to, you know!"

She looked at him quickly--apparently decided to ignore this
assertion--moved on a step or two--thought better of it--and,
halting, asked him calmly:

"How is that?"

Again the bantering look crept in Hector's eyes.

"Well, if I may suggest it, I can help you across."

He nodded towards the stile.

She looked puzzled, followed his glance, and smiled amusedly.

"I don't quite understand," she told him.

Hector smiled back.

"I don't believe you're very heavy.  I'm sure--" greatly daring, he
ventured the plunge, "I could easily lift you over."

She raised her eyebrows gravely.  Hector felt that he had damned
himself.

"Lift me over?" she queried.

He bowed his head.

"But--I--I don't even know you," she laughed delightfully.  "You're a
complete stranger."

Hector echoed her laugh.  Then, becoming serious again, "I can soon
put that right.  Name, Adair, Hector.  Rank, Sergeant-Major.
Regiment, the North-West----"

"Oh, I know _that_," she exclaimed.  "North-West Mounted Police,
aren't you?"  There was a good deal of pride in her voice, as of one
who parades his knowledge.  "Why, of course--you're staying with the
Tweedys--down----"

She stopped, ashamed of her enthusiasm.

"You'll think I know too much," she said.  "But news travels very
quickly in a quiet little village like this.  And anything is news.
Oh, I didn't mean----"

Hector smiled.

"I know," he said.  "I understand.  So I needn't really go on with my
explanations now.  You have my name and credentials.  In turn----"

"Yes?"

"To complete the introduction, you must of course tell me yours."

"Mine?  Oh, I couldn't do that!"

"Come along," Hector urged.  He was thoroughly enjoying this episode.
"That's only fair.  Why not?"

"But----" she seemed doubtful.  "This--this is all so very informal."

"Still," said Hector, "even so--you can at least tell me your name
and where you live.  You might as well, you know, because I'll find
out anyway.  You forget that we of the Police can find out
anything--yes, anything.  And we generally have our way."

Looking at him, she knew that he spoke the truth, But she fenced
skilfully.

"Then I'll leave you to find out," she smiled.

"Please tell me."

She shook her head.  His earnest gaze discomfited her.

"Come along.  Considering that I'm going to render you a service,
it's the least you can do."

"Service?" she enquired.  Then, remembering, "Oh, but I really don't
think it should be done."

"Nonsense," he laughed.  "I'll do it so quickly--so nicely--that you
won't even know it till it's all over."

She shook her head again and began to move off.

"Don't go.  Think of the short cut!" he urged.

"It's not right," she said.

He wondered if she really meant it or was only laughing at him.

"Come on!" he said firmly, eyes discreetly challenging.

Suddenly she tossed her head, with a little laugh.

"Come on, then!"

Fatal things, stiles!  Instantly he had swung her lightly off her
feet.  His face was so close to hers that he could count the lashes
of her eyes and smell the soft perfume of her wonderful hair.  For
some reason unknown, he felt intoxicatingly dizzy.  Deadly things,
stiles!

He had her at an advantage.  But she had trusted him and he was a
gentleman.  Climbing easily over the stile, he set her down.

Breathless and laughing, she drew back a stray strand of hair with
her small white fingers.  He waited.

"Thank you," she said quietly and extended her hand.  Surely this was
not the end?

Hector took the hand.

"Won't you tell me who you are _now_?" he asked.

She laughed, her eyes dancing.

"Please!" he said.  "Remember, I can and will find out in any case,
if I wish!"

His square jaw backed his words.

Suddenly she seemed to relent.

"You remind me of Gareth, the Knight of the Round Table," she
declared solemnly.  By this time she had gently withdrawn her hand.
"Do you remember?  He rescued a damsel in distress--" her eyes
lighted up mischievously, "and----"

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"She was very unkind to him.  Her name was Lynette."

"Well?"

"You may call me Lynette."

Then she turned swiftly and left him.  He hoped she would look back.
But she did not.


IV

Moving rapidly through the orchard, the girl passed on to a square
white house, and slipped upstairs to her room.  Her heart was beating
furiously, her eyes were bright and her head bewilderingly full of
Indians, teepees, pistols, horses and Mounted Policemen, Mounted
Policemen everywhere....  Impulsively she dropped to her knees at the
window, head on arms, and let the evening breeze ruffle her gleaming
hair.  Her eyes were full of dreams....

That night, when she had gone to bed, the visions of the afternoon
came back to her and, getting up again, she resumed her place at the
window.  The darkness was more soothing than the sunset and the light
breeze cooler than at dusk.  For what seemed hours she knelt there,
trying to put aside the pictures in her mind, yet glad they would not
leave her.  Beneath them all, something she had once read ran
persistently through her head, a bit of poetry, going something like
this:

  _When may Love come to me?
    In the cold grey hush of the dawn,
  In the fierce brilliance of noonday,
    In the soft warm blue of twilight
  Or the depth of night.
  Perhaps in the freshness of Spring,
    Perhaps in the fulness of Summer,
  Or the blazing glories of Autumn
    Or the white silence of Winter,
  Then Love may come to you!_

  _How may Love come to me?
    Like a monk, colourless, solemn,
  Or perhaps a little boy, weeping,
    Or a sinner, pleading repentance,
  Or a poet, listlessly dreaming,
    Or a soldier, radiant, glowing,
  Passionate, terrible, merciless,
    Girdled with lightning and thunder.
  Hailed with a pealing of trumpets,
    Thus may Love come to you!_


So the words ran.  From them, boldly, perplexingly, continuously,
these few phrases stood out before her:

"In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of
Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing....  Then Love may come to
you....  Thus may Love come to you!"

"_In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing glories of
Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing...._"

The words would not leave her.  And, every time she saw them, they
conjured up before her eyes--again, she could not tell why--a picture
of the man she had met that afternoon.

Hector finished his walk that night in a pleasant reverie, thankful
that the gods had rewarded his charitable visit so swiftly and so
kindly.  After dinner, careful to conceal the depth of his interest,
he described the girl to Mrs. Tweedy.

"Sort of red-headed girl, eh?" said the good lady.  "Well, not
exactly red-headed--more goldish, copperish, bronzish!  With
beautiful features--almost classical, I think--but not so
inhuman--taller than most girls--and such a voice!  _Of_ course I
know her!  That's Frances Edginton--Major Edginton's daughter--an
only child.  She has the sweetest little mother--oh, such a sweet
woman!  He's a bit of a tyrant, though--regular martinet--stuck up, I
think--well off, retired Army, and very strict in his ideas.  No,
they don't live here.  Where do the Edgintons live, Arthur?  Don't
know?  Neither do I.  I don't believe anyone does.  They're only here
for the summer.  In fact, this is the first summer they've been in
Arcady.  Yes, that's his daughter--Frances Edginton.  Lovely, _I_
think--yes, that's the word!  Lovely!"

"I'll have to meet her again," thought Hector, "just to show I've
found out.  Lynette--eh?--Frances--not much alike--both awfully
pretty----"

Turning in that night, he was astonished to find that he could not
put Frances out of his mind.  Her face remained before him, sometimes
with that bantering little smile upon it, sometimes sweetly serious
and framed, always, with that radiant halo of red-gold hair.  Now he
was watching her sitting on the stile in tearful contemplation of her
torn new dress.  Now he was holding her hand again, feeling the
gentle pressure of her fingers when she thanked him.  Now he was
listening to her laugh, heir merry, bubbling little laugh, now to her
voice, that was one moment level, smooth, passionless, the next
intense and earnest and always soft and melodious as running water,
caressing as a summer breeze.  Really, her voice--it was something
quite extraordinary.  He quite agreed with Mrs. Tweedy there!

Voice, laugh, face, eyes, hair--one after another, round and round,
they all came back throughout the night.  It was a pleasure simply to
think about them.  Was he growing sentimental, he wondered?  What was
the matter with him, anyhow?

In the morning, he knew--or thought he knew.

"I must be in love--at last."

He saw, now, that the prophecies of his friends in Winnipeg had been
heralds of this moment, sent by Destiny.

He _was_ in love--at last!


V

Few men reach mature years without experiencing a sincere 'affair.'
Those that do are generally leaders of monastic lives remote from
cities or settlements where women congregate--are soldiers, sailors,
missionaries, pioneers.  But when love comes at last to men of that
stamp, especially when their segregation has preserved their boyhood
ideals regarding women, especially when stern discipline of soul and
body and close contact with Nature--another name for God--has
prepared them for its coming--then they love as men love at their
noblest, deepest and best, bringing with them the fiery ardour of
strength developed and the reverent rapture of youth.

Hector was 'of that stamp.'

Having discovered that he loved Frances, he shaped his campaign, as
usual, with a sure, determined hand.  The first thing, of course, was
to see her again, as soon and as often as possible.  He had
originally intended to leave Arcady by the earliest train.  Therefore
as a preliminary, he sent, in the morning, the following wire to John:

'Unavoidably and indefinitely detained.  Important business.'

"Well, it _is_ important business!" he excused himself.

Next, he went to Mrs. Tweedy.

"Mrs. Tweedy, I like Arcady so well that I've decided to accept your
invitation and stay on a while."

"There, now!" said Mrs. Tweedy.  "Why, I'm just delighted!  And we'll
have _such_ times!"

Mrs. Tweedy, true to her word, immediately launched him out like a
debutante among the villagers and summer visitors, who asked him to
all their picnics, dances, and parties.  At the first of these
affairs, he met Frances.  Catching the amused recognition in her
eyes, he forestalled Mrs. Tweedy's formal introduction:

"Oh, yes--Miss Edginton.  I've already had the honour----"

Mrs. Tweedy melted away.

"You see, Lynette," he added, "I told you the Police always find out!"

"O, marvellous young knight!" she answered.

Thenceforward he constantly sought her company.

In due course he met the Major, who was all and more than all that
Mrs. Tweedy had said.  He reminded Hector, to a certain extent, of
his own father.  A middle-sized, very soldierly man, with keen eyes,
snow-white hair and drooping white moustache, he conformed to a
distinct type of which Colonel Adair has been a taller and finer
edition.  Toward Hector he adopted an attitude of distant politeness,
which seemed to say at every turn, 'Thus far and no farther.'  'He
knows I'm a gentleman,' Hector decided, 'and consequently feels that
he must be at least courteous, though it hurts him terribly--because
I'm an N.C.O.'  But, knowing the Army officer of the Old School, he
neither heeded nor resented Major Edginton.

Mrs. Edginton he fell in love with at once.  She was small, dainty
and faded, very sweet and gracious.  From Mrs. Edginton Frances had
stolen her pansy eyes, clean-cut features and extraordinary hair.
Hector decided that Mrs. Edginton had long played second fiddle to
the Major.  But he also saw that Frances was all the world to her.
'If anything ever happens,' Hector thought, 'she'll find herself torn
between her duty to her husband and her love for her daughter;
though, everything considered, I think a man might count her an ally.'

On the whole, she reminded him of his mother, just as the Major
recalled his father.

These observations were made at odd moments, when he was not busy in
pursuit of Frances.  In this pursuit, he threw his whole heart and
soul towards the objective, forgot everything and everybody else and
was thoroughly and completely happy.

Every hour with Frances brought forward some delightful discovery
serving to bind him still more closely.  Her beauty did not fade on
closer acquaintance, as that of other women did, but became, if
possible, more obvious than before and revealed some fresh and
striking charm that dazzled him.  The sun, striking through her hair
from this angle or that, gave it a tone which hitherto he had not
seen.  Her eyes, in such a light, took on a purple mystery as yet
unknown to them.  And so on and so on, as the youth in him directed.

He found out other things, concerned, not with her appearance but
with her personality and character.  The sweetness which had first
attracted him proved even deeper than he had imagined.  She developed
an unexpected serenity of strength.  Her sense of humour, of which he
had learned something at the stile, he discovered was a charming,
eager, whimsical thing, quaint and illusive as a fairy, brilliant as
a sunbeam, subtle as far-off laughter.  He loved a woman with a sense
of humour, such as that possessed by Frances.  He loved a woman with
insight and understanding.  She had both.  She possessed, in fact,
everything necessary to create between them a powerful bond of
sympathy.  Her ideals were just as he would have them.  Quite
obviously, she was meant for him.

In the meantime, what practical knowledge of her had he acquired?
From her own lips he acquired it, in short order.  Her father was
English, her mother a Canadian.  They had met while the Major was in
garrison at Halifax and had been married there.  She looked on
herself as a Canadian and Canada was her home but she really had no
home at all, unless it was her father's in England, which she barely
knew.  The Major had retired long ago and the family had been
wanderers ever since she could remember.  She had lived and attended
school in the States, in France and England until old enough to 'come
out' and had made her debut in London.  Today she knew 'Society'--as
distinguished from 'society'--amazingly well, after only two seasons.
Her stay in Arcady was in the nature of a rest cure.  Her normal life
lay in fashionable circles, among titles and flunkies and
millionaires.  In a short time they would be going back to that life
but had not yet settled on their movements.

To Hector, this was discouraging.  It meant that their paths, though
Fate had brought them together for a time in Arcady, lay really far
apart.  Hers led through worlds of wealth and ease, inhabited by the
fortunate few, his through poverty and toil, inhabited by suffering
millions.  Well, never mind.  Here, in Arcady, they were on common
ground, The future?--He dared not face the future, so he let it go.

So, day by day, beneath her influence, his love developed and grew,
not like a sun leaping suddenly over the horizon or a flower opening
slowly into radiance but like a strain of music that marches from a
soft, plaintive opening through a spreading, quickening crescendo to
a glorious, crashing climax which has in it immeasurable power and
majesty, peace and tenderness and a hint of terrible storm.  And eyes
that understood saw her wakening and responding, like a placid lake
stirred gradually, almost imperceptibly, to movement by gathering
winds.  Hector could not see it.  He was a child in such matters.

Mrs. Tweedy saw it, though, was thrilled to ecstasy and did her level
best to make a match between the two.

Day by day--and all that remained now, for Hector, was to make the
plunge.  Had he been anything but a child in such matters, he might
have read his answer a thousand times in her eyes.  As it was, he
kept putting off the fateful day.  But time was moving on.  Within
five days he must leave for the West.  Of his total leave period of
forty-two days, thirty were already gone.  Seven days were required
for the return trip West.  Of the five days remaining, he owed his
mother the majority.  His scheme was to speak to Frances first, then
to her father as soon afterwards as possible and then, whatever the
outcome, to go home.  If he was successful at this, the greatest
moment of his life, he would make further plans later on.  All
arrangements, whether successful or not, he had to fit into this
essential--his return to duty on time.

Seeing her at the Post Office one morning, he seized his opportunity.

"Meet me at the stile tonight--at any time that suits you," he
whispered.

"You sound like a popular song," she whispered back.

She had never had a rendezvous with him before.

"Don't laugh," he pleaded.  "Will you?  Don't joke with me--now.
Will you?"

She nodded, secretly overwhelmed.

"At nine o'clock," she told him.


VI

At half-past eight Hector left the house to walk to the stile.

The night was perfect--an ideal night in autumn--with all the mystery
and magic that go with it.  A harvest moon, like a great balloon of
orange silk illuminated from within, rode low in the darkness,
apparently tethered among ghostly trees in the heart of a valley
beyond a sheaf-crowned ridge.  A filmy veil, all shadowy blues and
mauves and greys, invested day's familiar objects with a strange and
supernatural beauty.  The night air was soft and cool and murmurous
with the music of innumerable insects.  The wind sighed gently in the
trees, with an eerie whisper, and brought with it a hundred subtle
perfumes.

At nine o'clock he reached the stile.

She was there.

"Is that you, Hector?"

Her voice was startlingly distinct.

"Yes, Frances."

They began to talk--at first in broken, uneasy sentences--later
settling down into their customary ease.  After a time, he slowly
swung to the personal.  She knew that he was paving the way to the
vital matter and she helped him cleverly.

Now, haltingly but indomitably, he began.  He was very close to her
but staring into the darkness before him.  She could see his face in
firm silhouette against the moonlight sky.

"All my life"--he was saying--"I'd been in a military atmosphere,
with soldiers and sailors all round me.  The thing was in my blood.
You can't understand--well, perhaps, you can, because your father was
a soldier, too.  But you're a woman.  Only men, I think, can feel
the--I suppose I mean the fascination of it, though that isn't just
the word I want.  And even men can't understand it, unless they're
born in it, too.  It's a wonderful thing, reserved for Service
families.  Besides, I'd been encouraged.  I was to have a Commission
and be a soldier.  That's what I was told.  So, when I was a baby,
even, I was dreaming of some day being an officer and--well, I admit
it--a great man."

"Go on," she said; his quiet voice holding her.

"Well, my father's death seemed to smash all that.  I was a youngster
and it broke my heart.  However, I plucked up courage at last--and
began to look out for a chance.  I was determined I was going to be a
soldier, anyway, and if necessary I'd work my way up to a Commission.
I hung on to my dreams."

"Poor little Hector!" she murmured.

His words conjured up a pathetic picture.  She touched his hand
sympathetically.  He went on.

"One day my chance came.  They were organizing the Mounted Police.
Not exactly soldiers--but soldier-policemen.  I joined--and set out
to work my way up."

She was silent, enthralled.  She knew that a strong man was paying
her the greatest tribute in his power--was showing her the most
secret places of his heart.

"It was hard work--hard, hard, hard.  But I loved it--do still.  I
had luck, of course.  Early this year, they made me Sergeant-Major of
my division--after ten years.  The next step is either Regimental
Sergeant-Major or a Commission.  I hope it's a Commission--I'm almost
certain it will be.  Probably next year.  You know what it will mean
to me."

She thought she knew--the goal of a lifetime and of innumerable
trials and struggles achieved at last, by sheer will-power and stark,
unaided effort.

"But that's not all.  You know, I couldn't talk to everyone like
this, Frances.  It sounds--well, I don't know how it sounds.  You can
see what I mean.  Never mind!  I'm going to finish.  Where was I?
Oh, yes--that's not all.  Remember, I said just now, I wanted to be
not only an officer, but--but a great man!  When I get my Commission,
my first dream is reached.  The other one remains.

"During those years, Frances"--his voice took on a more intense
note--"I never--I never thought of--well, love.  That is, in a
personal way.  Somehow, it never entered my head.  I was busy--busy
all the time.  Women are few and far between out there.  I suppose
I'd have--well, fallen in love, like most people, if I'd met anyone
that attracted me--or fitted in with my ideals.  But I never did.  I
suppose I'm hard to please--thank God.  I wanted," he was stumbling
now, like a man on a rough road, in the dark.  "Oh, you know--a
woman--well," he laughed, "of course, that was beautiful--but a
_good_ woman--strong--and fine as true steel.  Well, they're rare--or
I'm blind.  I began to think--when I thought of it at all--that they
didn't exist.  But they do!"

Her heart pounded.  He had taken her hand in his, in a strong grasp.

"I've found one in particular."

For a moment he was silent.

"Now, with that girl--well, there's nothing I couldn't do--nothing!
With her to work for, nothing in the world could hold me back!  I
want her, because--well, my dream of greatness might never come
without her--it wouldn't be worth while even if it did--and the road
would be--well, the longest, hardest road that ever man trod.  I want
that girl's love to help me.  Together--but, God knows, I don't want
to brag.

"I've found her--Frances--but I hardly dare to tell her.  I'm
only--well, I'm only an N.C.O., with a precarious future.  My
Commission is almost a certainty but even that won't add much to my
pay, which will be a pittance to the end of time.  Even after that,
if I do ever amount to anything, it will still be a pittance.  Today,
in the eyes of the big world and of those this girl associates with,
I'm nobody; and if I got to the very top, I'd still be nobody, to
some of them.  She has millionaires and famous men in bucketsful to
choose from--and she's so wonderful that they're fighting to be
chosen.  So how could I hope she'd look at me?  Out where I come
from, of course, it's different, Frances.  A man's a man not because
of what he has but what he is.  And that's right.  It's not money
that counts, in this world, really.  It's the big things--the
things--well, the things worth fighting for.  I think I'm fighting
for a big thing.  And I--do you know, Frances, I think this girl will
see things with my eyes?  So I'm going to tell her that I love her
and--leave the rest with her.  Do you think I'm right?"

His heart--all his hopes, dreams, ideals, his simple, noble creed and
code--were lying before her now, for her inspection.  In that moment,
she saw him a giant, remembered what he had said, 'With that girl to
work for--nothing in the world could hold me back!' and felt herself
dominated with his strength and courage.

"Frances," he repeated, quietly--close to her, now, and both her
hands in his--"do you think I'm right?"

Her heart was hammering.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Do you know who the girl is?"--Closer still and breathless.  "It's
you--Frances--_you_!"

For answer, she lifted up her face to his.  Then she was in his arms
and nothing else mattered....


She was the first to break that rapturous spell, with words that
stabbed him like knives or caressed him like soft hands.

"You've been--so honest with me, Hector," she said, a little
tremulously, "that I'm going to be the same with you."

He bowed his head.

"You said you were afraid of famous men and millionaires--why,
Hector, they sicken me.  Hector, you're the first real man I've ever
met.  Oh, it isn't just that nice red coat--though that goes to my
head like champagne, Hector.  You are--you really are.  Every girl
has dreams, too.  'Some day,' I dreamt, 'I'll meet a
real--real--man--brave, strong, chivalrous, with great, yes, great
ideals--a fairy Prince, a Knight of the Round Table!'  They say they
don't live now--Oh, but they do!  Perhaps the armour's gone, but they
are Knights and Princes just the same.  'Well,' I said to myself,
'some day, God willing, I'll meet a man like that.  How will I know
him?  Oh, I'll know him, never fear!  And he'll come'--well, just as
you came, Hector.  And--it was you.  I knew at once.  Hector, I'd go
with you to the world's end, if you asked me.  But--Oh, Hector,
there's----"

"I know," said Hector calmly.  "Your father!  He doesn't care for
N.C.O.s----"

She looked away hastily.

"Oh, don't be ashamed," he added.  "It's quite natural."

"You must see him," said Frances at last.  "But you don't know him.
He has a terrible temper and he's like granite--just like granite.
Well, you must ask him--dear.  We have to risk it.  I don't think
he'd--hurt me, Hector.  Besides, you're a soldier's son--and--it
isn't as if you had no prospects.  But oh, I'm afraid--I'm
afraid----"  Her head sank on her breast.  He took her two hands
again and turned her towards him suddenly.

"Look at me!" he ordered, terribly earnest.

She obeyed.

"Frances--if--if your father says 'No'--will you wait?  Will you
stick to me?  Only say that, and _I'll_ wait for ever--to the very
end, Frances.  You say you know me.  Well, believe me now."

Tears brimmed in her eyes.

"Will you, Frances?"

"Oh, Hector, I'll promise!  But my father--my father----"

"I know.  But I'll speak to him.  I'll bring him round.  For you,
Frances"--his voice rang--"I'd fight the whole wide world!  You must
trust me."

"I'll tell Mother," she whispered, in return.  "She'll be on our
side.  She'll help--prepare him, Hector.  And, because you've got to
go so soon," she faltered, but went on bravely, "I'll arrange things
for tomorrow night.  And I'll--I'll be praying for your success,
Hector.  You--you don't think me miserably weak?"

"No," said Hector swiftly, "of course not.  Then that's settled.
But, Oh----" for the first time his voice quavered with a note of
agony, quickly suppressed, "if I fail--if I fail--wait for me.  Wait
for me!  Will you?"

"Yes," she said again.

"Frances----!"

The moon went out behind a bank of cloud and the wind freshened,
wailing.

At last they parted ... till 'Tomorrow.'


VII

"And so----?" said Major Edginton.

The two men faced each other in the Major's big living-room.

"And so," said Hector, "I want, sir, to marry your daughter."

The Major remained silent for a moment.  Hector's heart beat
furiously.  Outwardly, he was perfectly calm.

"You--want--to--marry--my--daughter?"

Astonishment and stinging scorn!

Hector held himself strongly.

"Yes, sir."

Then suddenly the Major dashed his mask aside.

"And who the devil are you?" he almost shrieked.

The cry was to Hector a violent slap in the face.  Deadly insult and
utter defeat dominated it.  But he stood firm.  He had anticipated a
hard fight.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied calmly, "I have already told
you who I am."

The Major stared at him.  For a moment Hector's personality beat him
into sanity.

"But, good God, man--my daughter!" he exclaimed, under his breath.
His hard eyes glared sombrely beneath their white brows.  "_My_
daughter!"

"Yes, sir."

Whatever happened, Hector must keep his temper.  To lose it would be
fatal.

"But--but----" the Major was incredible now and inclined toward
laughter, "why--do you realize who I am?"

"Yes," said Hector, quite unawed.

"I'm a Major in the Regular Army!  And you--and you--why----"

"Well?"

Hector's voice was very gentle but it said 'Be careful!'

The Major was deaf to the warning.

"You're nothing but----" he choked, "You're nothing but a N.C.O!"

The assertion goaded.  Still Hector kept his temper.  After all, this
was Frances' father, who could make or mar their lives.

"That's true--nothing but a Sergeant-Major.  From your point of view,
sir, that's my misfortune.  But many N.C.O.s are gentlemen.  Anyway,
I'm not asking your daughter to marry a Sergeant-Major who will be a
Sergeant-Major for ever.  I've already told you, sir, of my
prospects."

"Prospects----" muttered the Major, "prospects are--prospects, sir,
nothing more.  To me you're a ranker and always will be.  Have you
got your recommendation for a Commission yet?" he concluded swiftly.

"No, sir."

"Well, then--but, good God, what's the use of my wasting time?  I
don't care whether you've a thousand recommendations!  I look for
something better for my daughter than a man in the ranks--or an
officer who's served in the ranks.  Confound it, they're all one to
me--understand?  My God, it's like your--your colossal
impertinence----!"

He flashed into fury.

Hector had paled under his tan.  He put out a hand.

"Steady, sir, please.  Let's take this thing quietly."

"Hang you--now you're attempting to dictate--damnation, sir!"

"No, sir, I'm not.  I want a chance, that's all.  Your
daughter--loves me, sir.  You wouldn't break her heart?"

This was only adding fuel to the fire.

"Loves you?  Break her heart?  My God, but you--you have the most
colossal impertinence I ever beheld!"

"It's true, sir.  She's told you so herself."

"Pah!" the old man snarled.  "She's a child--a child!  A mere
infatuation!  A mere infatuation!  Puppy-love, sir, puppy-love.  You
sweep her off her feet, swaggering about in your wretched red
coat----"

"Wretched red coat, sir?  The Queen's uniform, don't forget--the
uniform you wore!"

The blow went home.  The major mumbled.

"Well, in any case," he resumed at length, "it's a mere infatuation!
As soon as you're gone, she'll forget all about you!"

Malicious vindictiveness inspired him.

"Do you think so, sir?"

Hector's voice was very unemotional.

"Yes, sir, I do!  Why, good God, Sergeant-Major"--Hector knew that
the 'Sergeant-Major' was slightingly meant and for a moment a strange
light glowed in his eyes--"my daughter associates with men of
position--men--men--hang it all, gentlemen!"

Again another slap in the face, vicious, stinging!

"Do I take it, sir," again Hector let the insult pass, fighting his
battle for Frances with all the strength he had, "that the fact that
I'm in the ranks is the big objection?"

The Major remained gloweringly silent.

"Is it?"

"M-m-perhaps," the old man snapped.

"And--and----" try as he would, Hector could not prevent his voice
trembling as he put the fateful question, "will it stand against me
always--Commission or no Commission?"

"Certainly," the Major replied firmly.

"That's final?"

"Good God, yes!  How many times must I tell you?"

"But--_you're_ a civilian now.  I associate with gentlemen-civilians.
We all do."

"Gentlemen-rankers do not associate with the circles in which my
daughter is accustomed to move, sir!  But I will not prolong this
discussion.  I don't know you--I don't want to know you----" the old
man, rising to a pinnacle of temper, leaped suddenly to his feet.
"Who are you?  Nobody!  Where do you come from?  God knows!  Who the
devil was your father?  God only knows!  Your mother?  God knows!
Oh, leave my house, sir, leave my house!"

Insult on insult, stonily endured, for Frances' sake; but this last
tirade was more than Hector could stand.  He forgot everything
now--Frances--the future--everything but the fact that this ranting
old bigot had cast unforgivable reflections on his dead father, his
mother and his own personal honour.  Standing rigid under the rain of
abuse, he remained so now, but his fists were clenched and his eyes
blazing in a deathly face.

"Major Edginton," he said hoarsely, "thank God, you're an old,
helpless man or nothing in the world would save you now!  You can
take her away, you can do what you like, but you can't kill her love
or mine!  We'll beat you, in the end.  I'm sorry you took things this
way.  The fault for tonight's breach lies with you.  Remember
that--always!"

"Leave my house!"

Hector turned on his heel and marched blindly out of the room.


Frances, on the landing upstairs, fearing the worst, was praying
incoherently, desperately.  And then--the door of the living-room
swung open, was softly closed and she heard Hector's firm
tread--one--two--three--four--go through the hall, out of the house
into silence, awful, heart-breaking silence.

Those measured sounds beat on her brain.  She never forgot them.
They marked this fact: Hector had failed.

Drunk with agony, she heard her mother's quavering, pitiful voice,
'My dear, my dear!' ...

Three days later the tearful Mrs. Tweedy smuggled a note into her
hands.

"What was he like?" she asked.

"Oh, don't ask me--don't ask me," said Mrs. Tweedy.

This was the note--dated from John's:


"Frances, my Darling--

"I'm sorry I couldn't see you before I left.  It was useless to
attempt it, as your father would not allow it.  Frances; your father
and I had a terrible quarrel.  He wouldn't hear of our marriage and
he insulted me as no man ever dared to do before.  I stood it as long
as I could but, though I regret it now beyond any words, I couldn't
put up with what he said in the end.  Perhaps when I've got my
Commission, he may relent.  You must do your best to influence him.
But in any case, I ask you to keep your promise to me.  Keep it, and
your courage.  No matter how things go against us or how long we have
to wait, I'll never change.  Before God, I swear this, Frances.  I
know you have the strength to be true also.  And if you ever can
write or come to me, 'North-West Mounted Police, N.W.T.' will always
find me.  I'm going back today.

  Till we meet again, then--
      Hector."


The letter was written on a piece of John's notepaper with the Adair
crest upon it.  She looked at the crest and at the proud, stern
motto, 'Strong.--Steadfast.'  The words seemed to her the very
embodiment of Hector, of his promise, of everything she must be and
had sworn to be in the long and hopeless night before her.




Chapter III


I

Hector and Superintendent Denton walked over together to
headquarters, a group of sunlit buildings in the shadow of the
straining Union Jack.  A brilliant young sentry paced the path
between trim rows of whitewashed stones, an orderly kept guard in the
ante-room and the atmosphere breathed the ceremonious and formal
efficiency invariably surrounding such places.  Somewhere within this
group of buildings was the Holy of Holies, the sacred and inviolate
sanctum which held the High Priest of this Canadian Order of Knights
Templar, the terrible and all-powerful Commissioner of the North-West
Mounted Police.

They entered the Presence.

"Sit down, Denton."  The Commissioner cordially waved the
Superintendent to a seat.  "Good afternoon, Sergeant-Major."

Hector saluted.  The Commissioner looked at him quizzingly.

"I called you 'Sergeant-Major,' Mr. Adair.  As a matter of fact, my
recommendation which, as you know, was forwarded to Ottawa after
Major Denton had brought your services to my notice in a very
laudatory manner, has been approved and your appointment as Inspector
is gazetted.  I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on an
unusually well-earned promotion."

He held out his hand.  Thus was Hector's lifetime ambition achieved.

Presently the Commissioner told Hector to draw up a chair.

"I haven't had you brought here merely for this, Adair.  I'm going to
entrust you with an important--a very important--mission and I think
it as well for me to give you some details myself."

In a hushed voice, he proceeded to explain.

"You've known that for several months we've been fearing trouble with
the Indians and half-breeds; but I doubt if you know just how serious
the position really is.  Ever since the Government surveyors
appeared, Adair, there's a storm been brewing.  The half-breeds want
their land parceled out in their own way, not the Government way; and
they mean to have it.  That's the main grievance.  They have others.
In addition, they see the railway making rapid progress and they know
what that means.  Once the railway goes through, settlers will follow
in tens of thousands and the old order--the order we found when we
first came here--will have received its death blow.  They don't like
this and they mean to prevent it.  I think they'd be all right if it
wasn't for the agitators.  They're in every settlement and camp and
they're doing their best to bring about a revolt.  Our business is to
keep the peace; and I mean to see that it is kept.

"I'm having all camps, settlements and agitators carefully watched.
Every movement, every event is known to me.  One of the reserves
which needs especially close watching is Bear Tooth's, near Broncho.
Bear Tooth's all right, I think, and so are most of his chiefs; but
his young men are warlike, there's a lot of them and Broncho is
temptingly close by.  If they kicked over the traces, the results
might be terrible.  So I must have them watched night and day--but
diplomatically.  Bear Tooth mustn't be offended.  Nothing must be
done to stir up suspicion or hatred.  This needs a good man.  I'm
sending you, Adair.  Your qualifications are exceptional.  You've
proved yourself over and over again.  And you've made it your
business to know the Indians thoroughly.  It's a devilish big thing
for a new officer, Adair.  But you're an old Policeman--and big
enough."

Then, while Hector expanded with pleasure inside, he added:

"Inspector Lescheneaux will be working with you but you'll be
independent of each other.  He knows and likes you, so it will be all
serene.  It means your posting to 'I,' of course.  Major Denton will
be sorry to lose you, but it's inevitable.  And, as you'll
understand, it's wiser to post a newly-commissioned officer to
another division.  This is one of the most important tasks I could
give you, Adair.  Your appointment and transfer will appear in
tomorrow's orders.  Good luck--and, again, my congratulations!"


II

There are moments in life, great moments witnessing the realization
of a cherished ambition or embarkation upon some fateful enterprise,
when one prefers to be alone.  This, to Hector, was one of them.  He
left the Superintendent at headquarters and, going to his room, tried
to grasp to its full extent the meaning of what had just occurred.  A
wild exultation had hold of him and he was for the time being drunk
with success--so drunk that he could not think.  He wanted to drag
himself out of this mental state and soberly to contemplate the
situation.

Gradually his mood became less intense and he was able to con things
quietly over, like a child lingeringly, one by one, over a string of
new toys.

What did his Commission mean to him?

Firstly, it meant that the goal of all his lifetime and especially of
the past ten strenuous, passionate years had been achieved, that his
long fight for the leadership which had been his birthright was ended.

There was joy enough in that.

Secondly, he told himself, it meant that the second, more distant and
ultimate goal of his life was now within reach if not within sight.
The soldier-blood in him had always longed for the opportunity of
great service to his country, for advancement and distinction, not
from selfish motives, but from the pure, clean motives underlying the
highest form of patriotism.  'Give me power, that I may use it for my
country's good'; that was the sentiment animating him.  The power,
though not yet given him, was now close at hand.  The long, toilsome
pilgrimage had brought him at last to the edges of the dawn.

There was also joy enough in that.

But thirdly--and perhaps, chiefly--it meant--Frances; not that
Frances was now his, by any means.  But he could stand up now before
her father and say: 'You wouldn't listen to me before, because I was
not an officer.  I am an officer today.  What is your answer?'

When Hector left Major Edginton's house, he had suffered a
broken-hearted agony far beyond any physical torment he had ever
known.  Injured pride, self-pity and, above all, outraged love had
combined to harry him and he had tasted their torture as only strong
natures can taste it in the first tragic shock of disillusionment.
This agony had driven him out of Arcady early on the following
morning without an attempt to say 'Good-bye' to Frances.  It made
itself more acute because it forbade him to tell Mrs. Tweedy what had
happened, though he knew that she sensed the crash and he was longing
to give way to his misery.  It persisted in even fiercer form during
the last few days at John's, but during that time, in spite of it, he
had forced himself to write a note to Frances for secret delivery by
Mrs. Tweedy.  At Winnipeg, on the return journey West, it laughed in
bitter mockery in his ears when he saw his prophetic friends and was
compelled to make a jest of the absence of the bride they had
expected.  And it reached its climax when, writing Mrs. Tweedy for
news, he learned that the Edgintons had left Arcady, immediately
after his own departure, for an address in New York given her by
Frances--the only message the girl had been able to leave.

Gradually, however, the first acute pain passed, leaving a dull,
lingering torment which in time became almost a part of himself.
With this transition, he recovered something of his old buoyancy and
determination.  Destiny had made a mock of him but its trickery,
after all, might be only temporary.  He knew what he would do!  He
would redouble his efforts, by hard work and untiring study, to win
his Commission.  And then, when he had his Commission,--well, Major
Edginton would relent, if Destiny so decided.  And if he did not
relent--well, he would still have his old dreams of advancement to
follow and would be on the threshold of achievement.

Having made up his mind, he at once set about the task with his usual
vigour.  The task was not difficult.  Long before meeting Frances, he
had made great progress.  His officers were interested and helped him
along in the kindest possible way.  Eighteen months after his return
from Arcady, six months previous to this day of days, Superintendent
Denton had dropped him a hint of what was coming.

And today--today!--

He was happier than he had been since that fateful night now two
years past.

He knew that, as far as Frances was concerned, he was not yet on dry
land.  Nevertheless, he had her address--the lifeline holding them
together, without which he felt he would certainly have drowned.  It
was enough, today, to know that he might at last stand up before
Major Edginton to claim Frances.  He was determined not to admit any
possibility of failure, to leave no room for fears that Frances might
have moved again or, worse, forgotten him.  She had not written him?
That was nothing; the Major might have prevented her.  It was
sufficient that he had her address and that she had promised to wait
till the end.

So then and there he wrote to her, telling her everything and saying:
'Please let your father know and, if there is any hope whatever, just
advise me accordingly and I'll write to him....'

The letter finished, stamped, sealed, his thoughts drifted to the
work awaiting him near Broncho.  He recalled the Commissioner's
words: This needs a good man....  One of the most important tasks I
could give you....' and, recalling, realized that this was a
marvellous opportunity.  He felt a return of the exultation which had
lately possessed him.  The possibilities were endless.  Let him but
handle this situation successfully, receiving the distinction which
would naturally follow and Major Edginton would probably change his
mind soon enough!


III

With the spring came War.

In spite of all the efforts of the Commissioner and his followers,
the Old Order, as he had prophesied, seeking to stave off the
inevitable, broke out in arms against the New.

Lescheneaux, much excited, told the news to Hector.

"_Mon Dieu, mon_ leetle _camarade_!  She 'as com', _oui_!  She 'as
com', _en fin_!  'Ave I not said so all along?  An' af-taire all we
'ave don' for dem, _les_ dam' scoun-drelle!  De way we 'ave slave',
we 'ave toil', we 'ave sweat' an' freeze an' starve'--_sacre_!
_Écoutez vous_, 'Ect-eur!  De 'alf-breed an' de Indian--dey 'ave
risen, _oui_!"

"What details?"

"Dey 'ave risen--risen everywhere!  Dey 'ave attack' our fellows an'
kill nine and wounded I don' know 'ow many more up dere near Goose
River.  De Commission-aire 'as march' wit' all 'ands, dey bring in
outlyin' detachment' everywhere as can be spared.  De Crees, de
Assiniboines are up wit' de 'alf-breed, Calgary, Edmonton, all de
Nort'-West is alarm'.  An' we--we 'ave about t'ree-four 'ondred men,
among twenty-t'irty t'ousan' Indian!  By Gar, 'Ect-eur, I t'ink we in
for 'ot time, _oui_!"

Rubbing his hands, the little Inspector grinned ecstatically.

"You're right, that's certain," Hector agreed.  "But it won't last
long.  They're sure to send troops from the East.  Why not
before--eh?"

"_Oui_!  But don' as' me.  _Mais, restez tranquil_!  We see plenty
fon, all de same.  But I'm sorry, ver' sorry--for _you, mon ami_!"

"Why for me?"

"_Eh_?  _Mon Dieu_, I 'ave forgot to tell you de mos' important t'ing
ov all!  I leave you today an' tak' _mes enfants_ along, too.  You
are to stay 'ere an' watch Bear Tooth.  Me?  Maybe I get into de beeg
war.  But you, _pauvre petit_, you mos' stay 'ere an' eider Bear
Tooth rise an' eat up your leetle 'andful--goolp!--in one modful or
'e stay quiet an' you 'ave no fon at all.  No alternative, _mon ami_.
Nevaire mind.  You will 'old a position alone even more important den
before!"

Hector looked at his companion blankly.

"Hold on!" he urged.  "You're going away with all your men and I am
to remain, watching Bear Tooth, with ten?  Is that right?"

"_Absolument_!  _Regardez_--'ere is de order."

Hector looked at the document.

It was quite true.  He was to be left alone to watch Bear Tooth; and
the tribes were up through all the North-West!

The hell the agitators had brewed was boiling over everywhere.  Bear
Tooth was quiet but his braves might rise at any moment.  The
Commissioner looked to him to sit on the lid of that particular
cauldron with his little detachment and see that they did not do so.

He took a deep breath.

Lescheneaux, seeing himself already engaged in hounding the rebels,
slipped jubilantly away with his command that night and Hector was
left alone.


IV

The uprising, as everybody knew, was the product of the campaign
which had been continued throughout the winter, among the ignorant
and inflammable half-breeds and Indians.

That winter had been a busy one for Hector.  In co-operation with
Lescheneaux, he had kept Bear Tooth's reserve under constant
observation.  Indian and half-breed scouts helped the Police in
watching the camps, attending the meetings and patrolling.  Hector
did his best to allay the mischievous talk.  The Indians knew they
were being closely observed but they did not know that no man went to
or from the reserve or spoke a single word of sedition without
Hector's knowledge.  Night and day, week after week, in thaw or
blinding blizzard or bitter cold snap, Hector and his men were in the
saddle--silent, inconspicuous but never-resting guardians of the
Queen's peace on the great frontier.

Meanwhile, the shadow of revolt grew darker and darker over the land.

And now--the shadow had become substance.  Broncho lay at Bear
Tooth's mercy--unless Hector could hold his warriors in check.

It was a terrible position.

Fortunately he had two staunch allies: Bear Tooth himself and Father
Duval.

Hector had kept in touch with Father Duval, whom he knew to be using
all his tremendous influence to divert disaster.  He had also sounded
and consulted Bear Tooth.  The chief, he felt, was reliable and loyal.

Between them, Hector felt, the situation might just possibly be kept
in hand.

For the fortnight following Lescheneaux's departure, he was
constantly on his feet and in constant communication with Father
Duval and Bear Tooth.

His first move was to consult and advise Father Duval.

They met secretly.

"Whatever we do, Father," said Hector, "we must use tact, logic and
persuasion.  Threats?  Useless!"

Father Duval smiled.

"Eh-h-, but you are a man af-taire my own 'art, Inspecteur.  Dese
_pauvres sauvages_--dey are joost children--_bébés_.  Show a beeg,
beeg stick--dey be'ave!  _Vraiment_!  But show a leetle stick--poof!
Dey knock you down!  Ef you 'ad all de Police be'ind you--ah!  All
right--shake de fist!  But as you 'ave only ten men--ah!  Talk
quiet--ver', ver' firm but always no t'reat!  _Mais, attendez_!  Dese
fellows are no fool.  We give dem logic, as you 'ave said an' I bet
you all stay quiet."

"My sentiments exactly, Father," Hector agreed.  "Now, you are a man
of peace; and they know it.  There's not an Indian from here to the
Arctic Circle that doesn't trust you, Father.  Whereas--well, they
know the Force is in arms against this revolt and they might think I
was just talking to bluff them if _I_ see them first.  What I
suggest, Father, is this: go to them, get them together, point out
how we have helped them and treated them fairly always.  Show them
the treacherous side of this uprising.  Tell them the mistakes the
rebels have made.  Then go on to point out the power of the Great
White Mother--how we've already avenged the Goose River affair--how
an army is already on its way to crush the enemy--how the flow of
troops will continue, thousands and thousands of Shagalasha, until
the war is ended at any cost and the leaders of the rebels hanged.
Don't forget the rope, Father.  Then--"

"Den--_pour fini_,--tell' dem 'ow much wiser to stay on reserve, till
de ground, sell to de Government an' be true to de Queen.  Eh, _mon
enfant_, I know!  'Ow you say?  Count on me, count on me!  _Mes
pauvres petits_!  _Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_!"

"Then that's settled.  _I_ will stay away--it will be more
diplomatic.  Afterwards--well, we'll see how you get along first."

"_Bon, bon, bon_!  I go.  Pray for me!"

And Father Duval departed on his great mission.

After forty-eight hours of--for Hector--intense anxiety, Father Duval
returned, victorious.

"I saw every-one, Bear Tooth an' all," the priest told Hector.  "I
talk joost as we agree, you an' me.  We are not yet escap' from de
wood, _vous-comprenez: mais, le bon Dieu_, 'e as bless our effort,
_oui_!  You go yourself now to Bear Tooth!  You see."

"Father," said Hector, "the country owes you a great debt--"

"Could I leave _mes enfants_ to go stray at de word of fools an'
demons?"

In the meantime, things were marching steadily to a climax in the
field.  The number of rebels had increased.  The Mounted Police had
been driven out of their northerly posts.  Troops were moving
steadily Westward, from all Canada, to reinforce the little bands of
settlers and Police in whose hands the safety of the country rested.

Would they be in time?  Heaven alone knew.

In Broncho, Colonel Stern was organizing a column to co-operate with
the soldiers when they arrived.  Hector longed to be with him, so
that he might bear an active part in the operations.  But he could
not leave the reserve without orders.  To leave it at that moment, in
any case, would have been madness.  The cauldron, despite Bear
Tooth's pledge, was still bubbling.  The dashing, brilliant role was
not for Hector; his was the harder, less attractive part of mounting
guard.  Fate was cheating him out of the glorious opportunity of a
lifetime.  But he was too good a soldier to complain.

Suddenly came splendid news--a letter from Colonel Stern, 'through
the usual channels,' offering Hector command of the body of scouts
then in process of formation for work in the Broncho column.

This was the Colonel's way of showing his long-established affection
for and confidence in Hector.  The temptation was immense.  Hector
decided to see Father Duval and abide by his decision.  He had been
fretting out his soul for action; but without a clear conscience, it
was--of course--impossible to leave.

"Father Duval, can you control Bear Tooth without me?  Is it safe for
me to go to Broncho?"

"_Mon enfant_," the priest smiled, "you 'ave don' your share.  Today,
Bear Tooth an' me--we 'old de 'ole tribe in our two fists--so!
Go--and de Lord go wit' you!"

There was no doubt of it.  Between them, they actually had kept the
most dangerous tribe in the North-West in check for good and all.

"If you feel, as I do, that Father Duval is capable of dealing with
the situation henceforward," Hector wrote to his chief, "I would
recommend that Colonel Stern's request be granted."

This answer placed his fate in jeopardy.  But he was honest to the
last.

Came, after torturous suspense, the following:

"In view of Father Duval's opinion and yours, you will withdraw to
Broncho with your detachment forthwith."

Conscience was satisfied and the Road to Glory laid open!  When
Hector told the men, they cheered like mad.

"Tak' good care yourself, _mon petit ami_!" said Father Duval.  "An'
don' worry about us no more!"

That night they marched to Broncho.


V

Broncho was in a turmoil.  Already overcrowded with settlers,
cow-punchers, loyal half-breeds and their several families from the
surrounding district, it was daily becoming a richer prey for the
bloodthirsty rebels.  Appalling rumours kept it on the rack.  Special
trains, loaded to capacity with women, children and faint-hearted
men, pulled out for the East and safety in an unending stream.  The
streets were full of galloping horsemen, raw bands of eleventh-hour
recruits and long-faced citizens hastily organizing themselves for
defence.  Saloons, eating-houses, stores and stables talked War, War,
War.

Through this turmoil, hailed as a troop of angels descended from
Heaven to the rescue, Hector and his scarlet-coated policemen rode to
Colonel Stern's headquarters.  The Colonel, wearing a gunner's
uniform of incredible age and an expression of the utmost calm, met
them at the door.

He was obviously delighted to be back in harness.

"Well done, well done, Adair!" he exclaimed, returning Hector's
salute.  "You're the best thing I've clapped eyes on since I got
here.  Just the man I need--chose you myself!  Come inside!  Glad to
see you--at last!"

In the office, the Colonel explained the plan of campaign--a push
northwards of three columns, of which the Broncho crowd was one, as
soon as the Commander-in-Chief was ready, to converge on So-and-So.
The Colonel's lot was to consist of a squadron, under Hector, two
battalions of militia from the East--'all the way from the lower
Provinces, Adair--there's your united Canada!'--and a detachment of
artillery--'Yes, they've given me a pop-gun!'  The advance would take
place very soon, as speed was essential if the northern settlements
and Western Canada were to be saved from a general conflagration.
The Colonel was having some difficulty in arming his men, with whom
fire-arms had become unnecessary of late years, owing to the
protection afforded the country by the Mounted Police; but that
difficulty was in the course of solution.

"And I've an ideal Sergeant-Major for you; an old friend."

"An old friend?" Hector was puzzled.  "Who--let me see--"

The Colonel's eyes twinkled under their deep thatch of eyebrow.

"Sergeant-Major Whittaker!  You couldn't have a better man!"

"Whittaker!  Well, I'm--; Jove, that's splendid!  Is he here, sir?"

A short time later, these two, who had last met as Sergeant and
senior N.C.O., were shaking hands as officer and civilian.

"Yes, sir, I came down right away," said Whittaker, smiling all over
his bronzed hatchet face.  "Fact is, I heard Colonel Stern was here
organizing a column and--well, anyway, I'm like that old warhorse in
the Bible, saying 'Ha!  Ha!' among the Capt'ins.  I smell the battle
afar off an' there's no holding me.  Once a soldier always a soldier,
Mr. Adair!"

Things were looking up!  With Sergeant-Major Whittaker and his little
troop of constables to stiffen it, Hector could make such a corps out
of the splendid raw material at hand as would write a new chapter in
the history of frontier cavalry.


It was at this time that Hector was introduced to the machinations of
the political press, with which he was to have a close acquaintance
later on.

Newspapers from the East came in regularly, full of prophecy,
criticism and advice, each more hysterical than the last.  Issue
after issue, blatantly headlined and editorialed by know-nothing
party reporters fifteen hundred miles distant from the scene of
action, reached the hands of Hector and his constables, uttering such
things as these:

  ARE THE MOUNTED POLICE ASLEEP?
  IS THE COMMISSIONER AFRAID?
  SOME DRIVING POWER NEEDED.
  KOW-TOWING TO THE REBELS.


One day he saw his trumpeter tearing one of these papers to shreds,
crying:

"Damn them!  Damn them!"

"Never mind them, Mason," Hector said.  "All servants of the
Government have to put up with such attacks.  We'll just show we're
too big to pay attention to them."

But when he realized that these papers were believed infallible by
the militia regiments and half the people of Canada, he found it hard
to preserve that equanimity.


In a week of desperate work, Hector produced a body of over a hundred
scouts drawn from the world's best sources, of no uniformity but
fully supplied and able, with its string of pack-mules and extra
horses, to move independently of the main body, go anywhere, do
anything and fight anyone on earth.

In ten days' time, they received orders to advance.  At the head of
the column, cheered frantically by hysterical citizens, they swept
out of Broncho.


VI

From the naked woods on the rolling brown ridge beyond the valley
came the echo of the last lingering shots of the enemy.  In the
deserted rifle-pits which pocked the hillside lay many motionless
forms, dark, dwarfed by distance.  Two or three white-faced corpses
sprawled on the open ground in front of the pits.  One of them wore a
red coat, which, in the afternoon sunshine, stood out startlingly,
like a blot of blood, the one bit of colour in the entire picture.
Near by was a dead horse, legs in air, repulsively grotesque.

Colonel Stern's column had attacked and completely defeated the rebel
right wing that morning in a position several hundred miles beyond
Broncho.  Covered by a weak rearguard, the enemy were now rapidly
retiring.

In the distance, out of range, the transport--heavy farm-wagons,
light carts and pack-mules--were clustered.  With them were Hector's
cavalry.

Colonel Stern stood with his staff close behind the firing-line,
studying the enemy's country.

Utterly unflustered, he began to talk rapidly to his senior officers.
They were all agreed.  The time had come for a vigorous pursuit.

"Boy," said the Colonel to an orderly, "give Mr. Adair my compliments
and tell him to come up here at once."

In five minutes, Hector joined his commander.

"Adair," the Colonel said shortly, "it's evident we've shaken 'em
badly.  A hard, merciless pursuit now may end everything.  Are you
ready to start?"

"At once, sir."

"And, oh--Adair.  I didn't mention it before; but I had a despatch
from the C. in C. this morning and it appears--" he whispered a
smiling sentence.

"The man himself?"

Hector for once was shaken out of his calm.

"The man himself--the cause, the leader, the keystone of the revolt!
Joined 'em three days ago, the General says.  Chase 'em night and
day; give 'em no rest; harry 'em; smash 'em; capture that bird and
you'll be the hero of the whole campaign.  It's the chance of a
lifetime, Adair; but I'm glad you've got it."

For a moment Hector paused, his eyes far away.  He thought of that
night in Regina when he had seen in this uprising a marvellous
opportunity.  But he had never dreamed of it developing such an
opportunity as this!  For a moment he felt as if everything were
already his--Frances--success--the world--

"I'll follow you, Adair."

"All right, sir."

To get back to his men was a matter of a few minutes.  Rapidly he
gave his orders:

"Trumpeter, the 'Fall In'--look sharp.  Quartermaster, follow up with
the pack-mules.  Sergeant-Major, detail an escort.  'Tion!  Number--"

The trumpeter rattled out the call.  The men fell in, their horses
plunging.  The scouts swept off in front.  Then, in single file,
their scarlet-coated leader at their head, Hector's dashing frontier
cavalry circled the camp at full gallop, tore through the ranks of
yelling infantry, waved a hand in farewell and thundered down the
slope and away.


VII

In a wide and desolate expanse of open country patched with sloughs,
Hector's men, after twenty hours of unceasing pursuit, were suddenly
and definitely checked.  They had lost the trail.

Gaining touch with the enemy soon after the start, they had
maintained it all through the night, through the grey hours of the
morning and so on till nearly noon.  The night's pursuit had been
fierce, wild work, like some mad vision of a disordered brain,
fierce, wild work at a furious pace, over ridge and hill, round lake
and wood, through brawling river, down broad valley and deep ravine
and full of fearful, unforgettable sights and sounds: scouts on their
knees, like ape-men in the gloom, feeling the ground for telltale
tracks left by the rebels; the rattle of sliding stones as the
cavalry plunged along the steep face of a gully; distant shouts of
the scattered enemy, trying to keep touch; loud shouts, near at hand,
of warning--fear--command; strings of horsemen, glimpsed for an
instant, gigantic and pitch black against the lighter blackness of
sky; the faraway drum of many galloping hoofs, sensed rather than
heard; the flash of rifles, darting from rock to rock; the swift
glare of light on the face of a rebel scout, firing his last round
home; horse and man dashed for a breathless moment in a sudden blaze,
like a man and horse of living flame, as the nearest cowboy answered
surprising shot with shot; and now and then, cleaving the darkness
from some unknown source, the unearthly scream of a wounded animal,
expressive of the hate and terror of it all.

Daylight found the pursuit still hanging on, though reduced in
numbers and still pressing the rebels hotly, though splashed and
drenched from head to heel, parched with thirst, racked with hunger,
worn out and running short of ammunition.  By that time the
battlefield of yesterday and Colonel Stern's column were alike far
behind and they were alone on the verge of the great lake district to
the north.  But Hector drove his men tirelessly forward, with a
merciless 'Push on!'--'Push on!'

And now the trail had been utterly lost for over an hour and they
were checked, willynilly, for good and all.

With a little party to cover the operation, the scouts were working
on a cast, in a wide circle, like questing hounds.  Hector had with
him some of the best scouts in the North-West and he was among the
best of them himself; but they could not find the trail and all hands
were near despair.

In this crisis, he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to
have old Martin with him.  But Martin Brent had been in his grave for
years.

He had no-one like him to rely on.

The situation was agonizing to Hector.  This was his first great
experience as an officer and he knew that not only his own men but
every man in the Police would judge his capacity as an officer by his
present success or failure.  Besides, Frances--his dreams of
progress--everything he most desired was dependent on this one issue.
He had built up a thousand visions with victory in this trial as
their foundation.  To fail now--after pushing his men and himself to
exhaustion, after hounding the enemy on and on for twenty desperate
hours--would mean the end.

Then, above even these things, there was the country.  Its eyes were
on him.  Colonel Stern looked to him.  He had it in his power to save
a welter of bloodshed, to smash the revolt, to bring its leader to
the scaffold--if he could only find the trail.

But the trail was lost.

He remembered, too, the newspapers, in his mind's eye saw headlines
like these:

  REBELS TOO SMART FOR POLICE.
  INSPECTOR ADAIR'S FAILURE.
  RESULTANT LOSS OF LIFE.
  LET HIM RESIGN.


He heard, too, in imagination, the sneaking, mocking whispers of
malice and jealousy condemning him on every side.

He went on searching relentlessly; but in his heart the spectre of
defeat had already risen.

Till, all at once, the light came--sent, once more, by Destiny.  With
Mason, his trumpeter, he had moved off to a flank, on the slope of a
hill, covered with small bushes, the crest just above them.  Suddenly
the bushes on the crest parted and an Indian appeared.  Mason threw
his carbine to his shoulder.

"Don't shoot!" Hector roared.

He saw that the Indian was a squaw and unarmed.

But it was too late.  The boy's jumpy nerves had pulled the trigger.

"Oh,--!"

Hector ripped out an oath that none had heard him use before and ran
up the hill.

He found the woman lying in the bushes.  The bullet had gone straight
through her chest.  She was done for.

Hector, seeing that the damage was done, had now only one thought--to
question her about the rebels.

He lifted her--she was small and light--kneeling and holding her in
his arms.  He did not yet recognize her.

Speaking her own tongue, he began.

"Where have you come from?"

She opened her eyes with a great effort and looked at him woodenly.
A vague perplexity crept into her haggard, deathly face; a faint
smile; then all her perplexity vanished and, smiling almost
rapturously, she put out a trembling hand--touched his
cheek--whispered--

In a flash, he knew her--in spite of her thinness, suffering, faded
beauty.  His mind went back through the mists of three--four--five
years and more, back to Milk River, Fort Walsh and Sleeping Thunder's
teepee--

It was Moon.

He uttered a strange, inarticulate cry--struggled to speak--could
not--

She touched his cheek a second time.  Agony was in her smile, making
it terrible.

"Oh,--they've killed--me," she said.

"Moon!" Hector burst out, "What are you doing here?"

She still smiled--the old sweetness always in her face--through tears
of pain that dimmed her beautiful, soft eyes.  Every word was an
intense effort.

"So--you have--come," she whispered.  "I stayed--behind--to meet you.
I was--so tired--so tired--and Loud Gun--he beat me.  I knew--you
were--following us--everybody knew it, for--everybody--knows you.
You will--not beat--me.  You have always--been kind--to me.  I
thought, 'I can--go no--further.  I will stay--behind--and go to him.
And he--will protect me.'  So I--stayed.  That is why--I am here.  I
was waiting--till you came--near.  I--thought I--would jump out at
you--as children--do.  I--thought 'How pleased and surprised he--will
be.'  But, oh--they shot me!"

Hector held her closer.  A thin trail of blood trickled pitifully
from the corner of her trembling, childish mouth.  The sight pierced
him.  He took her shaking hand.

"Where is Loud Gun?" he asked, his voice like flint.

By this time the trumpeter and some of the men were standing near, a
silent group, puzzled, unable to understand what the woman said but
able to see that their leader had been deeply stirred.  Hector barely
realized that they were there.

"Loud Gun?--He is with--the rest of them--the rebels.  He is--chief
of the band--now.  My father--is gone.  He rides the ghost-trail.
Had he--been--living, his people, my people--they would not--have
been--led away--into this--cruel--madness.  But--" she repeated, "he
rides the ghost-trail.  And I--will soon--O, I am happy!--I will soon
be with him!"

"You say Loud Gun has been unkind to you?"

Hector's voice was trembling, though he tried hard to control it.

"At first--he loved me.  But then--he--tired--of me.  But now--all
that is over; and I do--not--care."

The words came heavily, painfully, from her lips, like cripples, one
by one.  The blood from her mouth still trickled down.  Hector tried
to stop the thickly welling flow from the hole in her chest with his
handkerchief but could not.

"Listen, Moon."  He steeled himself for the effort.  "Tell me--where
have they gone?"

She looked at him, striving always to smile.  But her eyes were
already clouding, her voice and senses failing.

"Will--it--serve you--if I tell?"

He answered swiftly: "It will be the greatest service man or woman
ever rendered me, Moon.  And it will end this miserable, useless
rising."

"So?" she said.  "Then--I will tell--you.  Why should I not--tell
you?  Loud Gun--and his--people--have cast me off.  Then, why should
I--not--tell you--whom I love--ah, yes I love--as much as--ever?
They have gone--they have gone--"

He felt her slipping away and made a desperate attempt to hold her
back.

"Yes, yes!  Where have they gone?  Quick, Moon--tell me!"

"They have gone--gone--that way."  She pointed with her shaking hand.
"They--rode--through--that slough--there--to hide the tracks--and
down a little stream--on the other--side.  So--for three hours--and
then--for--"

"Yes?"

"For the--great lake--in the north.  Its name--its name--"

"I know it!" said Hector.  "I know it."

She had shown him the trail.

And she was fast nearing another trail--a longer trail--herself.  He
felt her clutch his hand convulsively.

"Then--I--_have_ served you, after all!"  Her voice was very weak but
there was great joy in it.  "I--could--not have--you for my own self;
and you--would not let--me--be your servant then.  But the
Great--Spirit, He--has--been--so kind to me.  He has--let me--aid
you--serve you--when you--most needed me--and in the--end.  Oh, you
of the gentle heart--see how your kindness to the--poor and
lowly--brings you--a reward!"

Her eyes rested now with a vague longing on the heedless, bright blue
sky, the dazzling sunshine, the long sweep of the empty hills and the
slough, a sheet of silver.  To renounce all this--and lose him with
it!  All the agony of all the partings and renunciations that have
ever been was in that one wistful glance.

Hector's heart--soft as a woman's, as are the hearts of all really
strong men--was breaking and this was more than he could bear.  A
slow tear coursed down his face.  He did not heed it.  But she saw it
there.

"Tears--for me?" she said wonderingly.  Again she smiled, the bravest
smile he had ever seen.  "Ah, do not weep for--me.  I am
happy--to--die--for--you--with you.  It is--just as I--have
always--wished."

A moment more and the fierce grip of Death seized her.  She felt it
coming, shook convulsively, torment indescribable on her face--

"Moon!" Hector implored.

She opened her eyes--smiled again into his--

"Hold me--tight!" she whispered.

He gathered her into his arms.

The story was ended.


At last he set her down and was instantly back to the business in
hand.

He shouted an order at the staring men and cleft the silence with a
blast on his whistle that brought the others racing in.

"All right, Sergeant-Major--send the scouts off--this way!  Follow up
with the rest--follow me!"

Mason, the innocent cause of Moon's death, came running up with the
horses, recalling to Hector's mind--Loud Gun.

Then, once more, but for the last time, the astonished trumpeter
heard his leader ripping out most fearful oaths.

"I'll settle him!  By God, I'll settle him!" he ended.

Savagely spurring his horse, he put himself at the head of the scouts
and flashed off on the trail the rebels had taken.


VIII

Broncho was _en fête_--spreading herself.  The uprising was
over--every spark of revolt completely quenched.  That afternoon,
there was to be an official 'welcome home' to the city's heroes.

At the head of the column forming for the march to the platform was
Hector and his cavalry--a rejuvenated troop, happy as larks.

But Hector was more serious than the men had ever seen him.

"C.O. got the hump?  Just look at him!"

His mind in a turmoil, Hector obeyed the order to march off.  The
Broncho band, of citizens of all ages, uniform caps their only
regalia, burst into semi-harmonious strains and led the way through
the crowd.

And the crowd--looked at the bronzed young officer on his noble
horse, remembered his record--and worshipped.

Hector heard their Hosannahs thundering to the sky, saw men, women,
children, all madly excited, swirling round him, waving innumerable
handkerchiefs, flags, hats--and still floated in a world of dream.

They were grouped round the platform now.  The Lieutenant-Governor of
the Territories and his party appeared; 'God Save The Queen'; a
salute; hysterical cheering!

Colonel Stern, a wonderfully handsome figure, with his keen face,
hooked nose and long moustaches, came riding up with his staff.
Passing Hector, he smiled kindly; then joined the
Lieutenant-Governor, who began a speech in his praise.

Bursts of cheering!  The Lieutenant-Governor shifted to a new theme.
Hector, still in a daze, caught snatches of these remarks.

"The dashing young leader ... officer of the gallant and well-beloved
Mounted ... spearhead of the advance ... exposed himself recklessly
throughout ... when the time came, swept fiercely in pursuit ...
engaged them finally at ... where they were caught between the lake
and ... could not escape ... though greatly outnumbered, smashed the
rebels utterly ... captured not only the remnant ... but their leader
... head of the whole revolt ... himself ... thus single-handed
bringing ... campaign ... swift and glorious conclusion ... yes,
Inspector Adair!"

Then a wonderful thing happened.  The impatient crowd broke its bonds
and instantly filled all the space about the platform.  It rushed
round Hector.  He found himself suddenly walled in by a field of
exultant faces and dimly realized that they were cheering him ...
cheering him....

Over this heaving mass a voice suddenly threw a roaring word, hailing
Hector by the name long given him by the Indians and sometimes by the
civilians, in token of the strength and fearlessness which they
considered him, the embodiment of himself:

"_Manitou-pewabic!_" shouted the voice.  "_Manitou-pewabic!_"

Instantly the crowd took the cue and roared the name, sometimes the
translation of the name, in one great tumult of sound:

"_Manitou-pewabic!_"--"Spirit-of-Iron!  Spirit-of-Iron!"

For a moment, then, coming out of the clouds, Hector felt, for the
first time in his life, the tremendous exultation of wide fame and
brilliant success.  This crowd, these cheers, were his.  That name,
that wonderful name, they had given him.  In their way, those people
represented all Canada.  The whole country was applauding him.
Destiny had given him greatness.  He was no longer struggling to
advance.  He had advanced!

"Spirit-of-Iron!" thundered the crowd.  "Spirit-of-Iron!"

Afterwards, those who had seen him returning their salutes, remarked
that he had not once smiled.

If they had known the reason why! ... They did not know.

The fact was that, the first wave of exultation past, the
intoxicating drink turned to gall on Hector's lips, became a curse
and a mockery.

Just before falling in for parade that afternoon, an orderly had
handed him a sheaf of letters, his first mail since leaving Broncho
to fight the rebels.  Among the letters was one which brought his
heart to his mouth.  It was his letter to Frances--returned 'dead'
after wandering over half America.

On the envelope was stamped 'Address unknown.'

In the hour of success, Fate, after her playful manner, had kicked
him off his pedestal and crushed him like a beetle.

The laurels had developed spines that lacerated his hands.

He had lost Frances, utterly lost her.

What did he want with this cheering?

But still the crowd yelled on tumultuously and the great moment
lingered--the moment of universal acclamation--mocking
him--glorifying him----

Spirit-of-Iron!


IX

Autumn dawned.  The epic railway lay completed from sea to sea.  Its
last spike had been the last nail in the coffin of the Old Order.
The dead heroes of the little war, who had made that victory
possible, slept peacefully, heedless of the thunder of the vast tide
of humanity now bearing down upon the plains for which they died--the
tide which was the first wave of the iron-spirited nation to come.




BOOK THREE: _The Clash_



Chapter I


I

On the open prairie outside the growing city of Broncho, in the heart
of the cattle country, the Mounted Police held their Queen's Birthday
sports.

Mrs. MacFarlane, not long made wife of Inspector MacFarlane, looked
on the scene from her seat in the front row of the officers' marquee
and felt herself quite intoxicated with the glamour of it all.

Mrs. MacFarlane was an American, brought up in the Eastern States and
hence new to the West and particularly to such martial pageantry as
this.

She was also an uncommonly pretty woman, small and graceful, with
seductive eyes of baby blue, fringed with very long lashes; well
marked and arched eyebrows; a mass of hair so fair that it was almost
white; a little tip-tilted nose; and lips that seemed perpetually to
ask for kisses.  She had a voice which alternately cooed and purred
and sometimes did both at once.  Intensely feminine, she revelled in
her frills and ribbons and exotic perfume, had always an eye for a
good-looking man, craved masculine attention as a child craves candy,
and, when any prospects of the kind were in sight, was alive to
nothing else whatever.  If attacked, she would instantly resort to
tears.  Altogether, she was of the type which some women call 'sweet'
and others 'cattish.'  Most men would call her 'pussy.'  But she made
her presence felt; and there was 'more in her than met the eye.'

No one could quite understand how a pretty woman of her stamp, who so
admired physical beauty in men and was herself able to appeal to them
after a certain fashion, had come to marry a big, grumpy, bear of a
fellow like MacFarlane.  Some months before, returning from the East
on leave, MacFarlane had electrified every man and woman connected
with the Force by bringing with him this unknown beauty as his bride.
How on earth had he managed it--when, even now, she clearly revealed
her preference by furtively ogling all handsome men, even the
constables?  Never mind; she _had_ accepted him.  Some day, perhaps,
when the novelty of her present life wore off and she had settled
down to await Eternity in the rough dreariness of pioneer barrack
life with MacFarlane for company--well--things might happen.

Time enough to think of these things when they came!  At present,
reclining in her chair, watching the sports with the dreamy little
smile which she knew became her so well, she was perfectly content.

Beside her sat Mrs. Jim Jackson, wife of the now prominent rancher, a
large, good-humoured lady of much animation, with an insatiable love
for gossip.  From Mrs. Jackson she learned much concerning the sports
and the sportsmen.

"See that bunch over there--where the big, red-headed man is
standing?  They've got an outlaw," Mrs. Jackson explained--"a horse
no one can ride, you know.  That particular beast is a corker.  He's
killed two men already."

Mrs. MacFarlane shuddered.

"Then why do they use such a horse?"

"Oh, but they have to.  Unless the horse is a real snorter, it makes
the competition too easy.  Donny, the man looking on--Corporal
Donaldson, y'know, the Superintendent's teamster--can handle him,
don't worry.  He's one of the best rough-riders in the Force."

Amid roars from the spectators, Donaldson flashed past the marquee,
the horse bucking furiously.  Mrs. MacFarlane caught a glimpse of its
devilish eyes and of the face of Donaldson.  She caught Mrs.
Jackson's substantial arm with a pretty terror.

"Oh, he'll be killed!  He'll be killed!" she gasped.  "And--he's
actually smiling!"

"Why, that's nothing to Donny," Mrs. Jackson soothed.  "He's enjoying
it.  I've seen him stick till the blood ran out of his mouth and ears
and the brute had jolted him insensible.  No one can touch him unless
it's Dandy Jack.  _He's_ a wonder.  There he is!  In the roping
contest--last on the right!"

"Is _that_ Dandy Jack?" queried Mrs. MacFarlane incredulously,
singling out a young puncher in brilliant regalia, who looked as if
he had just stepped from a cocoon and possessed the face of Sir
Galahad.  "But--but he's only a child!  And just beautiful, Mrs.
Jackson.  Who is he?  _Do_ tell me!"

"He's an American, aged sixteen, no one knows where from--originally.
Landed in at my husband's ranch one day, dressed just as you see him
now, a regular dream, and asked for work.  Jim thought he was some
romantic kid tenderfoot.  '_You_ ride?' he says.  'Listen,' said
Dandy Jack, 'if I show you, will you take me on?'  'Sure,' said Jim.
So young Jack climbs up on the cross-bar over the corral gate.
'Drive your worst horse under here--no, never mind saddle or bridle.
I don't want 'em.'  As the horse ran under, didn't Jack drop onto his
back and ride him out?  So my husband naturally took him on.  And
he's been in this country ever since."

"But how wonderful!" sighed Mrs. MacFarlane, gazing adoringly on the
young puncher.  "Do tell me more!"

Mrs. Jackson, thus encouraged, chattered on.

"He looks a perfect angel, but my dear--the language that boy can
use!  He's the most original cusser west of the Mississippi.  They
say he had to cross the line because he killed three men in the
States--brutes who wiped out his father, mother and sisters--a feud
of some kind.  The sheriff was a friend of theirs, so he had to hit
the trail for Canada or swing.  But that's just a story.  It can't be
true, or he wouldn't be busting horses for the Force now--that's his
job."

"Oh, I hope it's true!  I hope it's true!" sighed Mrs. MacFarlane.
"And now do point out the new C.O.  You know, I haven't met him yet.
Mac's jealous--you've no idea!  Of course, he only arrived yesterday,
but still----"

"Do you see that very tall, straight man, joking with your husband?
Well, that's him!"

"Is _that_ him? " 'Dandy Jack' was instantly forgotten.  "Oh,
but--but, my dear!  I simply must meet him right away.  Really, Mrs.
Jackson, never----"

Mrs. MacFarlane, completely carried away, concentrated her attention
on the new C.O. and was instantly brought to her figurative knees.

It was not merely his superb physique and its effect in brilliant
uniform which gave her the feeling that she was in the presence of
one unconquerable--a master of men, a builder of empires.  It was his
face--the face of a man still in his prime, but not to be measured in
years.  He might have been thirty or thirty-five, but was probably
just on the right side of forty.  To a strong regularity of feature,
years of hardship and exposure had given an intense bronze and a
network of stern clean lines, lending the face great character and
nobility without adding much to its age.  The man's smile, she
thought, would have melted stone; but he did not smile often.
Otherwise, there was more than a hint of sadness in his serenity.
Once he glanced in her direction and she thrilled under eyes that
were like the frosty blue of mountains seen from a great distance.

Till that moment, Mrs. MacFarlane thought, she had never set eyes
upon a Man.

Mrs. Jackson was babbling away.  She silenced her with an impatient
gesture.

"But--tell me about _him_," she insisted.  "He must be awfully
interesting."

"He _is_.  Let's see--well, now, first of all, you must know he's a
great friend of your hubby's.  Why, I thought he'd have told you!
Oh, yes--great friends.  They were in the ranks together.  The men
love him and would follow him anywhere.  He's about six months senior
to and a step higher than Mac.  Did brilliantly in the
revolt--seven--ten years ago.  Since then he's just mounted steadily.
It wasn't long before he'd got a district.  And they've transferred
him up up all the time.  His coming here is really a promotion.
Broncho's one of the best plums going.  You'd think he was a god, the
way people look at him."

"I'm not surprised," murmured Mrs. MacFarlane, under her breath.  "Go
on, dear."

"He's supposed to be a fearful martinet.  Jim says he worships Duty
and says his prayers to Discipline.  They send all the tough nuts of
the Force to him, and my dear, he cracks 'em.  The extraordinary part
of it, Jim says, is half of it's done by kindness.  Imagine, my dear,
kindness!  But the other half--wow!  You know, 'gentle persuasion
first and, if that fails, the torture chamber.'  Naturally, it seldom
fails."

Mrs. MacFarlane asked the question which for five minutes had
trembled, wings spread, on the tip of her tongue.

"Is he--married?"

"No," answered Mrs. Jackson promptly.  "Nor even engaged.  Curious,
eh?  Personally, I think there's something mysterious about
him--desperate love affair in his youth, jilted or something.  But
Jim, who's known him twenty years, says positively 'No.'  Never cared
for women at any time, Jim says.  But I've my own ideas--nothing to
go on, of course--just guesswork.  Certainly he hasn't a thought or
glance for a woman now.  Perfectly sweet but thinks only of his work.
I don't believe the woman lives who can move him!"

"I--_wonder_," Mrs. MacFarlane said softly.  Her eyes were shining.
"You must introduce me."

The sports over, the usual prize-giving and speeches followed.  The
Lieutenant-Governor led off in 'short but happy vein.'  Followed Mr.
Steven Molyneux, M.P. for Broncho in the Dominion House.

His speech was clever, humourous, apt and obviously sincere.

Hector watched and listened to Mr. Molyneux with intense interest.
Until that afternoon he had never met Molyneux.  He saw and heard him
now for the first time.

The speaker was a man of about fifty, with a neatly trimmed beard.
Hair, beard and moustache were black, well powdered with grey.  Once
lean and hardy, he was just beginning to incline towards the soft
fullness of inactivity and advancing years.  His voice was ordinarily
pleasant and he spoke slowly and impressively, but in addressing the
crowd his delivery was hard and rapid, giving him an air of alacrity
which went down well with a western audience.  He was well dressed in
the style common to the country, with a low white collar and a bow
tie.  In his hand, as he spoke, he waved a broad-brimmed felt
sombrero and a much-chewed cigar, to lend force to what he said.

The Lieutenant-Governor spoke to Hector suddenly.

"A good speaker, Molyneux.  Do you know him?"

"No, sir, I do not.  Do you?"

"Only officially.  A shrewd man."

Molyneux finished his speech and took a seat amid a patter of
applause.  Inspector MacFarlane--a heavier, more stolid MacFarlane
than the Sergeant MacFarlane of twelve good years before--was on
Hector's right.  MacFarlane had been stationed in the Broncho
district a long time.  He should know Molyneux.  Hector began to
question him in an undertone.

Molyneux, it appeared, was one of those human sky-rockets common to
new communities.  Rising from unknown depths with the starting of a
Broncho livery stable three or four years before, he had climbed
rapidly into the western firmament to blaze suddenly forth as a
prominent citizen and a candidate for the House at Ottawa.  No one
knew much about his past and very few cared.  In a young country,
where the oldest old-timer can count the years of his citizenship on
two or three hands, where the scanty population is largely nomadic
and where the vast majority concentrate exclusively on making use of
their opportunities, a man's credentials are seldom demanded and
those he offers are accepted as genuine.  Mr. Molyneux, coming from
nowhere, had simply set up business.  Cash rolling in had given him
good standing.  Popularity and more cash had given him his
nomination.  Then came the election--and there you were!

"Doesn't he remind you of anyone?"

"No, sir," said MacFarlane, surprised.  "Why?"

But Hector did not answer.  He was busily delving into the
pigeon-holes of that tenacious memory.

Strip off fifteen years--so his thoughts ran--from the body, with the
fat that goes with it; take away the grey and the dye--it's probably
dye--from the hair and most of the wrinkles from the face; shave off
the beard; put him in riding rig, on a spirited horse; and----

Vague trouble stirred in his mind as he looked at the
politician--almost a sense of coming conflict.

He remembered the keen-faced, lean, sinewy, tawny-headed man with the
smooth ways and false professions of friendship, with whom he had
waged war many years before; remembered how that man had sought his
life, sent Chester to his death and Wild Horse to the gallows;
remembered, above all, without fear--though perhaps this memory was
mainly responsible for his vague foreboding--the note left behind by
that man when he drove him out of Canada:

'You have won this time.  But I will win yet.  I owe you my ruin and,
if it takes me twenty years, I'll get even.  Remember, I'll get even,
if it takes me twenty years.'

The voice--somewhat disguised--the eyes--which could not be
disguised--and a dozen smaller things; these told him, against every
point of reason, against all his better judgment, that--the Mr.
Steven Molyneux of today was the Mr. Joseph Welland of long ago!


As the crowd left the field after the National Anthem, Mrs. Jackson
introduced Hector to Mrs. MacFarlane.


II

On the morning following the sports Corporal Donaldson, the
Superintendent's teamster, came 'round to Hector's quarters in the
Police barracks at Broncho with his smart turnout, a shining
two-seated trap drawn by two magnificent roans.

"Drive to Mr. Molyneux's office," Hector ordered.

"Yes, sir," said Donaldson.  "Giddap there, John A.!  Hup there,
Laurier!"

The equipage bowled majestically out at the gate on the road to
Broncho.

Hector had decided overnight to call on Molyneux for several reasons.
His chief object was to ascertain, by diplomatic methods, whether, as
the new commander of the Broncho district, he could rely on the
support of Mr. Molyneux, as M.P. for that constituency, in all
matters wherein that support was to be legitimately expected.  His
secondary object--to a certain extent dependent on the first--was to
discover, to the best of his ability, whether Mr. Joseph Welland and
Mr. Steven Molyneux were actually one and the same.

Upon the outcome of his visit, much would depend.  In steering his
course through the uncharted waters ahead, it was essential for
Hector to know from the outset whether the local M.P. could be
counted friend or foe; and he was taking no chances.

Hector had already heard certain allegations concerning Molyneux.  He
intended, during the interview, to test their truth.

When the Mounted Police first came into the country--these were
Hector's reflections as he sat in the trap--the Northwest had been
free of a certain great influence now beginning to make itself
strongly felt.  That influence might be summed up by the one word:
'politics.'.  The population was small; it was too busy to care about
the details of government; and it was glad to leave those details in
the hands of the authorities appointed by the Crown, who were the
instruments of a kind of benevolent autocracy.  But, as time went on,
the population increased and became more settled, the standard
improved and British democracy demanded that the people should have a
greater voice in the Territories.  The years following the
construction of the railway had brought these powers with them.  The
people began to send their own representatives to the local
legislature and to Ottawa.  The benevolent autocracy passed away and
the double-headed monster lying beneath the surface of all
representative government began to worm its way from the East into
the Northwest--the monster politic with the twin heads, 'favoritism'
and 'pull.'

Climbing gradually upward through this period of expansion, Hector,
eyes and ears open, had come to a full realization of just what the
change meant and could mean.  By observation, he had learned
something of the tremendous power possessed by politicians and
especially of its decisive effect, for good or evil, on all matters
affecting the government of the country.  By watching the experiences
of others and by enduring similar experiences himself, he had
discovered that politicians can make or break not only any individual
or group of individuals, no matter how prominent, no matter how
worthy or efficient, who chance to be members of a government
service, but even a whole department--an institution--worst of all, a
regiment.  And he had at last discovered that the life of such an
individual, especially if he holds high authority, is apt to be one
long fight for the preservation of himself and his subordinates from
the machinations of the monster politic.

From this had risen the further knowledge that, in dealing with
politicians, the personally helpless crusader must remember the old
battle-cry, 'He who is not for us is against us'--that the officer
fighting for his corps under the terrible handicap of an oath binding
him to obey political authority, must do everything possible not only
to deal with the enemies already threatening it, but to prevent other
politicians from joining the hostile alliance, even descending, if
necessary, to the bitter humiliation of 'bootlicking.'

All this Hector had learned in his steady progress up the ladder.
And that was why he found it necessary, this morning, to visit
Molyneux.

Had he not been so utterly bound up in his work, had the good of his
corps been further from his heart, he might have left Molyneux to
declare himself at leisure.  But for almost a decade now he had
thought of nothing but Duty and Regiment.  The day which had
witnessed his public christening as 'Spirit-of-Iron' and had brought
back his letter to Frances had marked a new era for him--an era when,
convinced that his destiny lay along a lonely path without a woman's
love to brighten it, he had given himself with renewed ardour to his
country.  Changelessly true, certain that he could never care for
anyone but Frances, he had waited, hoping always that she might
re-enter his life, until the creeping years had killed the last
remaining flicker of hope.  But, though his faith in her had never
wavered, though he always felt that she would have come to him had
she been able, the belief had steadily grown upon him that, after
all, she had not been meant for him.  If he could not have Frances,
he wanted no-one.  With this in mind, he had plunged headlong into
his work, making it his absorbing interest.  Today--except for
occasional moments of fierce regret--he thought of nothing else.
Today, as a result, he held the reputation Mrs. Jackson had given him.

But these years had brought him face to face with no tremendous
personal issue.  Thousands of little problems had confronted him in
the ordinary course of duty and he had so dealt with them all.
Nothing in the nature of something predestined--an immense test, a
vast struggle involving, say, the whole course of his existence or
the progress of the country--had appeared to try him.

He was wondering now if all that had passed had been merely leading
up to this issue.  In plain words, was his big fight to be
against--Welland?  Had the events of fifteen years before, which had
laid the foundations of a lifelong enmity, been as a prelude to a
tremendous drama in which Welland--in the guise of the politician,
Molyneux--and himself, as the champion of straight dealing--were to
come together in terrific conflict?

"Who-o-a-hup, here!"

The trap, after speeding through the fierce sunshine down the long,
unpaved streets between the wooden shacks, past the bleached hotel,
the banks, the red saloons, had pulled up before a pretentious
building sheathed in imitation stone--weakness dressed up as
strength, falsehood as truth.  The nicely polished window bore the
legend:

  STEVEN MOLYNEUX
  FLOUR AND FEED   CATTLE DEALER
  MORTGAGES   MONEY TO LOAN


A moment later the M.P. and the Mounted Police officer--craft and
honesty--politics and patriotism--sat face to face.


The interview was apparently amiable.  Hector kept himself keyed up
to the pitch of vigilance, studied the politician's face closely and
tried to trap him into betrayal.

Molyneux, without gushing, was cordial.  He offered Hector a cigar.
As they lighted up, Hector opened the ball.  "Having just assumed
command of the district, Mr. Molyneux, I called to pay my respects to
the local M.P.  There was no chance for us to chat yesterday."

His smile was disarming.

"Quite so, Major.  Glad to see you.  Beautiful day, isn't it?  How
long have you been here?"

"Only since the day before yesterday."

"Ever been in Broncho before?"

"Not since the revolt."

"Oh, yes.  You were the hero of that affair."

"Not at all.  Luck was on my side.  You're a newcomer, I think?"

"Yes, comparatively.  About three years now."

"You got in by a big majority, Mr. Molyneux.  You must be popular."

"I suppose I am."  Molyneux flashed a keen glance at him.  "It takes
it to get in nowadays."

"Yes--and to stay in.  Of course, you're a Canadian."

"You bet--Maritime Provinces."

"New to the West?"

"No.  Spent years in the Western States--even before the railroad."

"Indeed?  Ranching?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the--Macleod country?"

Again the politician's eyelids flickered.  But Hector met his gaze
unflinchingly.

"You see, I spent a lot of time there myself."

"Never been there in my life," said Molyneux.

"A grand country.  I would have liked to have been posted to that
district, I think."

"Oh?"

"Yes," asserted Hector.  "I know the people well there.  Besides, I
heard they didn't want me here."

"Didn't want you here, eh?"

"Yes.  In fact--well, it's been said that _you_----"

"_Me?_"

"Yes--idiotic, isn't it?  But it has been said that you were against
my coming."

"Oh, nonsense, Major."

"Of course it is.  I'm glad you're behind me.  I never doubted that
you were.  It makes things so much easier--and, of course, safer."

"But--but--I tell you, Major Adair, you don't know what we M.P.s have
got to stand for!  Why, you'd think that the moment a man tacks
'M.P.' after his name he becomes a crook of the first water."

"Yes--strange, isn't it?  Never mind, Mr. Molyneux.  Your word is
good enough for me."

Molyneux puffed angrily at his cigar.

"We're going to get on well, I feel sure," Hector went on.  "I feel
as if I'd known you years already.  Together, we can do wonders.  I
want the Police here to be safe-guarded from the attacks of
unscrupulous politicians--members of the other party, for example.
The senior officers are united in this desire.  It's pleasing to know
I can count on you."

Molyneux looked at Hector solemnly--a hard look in his eyes.

"That's right, Major.  As long as they do their duty and the
administration in this district is efficient, they can count on me.
And I've lots of power, Major--lots more than some people think.  I
control a great deal of organized----"

Was there a threat beneath this assertion?  Hector refused to see it.

"Thank you, Mr. Molyneux," he said, rising to go.  "And you can count
on me to fight any attempted political interference in my district
tooth and nail.  Make the mess your home if you want to.  Goodbye."

Their eyes met; then their hands.

"Goodbye, sir, goodbye!"

Hector was absolutely convinced now.  Welland, after hiding himself
for years in the States, had ventured back to Canada.  Today he was
Mr. Steven Molyneux.  And Mr. Steven Molyneux had not forgotten.


With the closing of the door on the Superintendent, the politician's
face changed.  He pitched his cigar away savagely.

A fierce thought was lacerating him:

Had Hector discovered his identity?

In his own mind, he was almost certain that he had.

Much depended on the question.  The memory of the ruin Hector had
brought upon his former plans just when they were at the point of
fulfilment was still bright within him.  The pangs and
disappointments of his struggle to advance under a new name in a new
country, in constant fear of being detected and denounced, still made
themselves felt.  Venturing back to Western Canada when he thought it
safe, in order to avail himself of the country's greater
opportunities for acquiring power and wealth and to work up at the
same time to a position whence he might easily crush Hector, as he
had sworn, he had endured a further struggle of three years'
duration, a struggle which, but for Hector, had been unnecessary; and
this struggle was too recent to be forgotten.  If Hector had actually
seen through his disguise--a disguise so perfect that it had
completely deceived all others--even the old-timers who had known Joe
Welland--then, not only his own future was at stake, but the
retribution he had promised himself would be denied him.  Hector
would unmask him, have him brought to trial, utterly break him and,
in so doing, save himself.  Had he held his hand so long, awaiting
his chance to make Hector's fall the more terrible, only to be caught
in his own trap?

Altogether, Mr. Welland alias Molyneux was in a very pretty panic.
He meant to smash Hector, anyway.  It now behooved him to act
quickly.  As long as there was the least likelihood that Hector had
discovered him, he could not rest.  He decided to put the wheels
instantly into motion.


III

  _I am the voice of War and Fame,
    Of Truth and Might and Chivalry.
  I am the soul, I am the flame
    Of all that heroes love to see.
  I hailed the day when Rome was born,
    I watched the ancient Peoples rise,
  I sang a song of laughing scorn
    When Dissolution closed their eyes.
  Supreme were they one little day
    And then--their glory passed away!
  Their lips are dumb, their suns are set--
    My voice, my voice is ringing yet!_

  _In every age, in every land,
    When fierce and fell the battle grew,
  I bade the hard-pressed army stand,
    I steeled the yielding line anew!
  I charged the breach, I drew the sword,
    And, when the fateful hour was come,
  Above the storm I spoke the word
    That hurled the howling squadrons home!
  In red retreat, in dread defeat,
    When Life is Death, when Death is sweet,
  When Valour reaps its golden yield,
    My voice, my voice controls the field!_

  _I am the voice, the brazen voice,
    The ardent voice of States and Kings.
  Let fools and dreamers cast their choice
    With milder music, softer things--
  The mistress, I, that heroes love,
    I sing the songs they leap to hear.
  A guardian spirit, poised above,
    I serve the Soldier.  Year by year,
  By day, by night, 'tis my delight
    To guide his eager steps aright.
  He lives--or dies--howe'er I will.
    My voice, my voice directs him still!_

  _And when he sleeps at last
    Under the stainless Flag his hand defended
  On Death's dark camping-ground--
    The battle past,
    The long march ended--
  Mourning his loss with dirging fifes and drums,
    His comrades fire the harmless round
  And silence follows--Then my moment comes
  And, note by note, with music sadly splendid,
    The last to speak, my grief to tell,
    My voice the final tribute pays,
  Shatters the hush--and says
    "Farewell! ... Farewell!"_


'The Song of the Trumpet,' recited with immense fervour by the author
to the accompaniment of a 'flourish off' between verses, though of
the type at which soldiers are apt to sneer, began with the
audience's sympathy and ended in tumultuous applause.  Mrs.
MacFarlane, in the front row--she was always in the front row--turned
rapturously to Inspector Cranbrook, her nearest companion, who, in
his whimsical way, was entertaining her.

"Wasn't that just--delightful?" she cooed, flashing him a dazzling
glance.  "Now--_who_ was that?  Isn't he handsome?  My!  I never can
understand how you get men like that in the ranks of the Police.
Most policemen are so common."

"You forget this is no common corps," Cranbrook laughed.

"That's quite smart!" she laughed, in return, patting his hand
coquettishly.  The action stirred Cranbrook strangely.  "But tell me
about him.  He speaks like a gentleman--English; and he can recite.
He seems very popular, too."

"Yes, he's not bad-looking.  I should think he's public
schools--Eton, Harrow, y'know.  He was in my division at Edmonton a
year ago.  Name's Humphries--a buck constable.  Quite a card--rather
wild, I'm afraid, but humourous all the time.  Of course, he's got a
past--must have."

"A woman?" she questioned quickly.

He flushed a little.

"I suppose so.  He's too fond of 'em, I'm afraid."

"Can one be too fond of a woman?" she cooed.

"It depends on the woman--_of_ course!" he answered with a touch of
gallantry.  "There are other things--cards--and--er--"  Suddenly
realizing that he was playing traitor to his sex and also touching on
matters best left alone, he switched abruptly to a former line.
"Yes, he can recite, as you say.  Writes 'em all himself, too!"

"_No_--really?  _How_ romantic!"

"Yes.  Oh, he's rather unique.  Does conjuring tricks, plays the
guitar, composes his own music for his own songs, and spouts Latin
when he's--when he's under the weather."

Mrs. MacFarlane clasped her hands in an ecstatic and calculated
gesture.

"O-o-h!  I do hope he comes on again."

"Oh, he'll come on again."

The conversation flagged.  Mrs. MacFarlane, for the twentieth time,
cast furtively anxious eyes 'round the crowded room, with its row on
row of laughing, eager men and girls, of mingling black and white and
scarlet--scarlet--scarlet, the colour which made her tingle from head
to foot.  This was the C.O.'s concert--a special concert to welcome
the new Superintendent, now with them seven days.  Why was he not
here?

As a matter of fact, he _was_ there!  Had she arrived earlier--the
desire to make a sensational entrance plus natural laziness had made
her late--she would have seen Hector in the forefront.  Unexpectedly
called away, he had now returned and was at that moment chatting with
Inspector Forshaw, his adjutant, in a corner, on the very subject of
Humphries, the entertainer.

"That man who just recited, Forshaw," Hector enquired.  "Who is he?"

"That, sir?"  Forshaw, a short, good-humoured Englishman with
intensely bright eyes and a round, ruddy face, beamed and smiled.
People always smiled at mention of Humphries.  "That's a new man to
this division.  Name's Humphries.  Fact is, sir, he's not much
good--not exactly a bad hat, but wild and unreliable.  Gentleman gone
wrong--you know the sort, sir.  The usual story, I expect--younger
son--felt his oats--a girl."

The C.O. smiled.

"I'm sorry.  He looks whole-wool.  I wonder if we can't snatch the
brand from the burning?"

Between Forshaw and Hector had sprung up immense sympathy.  Forshaw
was not an old hand in the Force and his service had not brought him
into contact with Hector--they had met for the first time a week ago.
But he was a man of insight, who knew Hector by repute and had with
him much in common.

He immediately saw that the C.O. had become unusually interested in
Humphries.

"Fact is, sir, they've been wondering the same thing at Regina.
They've transferred him to us, sir, as a sort of last resort, for you
to discipline him."

Hector nodded again.  The reformation of 'bad hats' was his specialty.

"I see.  Well, perhaps I can manage him."

"I'm certain you can, sir," said Forshaw quickly.  "You know, he's
clever, in his own way--probably a lot in him.  Rather extraordinary
humourist.  The story goes,"--the Adjutant's face radiated
merriment--"that he was a remittance man before he enlisted.  You
know what _that_ means!"

"So that's the style of fellow he is?" said Hector.  "Well, bring him
in, in the morning.  Mr. Humphries had better make my acquaintance
before it's too late."

Hector parted with the Adjutant and walked forward.  Mrs. MacFarlane
saw him coming.  Cranbrook had left his seat on an errand for her.
Her heart beating curiously, all eyes upon her, she beckoned Hector
to the vacant place.  He smiled abstractedly and sat down.

The next number started.  It was a comic song of the red-nosed
variety.  Mrs. MacFarlane hated the song, the comedian, the vulgar
crowd that roared at the jokes.  She wanted to talk to Hector.  But
her companion was laughing quite as heartily as the rest of them and
she felt obliged to conceal her annoyance and laugh with him.

The number concluded, Hector turned to her.

"You didn't seem to care for that song, Mrs. MacFarlane."

She started.

"What amazing insight you've got, Major!" she declared.  "I thought
I'd fooled everyone."

"You're a clever actress," he said, quietly bantering.  "But I saw
through you."

"It's just terrible to be so transparent!  That's why I'm always
natural."

"It's the best policy," said Hector gravely.  "Besides, when one is
so naturally charming----"

The gallantry caressed her and, pussylike, she purred.

"Thank you, sir!  Really, for a woman-hater----"

"A woman-hater?  Who gave me that reputation?"

He was looking at her keenly with just a hint of amusement.  Unable
to fathom his mood, she compromised.

"Oh, there just seems to be an impression 'round--nothing
definite--that you don't care for the sex.  But I--just guessed."

"_You're_ the penetrating one now, madam!" he jested.  "As a matter
of fact, you're quite wrong.  Truly, I _don't_ hate women."

"Honest In'jun?" she smiled.  "Then"--dropping her voice--"why have
you avoided me so often?"

"_Avoided--you?_"  Real astonishment seemed to move him.  He was at a
loss now.  Was she serious?  "Oh, but you're joking."

"No, I'm not," she pouted.  "You've passed me on the parade-ground
dozens of times without a word.  You've seen me at the window when
you inspect in the morning----"

"Mrs. MacFarlane"--he still smiled but his tones were earnest--"if
I've ever passed you without speaking, it was because I was in a
hurry.  And you know, of course, on parade----"

"I know, I know," she laughed reassuringly.  It was not safe to go
too far; and the limit had been reached.  "But don't crush me more
than you can help.  Nothing hurts a woman more than to be utterly
overlooked by a handsome man."

Her eyes fawned over him.  He deliberately let the compliment pass.

"At least you'll admit, now, I'm not a woman-hater?"

"U-m-m!"  She was still doubtful.  Then, insinuatingly, with a
languid glance, "Perhaps not.  But your heart--has it ever been----?"

He read the rest: 'Has your heart ever been given in vain?'  This was
an outrageous probing into a hidden wound no-one had ever dared
before.  After the first shock, an impulse to put her violently in
her place, as he well knew how to do, flashed upon him.  But he was
too chivalrous for that--and besides, it would betray his secret.  So
he answered with a smile:

"No, never."

"Never?"

She lifted her eyes and cooed the word.  Cleopatra caught Mark Antony
by such methods.

"Never."

"Oh, I can't believe that.  Major, you were made--just made--to be a
hero of romance."

"Do you think so?"

He was ironically amused.

"Yes, I do.  Many's the pretty woman who has kissed your feet."
Figuratively speaking, it was quite true, and Hector knew it.  She
laughed merrily, a hand on his arm.  "Listen: I'm going to do
something no-one's ever had the grit to do before!"

"You've done that already."

She was entertaining him, in a way.

"Have I?  Oh, good.  Well, listen--how your men would admire me if
they knew what I presumed to say!--but it's for your good.  Major,
don't be a monk--a hermit.  When a pretty woman comes along, don't
shut your eyes.  Pretty women and handsome men are made for one
another!"

Her intense womanliness, her warmth, brightness, colour, perfume,
were very near him.  Despite himself, he felt their presence and a
hint of their allurement.  He was a strong man, physically----

But he answered, rather stiffly:

"Thank you!"

The concert rolled on.  She looked at her programme:

'_Song: accompanied by guitar: 'A Game of Cards' Constable
Humphries._'

"Oh, it's that sweet thing again!" she breathed in Hector's ear.
"Don't you think he's wonderful?"

"Very!"

The C.O., from Olympus, to please her, looked down upon the Marquis,
his wayward servant, and tossed him a kindly though untruthful word.

In a flutter of applause, the Marquis climbed easily and confidently
to the platform.  He was a slim young man, black-haired and bronzed,
with a short black moustache, beneath which his teeth flashed, white
and even, when he smiled.  His features were very straight and
regular.  His eyes looked upon the audience with a kind of bitter
humour, as of one who has tasted Life's dregs and bravely bluffs that
he has liked them.  One glance at the Marquis told Mrs. MacFarlane
that every word she had heard of him was true.

He carried a guitar and wore the plain scarlet tunic, blue breeches
with yellow stripes and top-boots of a constable.

Dropping carelessly into a chair in the centre of the platform, and
smiling sardonically, he began to sing and play.  He had a quiet
baritone which he used as only an artist can.  The tune was the
strangest affair, whimsical, yet full of tragedy and the guitar
laughed and wept by turns in his mobile hands.

All the irony of broken hearts, false pledges, loves outraged and
forgotten, was in the song, the music, the agonized but laughing
voice:

  _The maid was fair as a maid could be--
    Queen of a hundred hearts was she--
  And out of the shuffling pack she knew
    She drew a suitor she thought might do
  (A common habit of flighty maids).
    The lucky card was the Jack of Spades--
  As poor as a rat but fair of face,
    A humble fellow who knew his place,
  So she gave him her hand when he made his plea,
    Thus raising the fool to an ecstasy._

  _But another person lived in the pack,
    The handsome, rollicking Diamond Jack--
  I think you'll find, when my tale you've heard,
    The Knave of Diamonds the better word.
  It's easy to see how the tricks turned out,
    For Diamonds are trumps the world about.
  She flung the Jack and his ring away,
    Which wasn't exactly the game to play,
  And, crushed and broken, she left him there--
    But--what in the Deuce should the Lady care?_


Then slowly, on a dying note of laughter, the last line was repeated,
to trail away into silence:

  _--What in the Deuce should the Lady care?_


And in a flash the Marquis was off the platform.

"Well, what a funny song!" Mrs. MacFarlane declared, applauding
vigourously.  "I'm sure there's a lot in it, Major.  Probably it
refers to something in his past--don't you think so?"

"Undoubtedly."

Again the ironical note struck her.

"You're laughing at me," she sulked prettily.  "You shouldn't!--if
we're going to be the good friends we ought to be."

Before Hector could reply, MacFarlane came up.  He was obviously
throbbing with jealousy.

Mrs. MacFarlane read his mood and was secretly amused.  She loved to
torment him.  But she made no reference to his annoyance.

"So glad you've come, old Mac," she said, hand outstretched.

Though he had interrupted her _tête-à-tête_ with Hector, she forgave
him.  She felt that she had done a good night's work already.


In the morning Hector interviewed the talented Marquis and warned him
to be a good boy.  The Marquis promised that he would.




Chapter II


I

The Superintendent's servant, Constable Blythe, was laying out his
master's mess uniform.  The hour was six o'clock in the evening.  A
fortnight had passed since the holding of the concert.

Constable Blythe was a man of middle age and not ill-looking,
originally hailing from some one of Her Majesty's far-flung
Dominions--no-one knew which.  Like many other Mounted Policeman, he
had adventured into a thousand strange places and a dozen queer
trades before joining the Force.  Of these earlier phases of his
history, little was known.  But full details of his service in Her
Majesty's forces, which he had embellished for many years in other
climes, were available to those who sought them.  And Blythe, though
of a naturally silent disposition, had no aversion to furnishing
these details.  In fact, when introduced to the riding-school, he had
proclaimed them at full voice.  The horse had gently removed him.

"Here, I thought you said you could ride?" thundered the riding
master.

"What, me?" shrieked Blythe indignantly.  "I'm a marine, Gord boil
yer, not a cent-ure!"  (He possibly meant 'centaur').

Result: brought up before the C.O.--who happened to be Hector--for
using insubordinate language to his superior officer.

"I can't ride, sir!" he had pleaded tearfully--for a Blythe, he was
at all times the most lugubrious man in the world--"They don't have
'em on board ship.  I'm a Royal Marine, sir!"

"Then you shouldn't have joined a mounted corps."  Hector's lips
closed like a vise.  "C.B. and more riding for you, my lad."

But when Blythe had demonstrated his point conclusively by being
bucked off for months on end, Hector at last took pity on him.  A
credit to the Royal corps, he did everything else beautifully and,
like all Marines, knew the duties of an officer's servant backwards.
That was four years ago.  And Blythe had served him devotedly ever
since.

Hector came in.

Blythe jumped to attention.

"Well, Blythe--" with a nod towards the carefully folded paper,
purchased ten minutes before, Hector pronounced the usual formula,
"is there anything interesting in the _Prophet_ tonight?"

But Blythe for once did not make the usual response: 'Nothin' to
speak of, sir.'  Instead, with considerable agitation, sternly
suppressed, he answered, as he drew off Hector's coat:

"Bit on the front page, sir, about us.  P'raps you've seen it?"

"No.  Where is it?"

Blythe handed over the paper.  Hector's face grew dark with the
severity that could make a division tremble.

Splashed across the page was the heading: 'Do New Brooms Always Sweep
Clean?'

And, beneath the heading, this paragraph:

'According to the old saw, "New Brooms Always Sweep Clean."  We think
this saying needs revision.  We are led to think so by the strange
slackening of the bonds of discipline which until lately held a
certain instrument of the law quartered in Broncho in constant
control.  Last night, our pride in the organization to which we refer
received a rude shock.  Details are not necessary.  The outrageous
conduct of the member of this force, who reeled up and down Main St.,
using the most blasphemous language and shooting up the town, until
gathered in by the patrol nearly an hour afterwards, is too fresh in
our memories to require full description.  This is only one of the
many incidents which, since the change in command was made, we have
shudderingly anticipated.  We do not blame the men.  We blame the
leader.'

The paragraph, as Hector, of course, knew, dealt with the 'outrageous
conduct' of the Marquis, who, on the previous night, had enjoyed, for
the first time since his transference to Broncho, a spree in town and
who was now in the cells, awaiting punishment.  Equally, of course,
the 'leader' referred to was himself.

Following his first interview with the M.P. for Broncho, Hector had
set going a part of the complicated machinery which was at his
disposal, as a Police officer, with the object of discovering
Molyneux's true identity.  These investigations had proven fruitless.
It is not easy to trace a man's antecedents back through utter
obscurity to a point fifteen years' distant; and Welland--if it was
Welland--had covered his tracks too well.  Hector had learned that
no-one--not even Jim Jackson or MacFarlane--connected the successful
politician of Broncho with the unsuccessful criminal Hector had
driven from the country.  Why should they?  Without a scrap of real
evidence, Hector had realized that he could do nothing to denounce
his man.  Yet he was absolutely certain that Molyneux was Welland.
Since their first meeting, he had observed many things, small in
themselves but great in the aggregate, which his tenacious memory
recognized as traits of the one-time cattle-thief and
whiskey-smuggler.  But, failing definite evidence which would hold in
a court of law, he knew that he must treat him, not for what he had
been, but for what he was.  He must deal with Molyneux, at least
outwardly, as Molyneux, not as Welland.  The fight--if fight it was
to be--must of necessity be fought with the weapons, not of the past,
but of the present.

And this paragraph told him definitely that fight there was to be.
It was his business to know how the _Prophet_ was controlled; and he
knew that it was controlled by Molyneux's party, if not by Molyneux
himself, and was edited by one of Molyneux's friends.  That was
enough.  On the surface, to those who knew not Molyneux's true
identity, the paragraph represented a well-merited--or cowardly,
according to their lights--attack on Superintendent Adair by a paper
supporting--or, as some knew, virtually controlled by--the
politician.  But actually, as Hector knew, and Welland knew, but
no-one else knew or would know, it was the opening shot in the
ex-criminal's campaign of revenge.

On Welland's side, this paragraph told him, the tactics were to be
slander, veiled insinuation, deceit cunningly employed in constant
endeavour to catch him at a disadvantage and fierce condemnation of
any open error in his administration, all tending ultimately to drive
Hector out of the Force.  On Hector's side, because his hands were
tied by his position, he could hope only to match his wits with
Welland's whenever an opportunity, real or maliciously created, for
an attack by the politician should occur and to frustrate Welland by
doing his work so well that there could be no complaint.  The stake
was, on one hand, personal revenge for what had been, in Welland's
eyes, a wrong; on the other, Hector's personal honour and the honour
and welfare of his men; the issue, Politics versus Patriotism.

This was the conflict which Hector felt approaching as he read that
paragraph in the _Prophet_.

Remembering the issue, and holding the item as at least a malicious
and exaggerated attack on his own men, whom it was his duty to
protect, he felt hot resentment boil through him.  Then his thought
went to the Marquis, who had given the paper--and Welland--this
opening, the drunken waster he was to reform.  Men like that brought
discredit on any corps!

The Marquis was 'for it.'  'It' was 'coming to him.'


II

A few days after the Marquis had been banished to the cells for his
misdeeds, Blythe sprang a second surprise on his C.O.  Hector came in
to change for mess.

"Beg pardon, sir, but--but a girl's waitin' to see you--been here all
afternoon."

"A girl?" asked Hector.  "What does she want?"

"She wouldn't say, sir."

"Well, tell her to see me at the Orderly Room in the morning."

"I told her that, sir, but she says it's privit', sir.  Wants to see
you alone, sir.  I told her to go, but she swore she'd wait.  'No
women allowed in barracks after Retreat,' I says.  'Garn, chase
yerself.  You go an' retreat!' she says.  'I'm goin' to see Major
Adair.'

"All right.  Show her in."

The girl was very young and not bad-looking.  She was, in fact,
pretty, with big eyes, clear complexion and blue-black hair.  She
wore a home-made dress of more or less fashionable cut and a saucy
little hat trimmed with a marvellous assortment of flowers.

Her air, on entering, was one of bravado, but a glance at Hector
quite banished it and she hesitated, nervously entwining her hands,
near the door.  Blythe surveyed her with ill-concealed triumph.  She
had been very bold until confronted by the great 'Spirit-of-Iron'
himself.  Where was that boldness now?

"Well, young lady," said Hector kindly.  "What can I do for you?
Come in and sit down, won't you?"

Still she hesitated.

Finally, in a husky whisper, she answered, "Please, sir, I'd rather
stand."

"All right," he replied good-humouredly.  "But won't you tell me what
you want?"

"It's--it's private.  I wanta see you--alone."

She glanced maliciously at Blythe.

"Leave us for a moment, please, Blythe," said Hector.

"Yessir."

"Now my girl--but first--what's your name?"

She took a few steps forward.  His quiet voice and friendly eyes gave
her confidence.

"My name's Nellie--Nellie Lavine.  I'm a waitress at the _Golden
West_ Café (she pronounced it 'Kaif'), an' I've come--about--about
one o' your men, Major Adair."

"Yes?"

"Gennlemun by name Mr. Humphries."

The Marquis!  What the devil had he been up to?  Instantly Hector's
mind flashed to the Marquis, in the cells.

"He's--he's--my--my beau--my fellow."

She challenged and defied him with her eyes.

"I congratulate--er--Mr. Humphries on his good taste.  Are you
his--girl?"

She simpered.

"Ye-yes.  That's to say--well, I'm darn sure he's mine.  That
pink-faced little goo-goo at Young's dance-hall; an' that Smith
kid--father's a rancher an' she wears cow-gal clothes an' thinks she
owns the place--they say he's theirs.  But he ain't.  He's mine,
'cause he says so."

She finished on a note of triumph.

"Well, in that case," Hector smiled, "it must be so.  Go on."

He was wondering if tragedy lay ahead.

"Mr. Humphries--he's my fellow.  An'--an'--you've put him in jug,
Major Adair!"

The last was an accusation meant to wither him; but, somehow, it
failed.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lavine.  I had to."

"Had to?"

"Yes.  The regulations lay down certain penalties for drunkenness and
I have to carry them out."

"But, Major--the poor boys--"

"Are fine boys.  But thoroughbreds need the strong hand.  Now, don't
work yourself up, young lady.  You can't understand."

"I think--you're--damn crool!" she whimpered, feeling herself beating
against an immense stone wall.  "You--might--give him a chance!"

"Did he send you here to plead for him?" Hector flashed.

"No, he didn't!  No!"

She stamped her foot.

"All right," he said quietly.  "I believe you--otherwise I wouldn't
listen.  You think I might give him a chance?"

"Please, sir."

Penitent she was now and supplicating in her woman's way.

"He's had lots of chances--lots of chances.  Do you think he's worth
all this?"

"Sure he is."  She was very confident.  "And, I love him."

"How long have you known him--he's only been here about three weeks,
remember."

"About--that, I guess," she faltered.  "But I know he's all right.
He's a gennelmun--a real one--an' all he needs is a chance."

"You're a stout little lover," said Hector gently.  "But he's a hard
one to save.  Is that what you're trying to do?"

She hung her head.

"Yes," she whispered.  Then, pleadingly, "Oh, Major,--please,
Major--if you'd ever loved like I do--"

"How do you know I have not?" he asked.

"All the better, then!  Oh, Gee, I'm crazy about him--just crazy--an'
he is, too--about me, I mean.  Why, he writes _pomes_ to _me_!"

"Does he?"  Hector thought of the Marquis' reputation as a
lady-killer and wondered how many women could say the same thing.
"May I see one?"

"Ah-ah--s-a-y--!"

"Come along," he encouraged, "as proof!"

"There!"

From the bosom of her dress she fished a sachet.  Out of this she
extracted a bit of paper, which she handed over to Hector, smiling
prettily.  Then she walked away to hide her confusion in the shadows.

Hector read, in the strong handwriting of the Marquis:

  _The land was still, by parching drought possessed--
    A desert waste.  From out the sullen sky
  The sun beat down.  Her burnt and barren breast
    Lay naked to his wrath.  She longed to die--
  Exhausted, now by months of endless pain....
    Till, suddenly, the far horizon's rim
  Trembled with lightning and the day grew dim,
    Great thunders rolled and, roaring, then--the rain!_

  _And lo!  Where sorrow thrived and death had been,
    Gladness and life returned.  The hopeless herds
  Came drifting back and all the land was green,
    Fragrant and fresh and loud with singing birds
  Returning thanks....  O, say you understand....
    The rain,--it was your love; my heart the land!_


Could the Marquis, after all, be genuinely in love with this girl?

"Thank you, Miss Lavine."

He returned the paper.  She took it hastily.  Her eyes shone.

"Well?" she asked.

"I'm satisfied.  But--won't you take my warning?"

"Say, I can look after myself.  I wasn't born yesterday!"

There was some pique in her voice.

"Weren't you?" he asked quaintly.  Then, suddenly, he rose and stood
beside her.  "Listen, little girl.  I'm trying to save Humphries
myself."

"Eh--Oh, Major--"  She looked at him delightedly.  "Gee, you're a
good scout!  An' I thought I was scart of you!"

Hector smiled faintly.

"You want me--to be easier on him in future?"

"That's it, please, sir!"

"Then we'll do our best to pull him up--together.  But it's a secret,
mind you!"

"Oh, Gee--" she began again.

"A secret, remember!  Good-bye!"

He held out his hand.  She clasped it swiftly.

"By golly, Major--you're--" she exclaimed rapturously.

"That'll do!" he answered.  "Good-bye."

"I wonder what he really is?" he asked himself, when the girl had
gone.  "Sound at heart or--?"

"Well, I'll spare him for a bit," he decided.  "Till he really does
kick over the traces."

But something soon altered that resolution.


III

The window of Hector's den commanded a view of the married officers'
quarters, and of the back door of MacFarlane's house, which was
nearest.

It was a sunny afternoon, peaceful as a dream, undisturbed by any
sound other than the buzz of flies and the distant thump of a
football from the recreation field.  Suddenly this peace was broken
by a guitar, playing softly, lightly, a gay fragment of tune.  The
music was pleasant, as it emphasized the calm of the afternoon.

Hector put down his book.  Only one man in the division played the
guitar--the Marquis, newly out of the cells.  He had taken his stand
outside the window of Mrs. MacFarlane's kitchen.

Presently the music swung into a jolly little Spanish tune and the
Marquis, very softly, in his rich voice, began to sing a ridiculous
composition of his own:

  _Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta--
    Caramba, you surely look sweet-a!
  When you wink-a like dat--Pecadillo!  My hat!--
    You mak-a my heart-a go pit-a-pit-pat!
  Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,
    I tell you we got-a to meet-a!
  I'll be mit you tonight in da moon of de light,
    Tomato--staccato-Ta-Ta!  (The guitar:) Pom-pom-pom!_


"The idiot!" Hector thought.  But he could not help smiling.

The Marquis waltzed on.  Then, for a moment, came silence.

Presently Hector heard a gentle tapping on the kitchen window and the
voice of the Marquis, plaintively:

"Oh, Al-ice!  I'm waiting!"

Alice was MacFarlane's fairly pretty and decidedly buxom cook.

"Alice!  A-a-lice!  Wherefore art thou, A-a-l-ice?"

The window was opened.

"Wot, you 'ere again?  I thought you was in the cells."

The voice was reproving but held a hint of coquetry.

"Were, Alice--were!  Not 'was'."

"Well, why 'aven't you come to see me before?"

"My dear Alice, duty called.  Besides, I've got to avoid the Big
Chief, y'know."

"Yes, I should think so!"  Alice was indignant.  "Goin' off on the
tear like that!"

"A-a-h, Alice!  I came here for sympathy, not a lecture.  The C.O.
gives me all the lecturing I want!"

This, Hector reflected, was not strictly true.

"Go-_hon_!  Comes 'ere for sympathy!  Comes 'ere for my mince pies,
y'mean!"

"Alice, that's not like you.  Mind you, your mince pies are very,
very good, my sweet.  Your own fair hands--"

"Naughty boy!" Alice giggled.  "Oh, _do_ look aht!  They're all
_floury_!"

"I care not!" the Marquis responded passionately.  "It's all right.
It's only my fatigue dress."

Followed whispering.  Then the Marquis sighed:

"Er--you haven't by any chance--got one--of those pies handy, have
you, Alice?"

"Well, I never!  'Ere, wait a minute, then.  Missus is out, so it's
all right."

After a short silence the Marquis spoke again, thickly, through
pastry:

"You know, you're a bit of a good sort, Alice, my dear."

"Ga-awn!" cooed Alice softly.  Hector imagined her passing her hand
over the Marquis' crisp black hair.  "Y're not so bad yerself, Marky!
But I wish...."

"Now, Alice----" he was very earnest, "_don't_ preach."

Alice sighed.

"A-right.  Finish yer pie, then!"

The Marquis complied.  Hector guessed that he wiped his lips
delicately, with a silk handkerchief.

"De-licious, Alice!  Fair Hebe, fit for Gods!  But tell me--how'd you
like the serenade--the new song?  Composed in the cells--durance
vile, Alice.  Romantic, eh?"

"I think it's--silly," declared the cook pettishly.

"Oh, Alice!  And it was meant for you!"

"We-ll, the music ain't bad."

She was melting under his charm.

"So glad!  It's founded on Don Juan, Alice."

"Wan?  'Oo's 'e?"

"A great Spaniard--noted for his fidelity--like me.  Shall I sing you
another verse?  Now, I want you to imagine it: you're a Spanish
lady--at your lattice--an old castle--mountains behind--the moon, big
as a cart-wheel--blue night--and down below, among the roses--_me_."
His voice sank almost to a whisper.  Then, brightly, "Got it?"

"Ye-es!  'Ow you _can_ talk!  Better than the '_Family 'Ear-old_,'
any day!"

The guitar resumed its playing and the Marquis sang:

  _Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta,
    I love-a your hands and your feet-a.
  It will mostly be bliss when we hug an' we kiss
    Lak' dis-a, lak' dat-a, lak' dat-a, lak' dis!
  Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,
    I t'ink-a you hard-a to beat-a!
  An' I lov' you each day more dan ever can say--
    Stupendo-crescendo--Ping-pong!  (The guitar:)
      Pom-pom-pom!_


Again came a long silence, filled with whispering.  And,

"I _do_ love yer, Marky!" sighed Alice softly.


Hector's impulse was to laugh--till he remembered Nellie Lavine.
That evening he spoke to Bland--Bland, who had been with him when he
arrested 'Red-hot' Dan and was now his Sergeant-Major:

"This Humphries is a bit of a Lothario, isn't he?"

"Well, sir," responded Bland, smiling after the fashion of privileged
Sergeant-Majors, "when he was with me at Slide-out, he had twenty
signed pictures of girls,--real girls, not actresses--tacked round
his bunk."

After that, Hector resolved to smash the Marquis, when next that
gentleman misbehaved himself.

But again Fate intervened.


IV

Once more the Superintendent and the M.P.--Hector and the so-called
Mr. Molyneux--sat in the latter's office, face to face.

The situation had changed considerably since their last meeting under
the politician's roof, two months before.

Welland's fears of Hector had by this time vanished.  As Hector had
done nothing to unmask him, he was confident that his disguise had
not been penetrated and that he might therefore proceed with his
amiable plans at leisure.

With returning confidence, Welland had become bolder.  The _Prophet_
and other papers of its calibre in other parts of the West and a few
even in the East, had incessantly attacked Hector's administration.
These attacks, so far, had dealt with small matters in a small way,
but they were too frequent to be pleasant or to be overlooked.  The
time was not ripe for a strong offensive against Hector himself.  In
the first place, no opening had presented itself.  Secondly, the
people's confidence in him had yet to be undermined.  Hector knew
that the patient blows of the hidden miners, however, were beginning
to have effect.  Fastening on some garbled story in the papers, men
would say, "That's so!  I never thought of that"--quite forgetting
that there might be another side to the story and that Hector was
powerless to publish it.  Welland was speeding the good work by
occasional thunders which were meant to damage Hector.  Like most
politicians, Welland was an adept at hiding wasps in bouquets, a fact
he had demonstrated to Hector on several unpleasant occasions.

The latest presentation--a small but poisonous barb, quite
undisguised--was an item in the _Prophet_, containing a series of
half-truths worse than lies and stupidly inspired.  Hector had come
to the so-called Molyneux to tell him so and to explain his position.

Behind a big cigar, hard eyes half closed, face and body immobile,
the politician sat back and listened.

Hector was pointing out the injustices perpetrated by the papers--not
to defend himself from their attacks so much as to hold them up for
what they were.  Naturally, he spoke as any Superintendent would
speak to any politician under similar circumstances and not as Hector
would have spoken to Welland as Welland.

"Now this sort of thing is bad--bad!" he asserted forcibly, "Whether
the motive is honest or not, it shakes the faith of the people in the
Force.  Even if the item is accurate and the attacks are justified,
it still shakes the faith of the people.  It makes our work ten times
more difficult.  Take some of these attacks on the conduct of our
men.  They make for discontent in the ranks because they are false
and because the men can do nothing to protect themselves.  The best
regiment in the world has an occasional drunk in it.  But it resents
fiercely an allegation classifying every man in the regiment with
that drunk.  Now, that's what has been happening here lately.  Not
long ago, you'll remember, one of our fellows shot up the town.
Well, he did wrong.  He was dealt with.  And, mark my words, if I
don't break him, the men will.  They always do.  They'll drive him
out of the Force.  Then isn't that good enough?  No; the papers must
immediately raise an uproar against the man, against the Force,
against me.  They forget what these men do.  On duty they risk death.
They endure awful loneliness in places where they never see a card, a
drink, a woman.  If occasionally--they overstep themselves when they
return--what wonder?  But no consideration is given that side of the
case.  I'm not defending irregularities.  They're wrong.  But the man
to deal with them is _here_----" he tapped his breast, "not down in
the offices of the _Prophet_.  Do you blame me if I resent these
intrusions?"

Welland, without removing his cigar, said:

"Well, _I_ can't stop it, Major!  What do you want me to do?"

There was leering triumph in the assertion.

"When we first met, Mr. Molyneux, you promised me your support."

"Yes.  And I said I'd go for any inefficiency.  I've done it."

"Always without justification."

"That's your opinion."

"And the truth.  I want to be friends with you.  Leave your share in
the assault out of it."  Hector swallowed the humble pie--with a
great effort--for the good of his cause.  "I want your help--not for
myself--if this thing goes on, I can fight it alone----"  The
politician, observing the great chest and shoulders and the
steel-coloured eyes in the rugged face, felt a sharp sense of his
opponent's indomitable strength.  "Your help--to stop as much of this
unjust criticism as possible.  That will improve efficiency, stamp
out crime and leave the men--my men--alone.  You don't know my point
of view, Molyneux.  I hold every man in my division----" he spoke
very earnestly and quietly--"in the hollow of my hand.  I can make
their lives Heaven or Hell.  Knowing this, they look to me for
justice.  I try to give it.  They look to me for _protection_.  By
God, they're going to have it!"

His fist crashed on the table.

"You were saying--about me----?" said Molyneux smoothly.

"I want your help--no, not your help, but simply justice from you,
that's all.  I want you, for example, to muzzle the _Prophet_."

"I don't control the _Prophet_.  The Editor's a friend of mine but
I've got little influence with him.  Don't ask impossibilities,
Major."

Hector knew that Molyneux lied.  But, again, he had to accept the
assertion.

"I believe you could point out _this_ to him.  His campaign goes too
far when it publishes such an item as this about Demon George, the
American outlaw.  It's really that item I came to see you about."

"Have you got it there?  Read it."

"No, I won't read it.  It's just the worst of the series on that
particular subject.  You know what they all amount to: 'This outlaw,
who killed four men in Texas five years ago, has appeared in town.
He has been recognized.  Broncho is in a panic.  Yet the Mounted
Police don't arrest him.  Why?  They must have descriptions, etc.,
etc.  They ought to have done so as soon as he entered the district.
The truth probably is that they have not even discovered his
presence.  Asleep at the switch, as usual.  Or they think it wiser to
avoid his guns.  This could not have happened before the change in
command.'  That's about the sum total of it all."

"Do you want to know what I think of that, Major Adair?" asked the
politician abruptly.  "While I don't agree with all that dirty stuff
about your being afraid of this outlaw and so on--I consider that
item and those that accompanied it justified.  In fact, I suggested
it myself.  Again, understand, I had nothing to do with the dirty
side; but I suggested the publication.  Men who knew Demon George
came to me and told me he was in town.  I waited to see if you were
sharp enough to spot him.  Days passed and you took no action, when
you ought to have jugged him at once.  Then I gave the facts to the
_Prophet_, advising them to send a reporter up to you to see if you
knew of that man's presence.  The reporter was told to say nothing, I
believe, but just to sound you out.  He saw you personally.  You knew
nothing.  That convinced the Editor you were asleep.  So he published
that attack.  I think, in the main, it was deserved.  Why, even now,
that bird is still in town, letting on as if he owns it and everyone
was afraid of him.  The paper opened your eyes.  But you've done
nothing yet.  That's what I call inefficiency."

The politician had thrown down his cards with a vengeance!

"So that's how the land lies?" said Hector.  It was his turn now.
"Listen to me, Mr. Molyneux.  I believe you're sincere but I'm going
to show you just where you went wrong, sir.  Take this in a friendly
spirit, please.  As a prominent man here, it was your duty to advise
me of this man's arrival.  Had it been necessary, I could then have
arrested him.  As it is, you send--or your Editor friend sends--a
reporter and he more or less asks me if there are any sensational
arrests in prospect or any distinguished criminals in town.  We don't
give such information, Mr. Molyneux, unless the net is already so
closely round our man that publication can do no harm.  Naturally, I
sent the reporter away.  Immediately you jump at conclusions and the
_Prophet_ publishes the news of Demon George's arrival and says I'm
asleep--either way, with bad effect.  Demon George is told that his
presence is known and so warned to make his getaway if he wants to.
Or it makes him perky, encourages him to stay on here in defiance of
me and perhaps, eventually, to break the law.  Supposing he gets
away?  Then the _Prophet_ is delighted.  An outlaw has escaped, but
that doesn't matter, because they can say 'I told you so!' and go for
me again.  Supposing he stays and breaks the law?  An innocent party
suffers!  Wouldn't it have been better for you to have advised me of
this man's presence, so that his capture might be assured?"

In spite of himself, the politician shifted uneasily under the keen
gaze.

"Let me tell you why Demon George is still at liberty.  As it
happens, I was immediately informed as soon as he set foot in the
place.  But I had nothing to arrest him on--no description from the
States--remember, the crime is five years old--nothing but
insinuations from men who might owe him a grudge.  I took the best
course open to me, Mr. Molyneux, under the circumstances--wired the
Yankee officials, did my best to keep the thing dark--unfortunately,
the _Prophet_ spoilt my plan--and had the man constantly shadowed.
So far I'm still waiting for news--Texas is a long way off, five
years a long time.  But Demon George has obligingly remained in town,
out of bravado, and sooner or later will give me grounds for
arresting him.  Or, if he tries to leave, I'll jail him on suspicion.
The _Prophet_ hasn't made a fool of me--only of itself!"

The politician was utterly at a loss.  He saw that his shot had
missed.  As soon as the American outlaw was actually in jail,
Hector's apparent apathy would be explained.  The citizens of
Broncho, at present worked up to some hostility, would see that the
Superintendent had done right and had been at all times conversant
with every move of Demon George.  They would swing round to their old
love and the _Prophet_ would be discredited.

Unable, for the moment, to meet the situation, Welland assumed the
friendliest aspect and said:

"Well, Major, I congratulate you.  I was wrong.  Now, what do you
want me to do?"

Hector took his triumph quietly.

"Keep the _Prophet_ quiet till I've landed Demon George.  And prevent
similar blunders in future," he answered.

"I told you I don't control the _Prophet_," said Welland.  "So I
can't promise.  But I'll do my best."

"That's all I want," replied Hector, rising.  "I knew you'd help.
Goodbye."


With Hector's departure, Welland sat down to think.  The interview
had shocked him severely.  His opponent was not going to go down
tamely, he saw that.  Moreover, he was apparently confident that he
could defend himself single-handed.  Welland had honestly believed
that in the matter of Demon George, Hector had been caught napping.
Furthermore, Hector's appeal for silence, while humbling the
Superintendent, acted as a drag on Welland for the future.  After
what Hector had said, he could not very well continue his attacks.
He wanted Demon George to escape, so that the _Prophet's_ campaign
might deeply impress the people.  But his escape now seemed
impossible.

Presently, however, the politician took heart.  Had the outlaw not
been closely watched, he would have warned him, so that the escape
might be brought about, but the Police would certainly trace back
that warning to its source--himself.  That would never do.  A better
course would be to urge on the _Prophet_ anew.  Demon George might
thus be warned and the people be further incited against Hector.  He
had said that he could not muzzle the paper and had no direct control
over it--a lie; but Hector, he argued, did not know it a lie.  He
could tell Hector that his efforts to silence his Editor friend had
failed.  And, whether the outlaw was or was not taken, further damage
might still be done to Hector.  The _Prophet_ could wriggle out of
its own trap afterwards, if necessary.

"By God, he hasn't won yet!"

Whereupon he scrawled secret instructions to the _Prophet_ for a
renewal of the 'Demon George campaign.'


V

The moon lay white on the barracks and 'Lights Out' had long since
sounded.  The Marquis, having escaped detection with that
unfathomable cunning common to drunken men, climbed in at the open
window of his own barrack-room and crept over to his cot--safe!

No-one had been disturbed by his entry.  But for the even breathing
of his sleeping comrades, all was quiet.  His brain was twirling a
roseate heaven full of lights and music.  He was very happy.  He did
not feel like going to bed.  He wanted to sing.  Many tunes and
pictures were dancing madly in his head--strains and scenes culled
from happenings of the night--from days long past, too.  Now he was
drinking with a ring of convivial punchers, now with a group of
Sandhurst cadets.  Ripping place, Sandhurst had been--jolly rags----

The thought of 'rags' suddenly gave him the diabolical idea: 'Haven't
had a rag for a hick of a time.  Why not now?'  But what?  What?
Suddenly came glorious inspiration.  He was said to have once 'shot
up' the town.  Well, why not----?  And Bacchus answered, 'Why not,
old chap, why not?'

First--in a colossal struggle--he removed his boots.  Then he
tip-toed from cot to cot.  The moonlight, streaming in, enabled him
to see quite plainly and his comrades slept on with miraculous
tenacity.  From the head of each cot he removed the occupant's
weapons--carbine and revolver--and all his ammunition.  He heaped the
carbines and their ammunition under his own bed.  The revolvers he
carefully loaded and set in rows on the bed, together with the
surplus revolver ammunition.  By the time he was finished--it took a
long time--he had cornered every weapon in the room.

"By Jove," he told himself joyously, "this'll make old
Spit-an'-Polish sit up!"

The Marquis' first shot stirred the hair of the corporal in charge
and lodged in the wall behind.  The second rang with a bell-like note
against the cot of the next man.  Then he blazed off a string of
shots, each in the general direction of a cot, so that he traversed
the whole room.  Drunk as he was, the Marquis did not shoot to kill.
He aimed only to miss--closely.  His aim was wonderfully accurate.
Whiskey improved it.  In moderation, whiskey often performs such
miracles.  The Marquis was not 'blind'--merely inebriated.

The corporal in charge, uttering one wild yell, bounced out of bed
and glanced, bewildered, round the room.  The men sat up in turn,
making a thousand blasphemous comments.  Was it fire or had another
revolt broken out?  The Marquis sent a shot between the corporal's
agitated legs and accelerated his fire.  That was enough.  The
corporal went to ground under his cot and the men followed his
example.

Followed a moment's silence, painful after the uproar of the firing.
Some of the men, putting forth venturesome heads, spotted the
well-known figure, squatting on his bed like a pirate on a sea-chest,
a smoking revolver in each hand, a devilishly happy smile on his
handsome face.

"It's the Marquis, fellows!"

"You bet it is!" the Marquis grinned, showing his white teeth, "I'm
in command of this-hic- outfit!  Take cover!"

Once more the storm of bullets roared.  Every head vanished as if
shot back by a common string.

"Haven't any of you got a gun?" the corporal asked plaintively.

"Not me, corp.  Not me," ran through the room.

"No, sir.  I've got 'em all, Corporal!" laughed the Marquis,
emphasizing his remark with a shot that gouged the floor near the
N.C.O.'s bed.

This was a pretty situation.  They were at the mercy of a drunken
lunatic.

The Marquis began the National Anthem, firing a shot in the direction
of a cot with each note.  His own bed was in a corner, where it could
not be assailed, commanded every window and faced the door.  His
strategical position was perfect.

The room, but for the firing, was absolutely silent and without
movement.  Here was a case where discretion was decidedly the better
part of valour.

By this time, the other barrack-rooms had been roused and the guard
had turned out.  Through the thunderclaps raised by the Marquis their
anxious calls could be heard.  A crowd appeared at a window and
someone cried "I'll bet it's the Marquis!"

"You're damn-hic-jolly well right!" said the Marquis, scattering the
crowd with a shot through the open window.

The guard, arriving outside the door, held a consultation.
Meanwhile, to keep his grip on things, the Marquis sent shots
regularly through the door.  Presently the sergeant of the guard
bellowed:

"Best drop it, Marquis, an' come quiet!"

"Come an' get me!" laughed the Marquis.

The sergeant of the guard discreetly withdrew to consider the
situation.

The room was now full of smoke, the floor strewn with empty shells.
In the midst sat the Marquis, one broad grin, blazing like a
fire-ship and muttering:

"Jolly rag, eh what?  Cheery soul, eh what?"

Arrived the Sergeant-Major, who was given to understand that the
Marquis, surrounded by a heap of slain, was shooting up the
barrack-room with a Catling gun.

The Sergeant-Major was inordinately brave.  He felt the weight of his
responsibility and thought that he could cow the Marquis.

Advancing boldly to the door during a lull in the storm, he loudly
shouted:

"Humphries, you're under arrest.  It's the Sergeant-Major!"

Came the Marquis' pleasant drawl:

"I like you, Sergeant-Major, so please k'way't'oor!"

"What's that?"

"I said I--_like_ you.  So keep away-hic-from that door!"

The Sergeant-Major clutched the door-knob.

A volley rattled through the shattered panels.

"I _told_ you, Sergeant-Major, _keep away_!" said the Marquis coolly.

Some of the officers now arrived, including the Adjutant, Forshaw.
The Marquis became more uproarious than ever.

Forshaw was well able to deal with any emergency.  He made enquiries
and calculations.

"Well, get the fire-engine," he ordered at last.  "We'll knock him
out with the hose."

But when the engine was in position and everything ready, Forshaw,
perceiving that the fire had decidedly slackened in the last two or
three minutes, peeped into the room from under cover.

"Why, he's asleep!" he whispered, suppressing a laugh.

It was quite true.  Peering over the Adjutant's shoulder, the
attackers beheld the Marquis, exhausted, his 'rippin' rag' over,
slumbering like a child in a litter of empty shells.

Very quietly they took the hero into custody.  He did not once open
his eyes.


VI

"Sergeant-Major, before we proceed further, I'll see the accused
alone."

The Marquis, bareheaded and strictly at attention, between the armed
escort, was 'on the carpet' before the C.O. for the offenses he had
committed in the barrack-room.

Hector's announcement came to him as a surprise--whether agreeable or
otherwise it was still too early to determine.  Sergeant-Major Bland
was also surprised.  But he maintained the utterly impassive
expression proper to Sergeant-Majors on such occasions, said "Yes,
sir," saluted and marched the escort out.

"Shall I go, too, sir?" asked the Adjutant.

"Yes, please."

The Marquis was now alone before his omnipotent judge.  The keen eyes
searched his face.  Anticipating an unprecedented bursting of the
vials of wrath, the Marquis braced his cringing soul to endure the
storm.

But the storm came not ... only, after a time, Hector's voice, more
sorrowful than angry:

"Humphries, why did you do it?"

The Marquis could not believe his ears.

"Pardon, sir?"

"I say--why did you do it?"

A flicker of a smile flashed across the Marquis' mobile face, at the
memory of his 'rippin' rag' but was quickly suppressed.

"I don't know, sir," he faltered, suddenly abashed.  The C.O. had a
marvellous knack of making people feel small.  "Of course, I was
drunk, sir."

"Yes but--why were you drunk?"

This was persistency.

"I--I don't know, sir."

The Marquis wished the C.O. would shift his tactics.  This quiet
enquiry was terrible.

"It's time you dropped it, Humphries.  It does you no good.  And it's
not playing the game with your people."

A sudden pallor came upon the Marquis.  He looked like a man trapped.

"My--people, sir?"

"Yes, your people.  Everyone knows you're a gentleman born,
Humphries--of good family."

The Marquis breathed again.

"Is it fair to them?"

The Marquis, at a loss, bit his lip, hung his head----

"I can't see where they come into this thing, anyway, sir," he said
at last.  "I'm--I'm on my own."

"They do come into it, though, boy.  But leave them aside for a
moment--you're a gentleman.  You should know better.  You disgrace
the stock you've sprung from, Humphries, when you go on like this.
If only for that reason, I want to help you to--to pull up, before
it's too late."

Again the Marquis could not believe his ears.  Was this the man who
had 'told him off' so thoroughly not long ago?--  The terrible
'Spirit-of-Iron,' whose reputation as a handler of delinquents was
enough to frighten the hardest sinner into repentance?

"You're wasting time with me, sir," said the Marquis, suddenly bold.
In his voice was defiance but defiance strongly blended with despair.
"I don't want to be reformed.  Anyway,--I'm not worth it."

"Yes, you are"--still the even, passionless tone--"Because you've
good blood in you, Humphries, and also, of course, because you're a
notorious scapegrace, I mean to help you out.  I decided to help you
as soon as I'd sized you up.  Then--certain things occurred which
inclined me towards severity.  You'd have got it, too, by
Heaven--don't mistake me--but something again intervened for you.  I
said just now your people came into this thing.  They _do_ come into
it, Humphries!"

The Marquis threw up his head, meeting Hector's eyes with incredulity
and frank disbelief.  But the C.O. did not seem to see it.  Truth was
in his face.

"My--people, sir?" the Marquis faltered and again the colour left his
face.  "I--I don't--I don't think--I understand."

"Listen to this, then, and realize how mistaken you have been and
what your conduct really means.  This letter was sent me some days
ago by the Commissioner, to whom it was addressed.  It saved you when
I was going to put you down.  It mightn't have been necessary to read
it at all, had you behaved yourself.  But now, I'm afraid it's almost
the only thing to have effect."

Then he read the letter, while the Marquis, restless and set-faced,
listened, still biting his lip.  It was dated from London.

"'Dear Sir:

It is only after much hesitation and with much reluctance that I
approach you to solicit your aid in a purely personal matter.  Under
the circumstances, however, I feel sure you will forgive the
intrusion.  I find it difficult to find words adequately to express
all that is in my heart.  I will therefore confine myself to a brief
summary of the facts.

My second son, the Hon. Charles Percival Humphries Hardisty, whose
portrait I enclose'"--the Marquis winced as Hector read the name and
pushed forward the photograph--"'is, I believe, at present serving in
your Corps as a constable or trooper.  He was, perhaps, our favourite
son.  He was to have had a Commission in the 1st. Life Guards but,
for certain misdemeanors, was forced to leave Sandhurst.  We had, I
regret to say, hard words on the subject--I am afraid I went too far
but the matter involved certain points of honour on which I felt very
strongly.  And he was high-spirited and headstrong, as I should have
remembered.  However, to avoid wearying you with painful particulars
in which you can have no great interest, I cut off his allowance, or
rather reduced it to a minimum, and ordered him to leave the country
for the Colonies.  He chose Canada.  Until some years ago, I made him
a monthly remittance and endeavored to set him up as a rancher.  He
ran so into debt, however, that I eventually told him--again, to my
present regret--I would do no more.  Reports had come to me that he
was leading a wild, worthless life in a small town in the Territories
near the ranch whereon he was employed.  He then wrote to me, saying
I would never hear of him again.  Since then, my enquiries have
intimated that he had joined the North-West Mounted Police.  As he
was a fine horseman and fond of soldiering, this is probably so.  I
have frequently written him, sending the letters by general delivery
as I know he would not wish his identity to become known to his
comrades but have had no answer.  This does not necessarily mean that
he has not received them but he is so sensitively proud that he may
have decided to ignore them.  He is probably using an assumed name
but the photograph I enclose will enable you to trace him.

My object in writing you, sir, is to beg you, firstly, to be so good
as to ascertain whether my son is actually serving in your Corps;
secondly, to entreat you not to be severe on the boy if, as I fear,
he has misconducted himself while under your command; thirdly, to
enlist your assistance to save him from the ruinous path he has
taken; and, finally, to use your influence towards inducing him to
reply to my letters, at least advising us of his health and
whereabouts.  I authorize you to inform him that I have repented of
my somewhat hasty judgment and will make amends as far as possible
and also to tell him that unless a reconciliation is effected now, I
fear it never will be, for the anxiety is slowly killing his mother.

In closing, I again apologize for thus troubling you but feel you but
understand.  And may God bless your efforts.

  Thanking you,
    Believe me, sir,
      Yours truly and indebtedly,
        Hannyngton.'"


A long silence was broken at last by Hector:

"That is the letter ... The photo, Humphries, is of yourself ... the
writer is a peer of very old family, Baron Hannyngton ... your
father...."

The Marquis neither moved nor spoke.

"Your _father_.  Can't you read between the lines, Humphries?  All
that pride of race and name ... it was hard for him to write that
letter....  He's an old man--I looked him up in the Peerage.  And
he--his heart's broken, Humphries."

The Marquis made an inarticulate little sound but said nothing and
remained standing at attention.

"Tell me, Humphries.  I want to help you.  Was it--a girl?"

The Marquis answered at last, in a jerky voice:

"No, sir.  The Sandhurst affair, you mean?  It was--oh, a lot of
things."

"Was a girl concerned in any way--were you engaged or anything--when
you left England?"

"In a way."

The Marquis' lip was trembling.

"You lost her, because of the scandal.  Is that it?"

With sure, deft hand the C.O. was dissecting his very soul.

"Yes, sir."

"And that's why--you go on the tear?"

"Partly," the Marquis muttered.

"And why you try to forget--with other women?"

The Marquis nodded, head sinking.

"It's foolish."

"My God, sir," the Marquis burst out suddenly, "you don't
understand--you don't know the shame--or what I've lost--or the
hopelessness of what's ahead--or----"

His was a cry of agony.

"Steady, boy," replied Hector.  "I understand--perfectly.  I
know--what this has meant to you."

Again came momentary silence.

"Now--about that letter.  What do you propose to do?"

"I--I don't know."

"Then I'll tell you.  You'll write your father, of course, and make
that reconciliation.  Why, you're lucky to have a father and
mother--and have them care as much.  Then you'll stop this nonsense.
You'll work hard, get your Commission"--the Marquis flashed an
astonished glance at Hector, but it was disregarded,--"go to the top
of the tree, make a name for yourself and be able at last to look
your people--even that girl of yours--in the face."

"I can't.  I can't--it's too late!"

"It's _not_ too late.  Why, I was once almost as handicapped as you,
Humphries.  My father died when I was a youngster, my mother's been
dead six years.  I started as a buck constable.  But the officers
were good to me--the first Commissioner--and later Commissioners--and
Superintendent Denton, who left the Force some time ago.  They all
helped.  Officers don't go down on a man unjustly, Humphries.
They're all ready to lend a hand.  You think I look on you as only
one man in hundreds, too insignificant to care about.  But I don't.
You're as much to me as any.  You're not the first I've helped make
good, by any means.  And I want to help you.  You can make good, if I
could.  Yes, you can.  Now, listen.  I'm not going to hammer you this
time, though you've deserved it.  I'm going to let you off easily.
In return, I want you to run straight.  And the first time I get the
chance, I'll give you an opportunity--a real opportunity--to prove
yourself."

But the strain of the interview had been almost more than the Marquis
could bear.  His father's letter had put him on the rack.  And the
C.O.'s unexpected kindness had humbled him into the dust.  Instead of
unreasoning severity he had today, for the first time, sympathy.  He
began to understand why men loved and feared Hector, to see why he
had attained greatness.

"Is it a go?"

"My God, sir--I--don't know--what--to say.  You're the first----"

"That'll do," Hector interrupted him.  "Then it _is_ a go.
Remember--!"

And he called in the Sergeant-Major and escort.


VII

"Well, what is it?" said Hector.

Dandy Jack, the sixteen-year-old, angelical puncher, took off his
broad-brimmed slouch hat and smoothed down his elegant clothes--wide,
flapping leather chaps faced with silver, grey flannel shirt,
spotless mauve silk neckerchief and trimmings.

"Demon George, Major."

"Yes."  Hector was instantly alert.  "What about him?"

"I know for a fact he stuck up a puncher last night.  The puncher's
too scart to report it."

"You do?  Positive evidence?"

"You bet."

"All right.  Go and tell the Sergeant-Major.  Then send him over to
me."

Dandy Jack departed.

Hector felt triumphant.  The _Prophet's_ clamour, despite Welland's
promise, had been very loud of late.  Not that Hector had ever
expected Welland to try seriously to stop the uproar.  His enemy was
too deadly an enemy to do that.  Many citizens were muttering among
themselves, asking why Adair still held his hand?  Their criticisms
had been hard to bear.  But Hector had borne them stoically.  The
stout confidence of his men and of many other citizens had, of
course, helped to make things easier.

He tried not to smile as he thought of what Welland would say when he
heard the news: 'Demon George, the outlaw with a price on his head,
dead or alive, taken at leisure by the Mounted Police.'

Sergeant-Major Bland came in.  Hector gave him his instructions.

"He frequents the _Maverick_ saloon.  We'll tell off one man to make
the arrest tonight.  Warn him to do it quietly--nothing
provocative--no gun-play if avoidable--the usual thing----"

"He's a dangerous man, sir.  Perhaps two men----"

"No!  You know the tradition?  Well, look to it.  But have a patrol
at hand, in case of trouble.  A corporal and two men."

"Very good, sir.  Have you any suggestions?"

"Corporal Savage, perhaps."

"Yes, sir.  And for the arrest?  It wants a good, steady----"

"Yes.  Humphries."

"Humphries, sir?"

Bland was again surprised.

"Yes, Humphries.  And tell Corporal Savage to remind him of our
compact; also, that the arrest will be a real service--to me,
personally.  Humphries will understand."


VIII

The night turned out dark, with scurrying clouds, a rising wind and,
now and then, a spatter of rain.  The Marquis passed out of the
barrack-gate with a cheery word to the sentry and trudged off to town.

He had received his orders that afternoon.  He knew exactly what was
expected of him.  He knew--could he ever forget?--exactly what was
meant by 'our compact.'  He also knew what the C.O. meant by 'a real
service--to me personally.'  He had not witnessed the _Prophet's_
attacks for nothing.  And he was buoyed up with hope and gratitude
and determined to show the C.O. that he had not been merciful in vain.

He got into town and walked steadily through the almost deserted
streets.  The wooden houses loomed up, damnably cheerless, murky
lights glowing dimly from their windows.  Some of them, with their
pitiful imitation second-storey fronts, reminded him of would-be
gentlemen wearing 'dickies.'  Now and then doors opened and he heard
the tinkle of out-of-tune pianos, the coarse jesting of men.  The
wretched cow-ponies, tails to wind, reins trailing, waited miserably
for their masters.  Suddenly the utter squalor, the primitive
uncouthness of Broncho, which its citizens considered equal to any
old-world capital, came violently home to him and his spirits bumped
down to zero.

A drunken remittance man came reeling from a saloon, singing a
maudlin strain with 'Piccadilly' for its theme.  A stupendous longing
touched him, for London, dear old London, and all it meant; his
people, his----; and for a moment he saw himself as he had once
been--a carefree man about town--in contrast with what he was--an
exile, an exiled gentleman-ranker, one of the Lost Legion.

No, by Jove,--not lost!  The C.O.'s interest in him was like a light
in the universal darkness.  He was going to prove himself, make
himself, tonight!

Passing the _Golden West_ Café, he felt an impulse to go in and talk
to Nellie.  She was a good-hearted little thing.  But he put the
thought aside.  He regretted, now, that he had played the fool with
women--making a game of a serious matter--So he walked on.

Through the night came suddenly a long, swinging, heavy, tramp,
tramp, tramp of feet, a musical jingle of spurs--the tramp and jingle
of Corporal Savage's patrol.

"That you, Humphries?"

"Yes, Corporal."

The little, bull-necked, rugged-faced N.C.O. halted in the light from
a window.

"He's in the _Maverick_, all right.  Take him easy.  We'll be
standin' by.  Don't draw first.  An' remember the C.O. expects you to
make good."

"Yes, Corporal."

"Right.  I'll wait at the corner."

The darkness and rain gulped them up.  The Marquis was alone again.

The _Maverick_ was but a step away.  The Marquis crossed over.  The
sound of many voices and the ring of glasses swelled into the street.

The Marquis, whistling softly, removed his pea-jacket for greater
freedom of movement and hung it over a hitching post.  This done, he
loosed his revolver.  Then he opened the door and entered.

Instantly the hum of voices died.  Every eye turned towards the tall
young constable in the doorway.  Every man knew what his entrance
meant.

Demon George, a lanky, powerful, lantern-jawed ruffian in a pair of
long boots and an old suit, was leaning against the bar, joking with
the bartender, his hat on the back of his head.  He was apparently
unarmed.  Attracted by the general silence, he turned and saw the
Marquis.  Instantly, his face contracted and the laugh died on his
lips.  He, too, guessed what the constable had come for.

The Marquis, smiling easily, disregarded the staring crowd and
strolled towards him.

"I hear you're looking for a Mounted Policeman," he said smoothly.
"Here I am.  And I want you."

Perhaps there was an excuse for Demon George.  The Law, as he knew it
in his own country, shot first and talked afterwards; and there was a
price on his head, which only his own hand had kept on his shoulders.
That hand now flashed to his hip-pocket.

The Marquis was steeped in the Police tradition; and remembered his
C.O.'s wishes.

"Leave him to me, boys!" he sang out gaily, and closed.

They struggled fiercely, the outlaw cursing.  The Marquis held his
opponent's right wrist, pointing the revolver upwards.  With his own
right hand, he whipped in a terrific blow.  The outlaw was against
the wall and his head could not 'give' before the blow, which broke
his jaw.

Demon George fired three shots, each shot smashing the silence but
going into the ceiling.  The Marquis laughed.

Then, somehow--no one knew how--the outlaw got his wrist free.
Another shot rang out.  The Marquis sagged suddenly, dropping his
arms.  And, as he staggered back--back--back against the bar, the
outlaw fired two more shots, emptying his revolver into the
policeman's body....

In the utter and awful silence which followed, Demon George, still
against the wall, nursing his jaw with one hand, stared at his
victim, waiting for him to drop.  Not a soul dared stir.  The
Marquis, under the concentrating gaze, slowly twisted round, clinging
to the bar for support.  His face was wreathed in agony--agony not
only physical but mental--of hope shattered--and he did not want the
crowd to see it.

And then, like a flash, gathering his waning strength in one heroic
and desperate effort, he whirled round.  He could use a weapon now!
The six shots of the Marquis' revolver chopped the hush--six wild,
fierce claps of sound.

"You--damn--dog!" whispered the Marquis, as he fired.

Demon George had not expected the fire, since he had mortally wounded
his man.  He pitched onto his face, stone dead; and the Marquis slid,
grinning, to the floor.

It had all happened in the space of a minute.

From outside came the rush of Corporal Savage's patrol.

The Corporal burst in, flinging the crowd aside.  His eyes fell on
the Marquis.

"Christ!" he said.

In a moment he had the Marquis in his arms.

The awe-struck crowd stood motionless.

"Humphries!  Humphries, man!" cried the Corporal.

The Marquis opened his tired eyes, heavily, smiling.

"Got me--some way.  Sorry--Corp'l!" he whispered, his voice trailing
away.

"Marquis!" said Corporal Savage.  The little man had a tiger's heart
but his face was twitching.

The grey-green pallor of death was on the Marquis' face.

"It was dead--or alive--dead--or--Corp!  Tell the Chief--tell
him--I--I----"

The Corporal understood.

"I'll tell him, old scout!"

The Marquis smiled again; and then again came silence and the rough
crowd took off their hats....

Constable Humphries--the Hon. Charles Percival Humphries
Hardisty--heart-smasher, poet, waster, gallant gentleman--had kept
his compact.




Chapter III


I

"Look here, Adair," said the Commissioner, "what lies between you and
that fellow Molyneux?  Ever since your arrival in the Broncho
district, a campaign has been going on against you in the papers and
under the surface.  The preliminary business over Demon George was a
case in point.  Then, afterwards, Molyneux slated you unmercifully
over the death of that man Humphries.  In his papers, I mean.  Just
now, in Ottawa, he concentrates on you again and every Eastern paper
is printing his speeches.  I've got a copy of Hansard here with that
last outburst of his--the duel between himself and the Prime
Minister.  During the debate on the estimates, Molyneux grabbed the
opportunity to attack the Force--apparently his favourite game.  Of
course, we were stoutly defended and I don't think the House took
Molyneux seriously.  But the papers print what he says and, because
he's a Westerner, well--the people, in the East at any rate, take it
for Gospel.  Have you seen the reports?"

"Yes, sir," said Hector.  "I've a cousin editing a Toronto paper."

"Then you know what they've been saying.  Pretty severe--and
talkative, eh?"

"Yes, sir.  But you were going to read Hansard."

"Oh, yes.  Let's see--'the Honourable member'--ah, here we are: 'And
here's another case of inefficiency,'--This is Molyneux
speaking--'Not long ago, early in the summer, out there, we had a
notorious bad man, who came into my constituency from the United
States.  The man was encouraged into defiance by being permitted to
walk round town a free man, terrorizing the citizens.  When finally
the Police officer in command took action after repeated protests, he
ordered a single constable to carry out the arrest.  This young
fellow--a brave lad, of good English family--attempted to arrest the
man without drawing a weapon, in accordance with instructions
expressly given and was, of course, shot dead.  None but a fool would
have ordered such a thing.  That bad man should have been arrested as
soon as he crossed the boundary.  The arrest should have been made by
several men and there should have been no monkey business of not
drawing weapons.  That young man was just deliberately sacrificed!"

"Now here's a smart one from the Prime Minister, Adair--right off the
bat: 'I beg to differ.  That young man was a hero.  He died doing his
duty in accordance with one of the noblest traditions of the
North-West Mounted Police--using no unnecessary force and no
provocative measures.'  Then comes Molyneux again: 'Yes, that's
consolation to the bereaved parents!  You can't arrest Western
outlaws, sir, as you would naughty boys.  And please remember, I
speak for my constituents.  They were up in arms about that case--and
are now.'  By the way, of course you wrote----"

"Yes, sir," Hector smiled at his chief's look of concern, "I wrote to
his father.  The old gentleman answered that it was the finest piece
of news concerning his son he'd ever had and that he was prouder of
him dead than ever, since--these were his words--his son had done his
duty like a man and a Hardisty."

"Jove!  Fine, fine!  Too bad the Prime Minister hadn't those words to
fling into Molyneux's teeth.  What do you think of the other
statement--here: 'I speak for my constituents.  They were up in arms
about that case--and are now'?"

"To a certain extent that's true, sir.  Molyneux has the support of
many people; but I think the majority still trust me.  I'm certain
they would not agree with Molyneux's remarks."

"I believe you're right," responded the Commissioner.  "But his power
is growing.  It's a bad thing to have such publicity given these
matters as is given by the Eastern press.  Then, out here, there's
more underhand work than ever.  I've had people trying to get you
pushed out of the district--Molyneux's friends, I suppose.  You know
that?"

"I've suspected it."

"Mind you, he's not attempting to climb to power over us, Adair.
We're only a side issue.  He's getting ahead by graft, slickness,
brains.  Like an octopus, he has a lot of tentacles and they're all
fastening on something.  Mark me, that fellow will be a big man in
the West before long--and a dangerous enemy."

"Yes, sir," said Hector.

He knew that the Commissioner was working up to something.

"In view--er--of all this, and Molyneux's attitude towards you
especially, Adair, I was wondering if--for your own good,
y'know--you'd care to be transferred----"

His purpose stood revealed at last.  To save Hector from Molyneux, he
was offering to transfer him to another district.

"Thank you, sir.  I appreciate the thought very much.  But--well, I
doubt if it would do much good, after all, sir; and it would look
rather like a victory to our friend--and as if I'd turned my back to
the enemy.  So, I'd rather stay here, for the present, anyway."

The Commissioner obviously liked Hector's fighting spirit but seemed
a little regretful.

"Is that your final decision?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"All right."  The Commissioner threw away his cigar and prepared to
go.  "You may regret it, Adair.  However--oh, wait a minute!  You've
not told me what lies between you and Molyneux.  Can't you confide in
me?"

Hector had once inclined towards revealing the truth to the
Commissioner--to tell him that the hostile M.P. for Broncho was
Welland, his purpose inspired by the incidents of fifteen years and
more ago.  But what was the use?  He had scoured the Continent for
proofs and could find none.  Without proofs, to lay such charges
against Molyneux would be idle.

"There's nothing to confide, sir.  The man's taken a dislike to me
for some reason unknown.  Perhaps he's the tool of someone else.  Who
knows?"

"You've nothing against him?"

"I never met Molyneux till I came to this district, sir."

The Commissioner pondered.

"Queer!  But there are strange men in this world.  And if you ever
change your mind about the transfer----"

"Thank you, sir.  I don't think I will.  Don't worry about me, sir.
I've lots of stout-hearted friends.  I'm not afraid."

"Don't forget you can count on me, too.  Though, in a case like this,
Adair, my hands are tied, very tied----"

"I know, sir.  But, so long as I satisfy you, sir, I don't care a
tinker's curse----"

"Good man, good man!  It will be a hard fight, though!  He's raised
quite a storm, Adair--a growing storm--growing!"

They went back to the mess together.


II

The Commissioner's promise of support increased Hector's confidence
in his ability to deal with his enemy.  He had always known, of
course, that this support was to be relied on.  When it was a matter
of defending one of his officers against an unjust assault, the
Commissioner's course was plain.  Still, it was pleasant to hear,
from his chief's own lips, that the powerful weight of headquarters
was behind him.

But the real danger lay in Welland's influence with others.  He could
so stir up the public against Hector, who was unable to make a move
to defend himself, that he might at last be forced to resign.  Or
Welland might, with the assistance of his political colleagues,
compel the Government to remove the Superintendent at Broncho.  No
justification would be offered--he would simply be told that his
services were no longer required.  Such things had often happened,
the victim being invariably damned in the eyes of the public, who
knew nothing of the facts.  A third possibility--and most
dangerous--was that Hector, through no fault of his own, might fail
the public in some big crisis and be removed, at Welland's
instigation, as inefficient.

But against this, as he had told the Commissioner, he could gather
hosts of friends, old stagers who knew him actually for what he was,
not to be shaken by every changing wind, strong men, true as steel.
Hector, on account of his position, could not, and in any case, would
not, ask their aid; but they had watched the summer's developments,
and come forward voluntarily to lend their aid.

Welland's attitude regarding the affair of Demon George and the
Marquis had been particularly effective in bringing Hector recruits.
The Eastern papers might have thought less of the politician's claim
to represent Western public opinion had they witnessed the enlistment
of, say, Jim Jackson, now among the biggest ranchers of the
Territories.

Jim Jackson came in specially from his ranch, a long journey by the
C.P.R., to tell Hector just what he thought of Molyneux.

"Represents the people, does he?  I wonder!  Which d'you thinks
likely to have the backing of the West, eh?  This fly-by-night Mr.
Nobody from God-knows-where, or Superintendent Adair, who came into
the country with the early birds and has grown up with it to what he
is today?"

"He's very strong, Jim," said Hector, smiling a little.

"Never mind, Hec'.  The ranchers will back their Manitou-pewabic to
the last ditch."

"Thanks, old man," said Hector.

At the other end of the scale was Tom Williams, Editor of the Broncho
_Branding-Iron_.  Tom was eminently respectable, but, for business
purposes, assumed the air of a hardened sinner, in order to be in
keeping with his paper, which he had founded when 'up against it'
several years before.  The _Branding-Iron_ was a weekly and relied
for sales on an unfathomable fund of scandalous stories, directed
against the great and would-be great, plus a marvellous array of
rejuvenated bar-room jokes of very doubtful character.  The public
taste being captured, Tom's paper was regularly sold in every corner
of Canada.  Its influence was greatly strengthened because it never
assailed any man without just cause but went out of its way to
'brand' every crook and grafter in the Dominion.  The support of such
a champion was not to be sneezed at.  It was a drunken roysterer but
could use its rapier; and its thrust went home.

So Hector had powerful allies at both ends of the ladder.

Then there were the men--behind him to a man.  Let Corporal Savage's
room stand for an example.  One afternoon, in the worthy Corporal's
absence, a group of them got together over the _Branding-Iron_
containing Tom's latest tirade.

There were present in this gathering of mighties the red-headed and
hideous York, constable under Cranbrook in the days when they had
arrested the gambler Perkins, and likely to remain so till promoted
to non-commissioned angel; Mason, Hector's trumpeter ten years
before, also a constable today; Dunsmuir, son of a Canadian
millionaire, driven to enlist by boredom; and Constable Kellett, once
a Colonel in the British Army, with a dazzling breast of ribbons,
driven to enlist by necessity.

They were perhaps a little prejudiced in Hector's favour but were
none the less representative on that account.

Dunsmuir, with a drawl suggestive of Toronto University, read
extracts aloud:

"'This so-called representative of Broncho and district ... a beard
that reeks crime and a nose that suggests whiskey....  We have heard
a story about him from a dear old bar-keep friend of ours which takes
a lot of beating....  I blush to print it, but Justice ... Now this
is the man who is heaving bricks at the Big Chief Manitou-pewabic ...
the kind who kicks a man when he is down and hits him when his hands
are tied ... everybody knows to whom belongs our contemporary with
the John the Baptist title, which purports to be an unprejudiced ...
everybody knows that the Superintendent cannot speak ... and, in the
Humphries affair, all hands in the Police are aware that Humphries
followed the best traditions of the Riders of the Plains ...  Who is
likely to be trusted by the people, the man who has been a national
and well-loved figure for twenty years or ... If it came to a
showdown.  who will stand by the big fellow?  Why the ranchers, the
Indians, the punchers, the citizens, the ... and behind the other
chap?  Why, the hoboes, the bums, the politicians ... We are certain
a libel action will be started by our distinguished enemy for this;
but one can wear off the effects of liquor in jail as well as
elsewhere and we would feel quite at home, anyway...'"

"I think that calls for ringing cheers," remarked Kellett, as
Dunsmuir laid down the paper.

"Huh, listen to him stick up for 'Spirit-of-Iron'!" sneered York.

The ex-Colonel flushed, squaring his broad shoulders.  He had good
reason to support the man who had taken him in, though over age,
after his ranch had crashed, leaving him destitute.

"York, my lad!" he said gently, "I shall be forced to mould your
unpleasant face with my boot if you use that tone again."

"That's right, Uncle!" Mason cut in.  "Give him hell!  It's coming to
him."

"What'll we do to him?" demanded Dunsmuir, preparing to attack York.

"Oh, shur'rup," said York.  "That fellow Williams can hand it out,
can't he, eh?"

"Sure can.  I guess he'll get brought up for libel, all right," said
Mason.

"Not him.  He's too poor to make it worth while," Dunsmuir asserted.

"Don't chuck your confounded money in our poverty-stricken faces,"
Kellett adjured.  "I like the description of Molyneux.  It's dead
right."

"Well, no one ever sues for libel unless there's money in it,"
persisted Dunsmuir.  "Yes, he sure has.  That bit about kicking a man
when he's down and his hands tied is just it.  And every time he
kicks the Chief he kicks us, too."

"Let him kick," Kellett said.  "The Chief's too big to care."

"Ho, is he?" questioned York.  "Think he's not got feelin's, like the
rest o' us?"

"Have you feelings, insect?"

"Damn right.  Keep off 'em.  'Course we can't do nothin', so he goes
on.  But, by Gor, a touch o' tar an' feathers from the boys...."

"Stow it," said Kellett.  "You're the sort that would give him a real
handle to work on.  Let him talk."

"I guess the Marquis was a better man than you are, York," said
Dunsmuir.

"You do, eh?  Well, I guess so.  Still, I've done my job when it's
been given me."

"That's right," said Mason.  "We've not forgotten the road-agent at
Golden, old man.  But you've got to stick by 'Spirit-of-Iron' in this
thing; and he'd be the first to jump on any monkey business like tar
and feathers."

"Right, youngster," Kellett agreed.  "The chief helped make this
outfit and his ideas go.  Best way we can help is by doing our little
job o' work and following in father's footsteps.  Eh?"

"You bet."  The answer was unanimous.  "Nose to croup, this outfit's
behind Papa!"--a sentiment but mildly expressing all the men felt in
the matter.


There was one other whose views, though stronger than most, rather
coincided with the men's.  That was Mrs. MacFarlane.  In common with
every woman in Broncho, she was ready to defend the rip-snorting
Superintendent with teeth and claws.  Mrs. MacFarlane was prepared to
go further than any.

Her admiration for Hector had steadily increased and by this time--in
the fall--she did not in the least care who knew it.  In fact, she
rather enjoyed showing it, especially to MacFarlane, who had
gradually arrived at a pitch of fierce but smouldering jealousy.  He
reminded her of a slumbering furnace and she loved to prod the
terrific heat to life.  In his outbursts, he was amusing.  The
possibility that the outbursts might badly scorch the prodder did not
seem to occur to her.  So she went gaily on.

Meanwhile, she began to think that she had melted the heart of ice,
which no woman was ever known to have affected before.  She had a
physical allurement few men could resist; she knew it very well.  She
believed that it had made itself felt on the mighty demigod whom
admirers called 'Spirit-of-Iron.'  Once she had told him, 'Pretty
women and handsome men are _made_ for one another.'  She was a pretty
woman; he a very handsome man.  She thought the fact had sunk in by
this time--that she could read it in his voice and eyes.  Soon, now,
she would find out if she were right.

And MacFarlane?--Where did he come in?

But he was a poor, uninteresting creature, anyway.  Too bad she'd
married him!  _He_ couldn't bring the blood to a woman's cheeks, her
heart to her mouth.  Whereas ...

Mrs. MacFarlane had sympathy for Guinevere.


III

The first blizzard of the winter descended upon Broncho.  At
midnight, in the haven of his own den, while the rest of the barracks
slept, and the Superintendent sat writing a report, the patient
Blythe, in the next room, waited to put his chief to bed.

Trailing a desperate bandit from page to written page, Hector did not
hear the gentle knock at the front door.

But it roused him at last.  He crossed the room into the passage and
opened the door--

Opened it on a woman muffled in furs, covered with snow, whose wild
eyes stared over her stole and were shadowed by gleaming hair.

"Mrs. MacFarlane!"

Trained as he was to stern self-control, he could not quite hide his
surprise.

"Let me come in!  Let me come in!" she gasped.

Seeing that something was wrong, he suppressed a desire to ask
questions, stood aside and shut the door.

She swayed in the passage.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"Oh, yes--I--think so."

And she tottered forward.

"I--I--you'll just have to help me----"

"I thought so!" he said quickly.

Half shyly, after the manner of men unaccustomed to intimacy with
women, he put an arm round her.  She clung to him, marvellously
appealing in her helplessness.

Intent on her welfare, he brought her to an arm-chair and pulled it
up to the big stove, she murmuring little gasps of thanks.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I went--to the dance at the--Quadrille Club--with a--party from
town.  I told them--I could get across--the parade-ground--alone.
But all the lights are out--and you can't see a thing--for the snow.
I--got lost.  I must--have--wandered round for hours.  I'm all tired
out--and nearly--frozen!  If it hadn't been for your light, I--don't
just know--"

Nervously overwrought, she was beginning to cry.

"All right--all right!" he said hastily.  "Soon put you right.  Let's
see your face."

She obeyed, anxiously.  What a pretty, appealing little face it was!
She wondered how she looked in the role of heroine in 'Out of The
Storm.'

"No frost-bite," he remarked to himself.  "You must take your hat and
coat off, though, till you get over this.  Your gloves, too.  Absurd
little gloves for this country!  Must get gauntlets!  Mac should have
told you."

The intimate 'Mac,' establishing a bond between them, she liked and
the implied censure of her absent husband she fancied even more.

"Should he?" she asked, smiling woefully.  "Mac doesn't take the care
of me he ought."

He felt her hands.  Did he--she wondered--feel the thrill which then
went through her?

He did not answer the smile.

"They aren't cold," he said thoughtfully.

"They _were_," she answered.

"Well, it's safe to warm you up, which is a good thing.  You won't
lose any fingers this time.  Come, off with that hat and coat.  I've
some brandy somewhere."

She stood up and removed her wraps.  He assisted her with a grave,
courtly grace such as MacFarlane could never show, for the reason
that it was not in him.

"Fire now," he exclaimed.

Stoking and poking up the glow, he soon produced a first-class blaze.

"O-o-h!" she sighed rapturously, holding her little white hands to
the warmth.  She shot him a grateful and admiring glance--each glance
meant to kill.  "O-o-h, that's lovely."

"I'll get the brandy," he said.

She watched his tall, soldierly figure in its smart mess dress as he
delved into a little cupboard.  While he searched, she surveyed the
room with eager interest.  It was terribly bare, to her view, rigidly
severe, eloquent of the hard, cold, lonely life the man led.  She
knew what it lacked--the feminine touch!--to make it a home!  _She_
would have filled it with gew-gaws and knick-knacks tied with scented
pink ribbon.

One thing she noted, with peculiar satisfaction--there was not one
photo of a young or fairly young woman to be seen.

He had found the brandy.  Turning, he looked at her a moment.  She
read admiration in his eyes and suddenly felt that she must look
adorably attractive--smiling wistfully in return, so small in the big
chair, hair aglow, eyes very soft, white arms drooping, lustrous pink
ball-dress spread out like the train of a Queen all round her.

She was the reincarnation of the original Eve, with the voice of the
serpent in her ears--the serpent had a voice in Paradise.

So for a moment, neither moved nor spoke.  Then he broke the little
spell.

"Good stuff, this."  He moved to the table and poured out a
full-sized whack.  "Drink it up."

She obeyed, loving it.  He watched her calmly.  Gasping a little, and
blinking, she presently paused.

"This is really very good," she said--then, for the first time,
became more personal.  "I don't know what I'd have done without you.
But I'm awfully afraid I disturbed you."

"Not at all," he said politely.  "I'll finish when you've gone.  But
don't go till you've quite recovered."

"You're dying to get rid of me!" she pouted.

"Oh, no," he said.  "I'm not often honoured so charmingly."

She smiled, with a little bow, and sipped the brandy again.

"I wonder," she said suddenly, "what--people would think if they knew
we were alone, here--at this time of night--and----"

She laughed excitedly and looked at him with bright eyes.

"And Mac away?" he finished for her.  "Well, of course, if they
didn't know the circumstances, they _might_ talk."

"Yes," she agreed.  "But no-one need--er--will know.  And I wouldn't
care if they did," she concluded, with a taking little air of
bravado.  "Do you think I'm very shocking?"

"Not _very_," he answered.

She laughed again.

"Do you know--this is the first time I've been in a bachelor's
quarters?" she jerked to a new tack, setting down the glass.  "I've
often been tempted----"

"You've not missed much."

"Er--no."  Her look was distinctly disapproving.  "It's so bare--so
terribly priestly.  It lacks something.  Oh, I know what it is!"

She had been planning this ever since the idea first struck her.

"And that is?" he asked--falling--or walking--into the trap.

"Surely you know?  A woman's hand, Major, eh?  Little touch here,
little touch there, eh?"

"Perhaps," he answered.

She disregarded his seeming indifference.

"I'd love to straighten it out for you some time--fix it up.
Ah--would you let me?"

"I think--Blythe would object."

"Oh, yes--your servant.  Nasty thing."  Off again, in another
direction.  "You know, Major, I can't understand why you've never
married."

Though he did not move a muscle, she felt instinctively that he
shrank into his shell.  She did not notice that one hand, resting on
the table, was trembling.

"Never met a woman who would have me," he answered evasively.

"Oh, that's nonsense.  Why, any woman--_any_ woman would be proud----"

"Thank you," he bowed a little stiffly, though with an amused
twinkle.  "Feeling better?"

"Much!  But I think--a little more brandy."

So they went on talking, she doing the leading, he following lamely.
She sipped at the brandy.  The conversation became increasingly
intimate.  Several times she touched him caressingly with her hand.
He was restless--anxious, perhaps, for her to go--quivering for the
conventions.  But she lingered on, now quite at home, and radiating
with a physical magnetism.

She was the embodiment of the woman whose indiscriminate favours
crossed men's swords in other days.

Bit by bit, she unwrapped her true self from its manifold coverings
and bared it to his eyes.

Till then, in spite of the curious intimacy she had built up during
many months, he had never seen her as she really was.

The climax came in due time.  She put down her glass.

"I s'pose--I really must go--now," she laughed.  "I'm--all right now.
But--" she yawned, stretched herself luxuriously, exactly like a cat,
and smiled at him through drooping lids.  "I really--don't _want_--to
go.  Why should I go--at all?"

She stood up languidly.  From his lounging attitude, he straightened
himself, too, and faced her, very stern, both hands at his side and
clenched a little.

The situation--of which she had dreamed and which she had schemed
for--had arrived.  She felt that she had him fast--the great man
whose life was Duty--had melted the heart of ice, hitherto
invulnerable.  Her vanity was on the point of being satisfied.  She
moved to satisfy it.

"Hector--" she whispered, "I'll--stay as--long as you like!"

And, both hands upon his shoulders, she tilted up her face and, very
close, looked into his.

They stood there motionless, in a silence like death.

The strong face did not alter its expression.  If any struggle was
going on behind it, no sign of it was visible.

Yet her soul was naked before him.

The truth was that he had read her purpose almost from the start.

For a short time, she had deceived him, when she entered his room.
But one glance at her face, one touch of her hands, had instantly
told him that she was neither cold nor exhausted.  The snow on her
coat had not been blown upon it by the wind.  He suspected that she
had rolled on the ground before knocking at his door.

The discovery had shaken him a little.  Plunged always in his work,
and with the natural modesty that was his strongest characteristic,
he had never regarded her as more than a harmless flirt or possessed
of any real feeling for him other than sincere friendliness.  She had
been an amusing little doll, though capable, now and then, of
touching something in him which stirred him uneasily.  He fully
understood how great an influence she might have on other men; but
the idea of anything bordering on an intrigue between them had never
entered his head.

Then--suddenly--he found her in his room--the room she rightly
described as bare, cold, priestly.  She had talked to him intimately,
of things he had kept locked away for twelve long, dreary years,
lighting up the whole place with her dainty beauty, goading his
starved, strictly disciplined soul into thoughts that had lain
dormant for what seemed ages, feeding fires that he wanted to keep
low, offering him all that Life might have given him, but had not
given him, all that might have been and was not.  For the past
half-hour, there had been hot flames in his blood, fierce throbbings
in his brain.  She had undoubtedly melted the icicle as no woman had
ever done since long, long ago.

She had hammered incessantly at his heart.  But--this would have
astonished her and crushed her had she only known it--the refrain
which her hammering had brought into his head was, not her name, but
this one, endlessly repeated:

"Frances!  Frances!  Frances!"

Always, over and over again, maddeningly:

"Frances!"

The sweet purity that he had lost was tearing at him----

Not the evil clinging to him now.

To him this woman's naked soul was what it was--contemptible, dirty,
miserably small and mean, without strength, governed only by two
things: vanity and passion.

Yet she had stirred him more than she could possibly guess.

Her eyes were beautiful--like Frances' eyes; she was graceful and
pretty--like Frances--with a mouth that invited desperately----

Both lived years while she rested her hands on his shoulders and
gazed upwards and he stood there, utterly impassive.

Then he placed his hands on hers, gently put them down----

She laughed, thinking this his last struggle.

"The temptation of St. Adair!" she said slowly.  "Take me."

He held her hands in a grasp that gave her agony.

"You forget," he said, very quietly and distinctly, "that MacFarlane
is my friend--and a brother officer."

This was defeat.  For the first time she, too, saw him for what he
was--'Spirit-of-Iron.'

Before she quite realized what he was doing, he pushed her gently
into the big chair and called:

"Blythe!"

Suppressing a yawn, bringing back the sound, easy atmosphere of
everyday life to the room, Blythe appeared.

"Yessir?"

"Mrs. MacFarlane missed her way in the blizzard.  I want you to
escort her home.  Then you can go."

She allowed him to put on her wraps.  She was still dazed.

"Good-night," he said pleasantly, extending his hand, "Pleased to
have been of service."

His manner gave Blythe no inkling of what had happened.

"Good-night," she murmured, mechanically giving him her hand.

She knew herself, now, just as well as he did.  He had shown her
plainly enough, yet in the gentlest manner.

A moment later he was alone--agonisingly alone.


IV

Mrs. MacFarlane's white hands had set an avalanche going.

None had been more affected by Mr. Molyneux's propaganda than Mrs.
MacFarlane's cook.  Molyneux had laid the death of the Marquis at
Hector's door.  Alice loved the Marquis.  She relied implicitly on
everything she saw in print.  The _Prophet_ blamed Hector;
accordingly, she hated him.

On the night when Mrs. MacFarlane visited Hector's quarters, the cook
saw her go in and come out.  Alice knew that her mistress was at
least 'taken' with the Superintendent.  She put two and two together
and found her chance to hurt her enemy--as she regarded him.

When MacFarlane returned, Alice told him of what she had seen.

The avalanche started.

MacFarlane, desperately jealous, desperately in love, found excuses
for his wife, none for Hector.  In spite of all the evidence of his
senses, he decided that Hector was to blame.

To trust his old comrade, who had never failed him yet--to put his
suspicions before him, man to man, and abide by the result: this, the
happiest solution, strangely, never occurred to him.

Besides, he wanted to finish him!

But how?  Openly?  Impossible!  Then, secretly--under cover.  He must
find some means of disgracing Hector, some subtle way of hurting him
which would be worse than death.

Hector, while MacFarlane was scheming, had no idea of impending
treachery.  MacFarlane hid his resentment well.  Hector thought he
knew nothing.

Then, one day, came enlightenment, through a paragraph published by
his old enemy, the _Prophet_:

'An interesting story anent a prominent gentleman frequently dealt
with in these columns has just reached us through an unimpeachable
medium.  It will come as no surprise to many of our readers, but will
enlighten others who do not know the real character of the individual
placed in a high position of authority in this district by an
unmerciful Providence and an inefficient Department.  This individual
poses as one whose feet have always walked in the straight way.  It
appears that the pose is far from genuine.  The plain truth is that
when he first came to the country, in the early days, he carried on a
liaison with a pretty little squaw, the daughter of a chief.  This
understanding (we use the mildest word) continued for several years
until the gentleman--his status entitles him to be thus spoken
of--apparently tired of it and dropped the matter.  But Nemesis
arose.  During the suppression of certain disturbances of a decade
ago, in which he played a leading part, the lady reappeared, only to
die in his arms.  One story states that, fearing embarrassment, he
shot her himself; another, that he owes his success in the operations
to the information she gave him.  Be that as it may, the romance
(again we omit an uglier word) ended there.  So runs the tale--which
we know to be true.  A man of this type, who looks no higher than an
Indian girl and carries on an intrigue of this character, is not fit
to hold the position he does.  His chief has long protected him; but
we look to his colleagues to insist that one who so blots the fair
name of their organization is sent to the obscurity whence he came.'

Hector at once saw that this outburst referred to himself.  The woman
in the case was, of course, Moon.  Someone had told Welland, lately
back from the East, of her infatuation and death.  Welland had
recognized the opportunity of wounding him with the most deadly
weapon he could employ, putting the worst construction on the story,
and giving just enough information to enable the curious to identify
the villain of the piece if they took the trouble.

The refined ingenuity of the assault was extraordinary.  Hector could
not silence the story, because that would be an admission of his
concern in it.  He could not deny it for the same reason.  All he
could do was to suffer in silence, while it went the round and his
name was connected with it and he was made the victim of every
slander men could lay tongue to.  That was the terrible part.  He
could have faced anything physical, something he could fight, without
a qualm.

And then would come Moon's degradation.  For Moon, though she was
'only an Indian,' he would have battled against any odds, because she
had served and loved him.  To save her from intolerable libel he
would have given his life.  He could do nothing.

He wondered if his intimacy with Moon had been preordained so that,
in time, it might be in the instrument to strike him down.  It seemed
so, for Welland could have found no more effective weapon.

One hope remained.  The story might not gain ground.  If it gained
ground, he would be forced to resign.

He searched for the traitor in his mind and suddenly recognized
him--MacFarlane.  The traitor was his friend--his friend--whose
honour he had protected under a temptation which might well have been
irresistible.

MacFarlane was the only man who knew of his first relations with
Moon; from the men who had witnessed her death, he had learned the
rest.  MacFarlane had twisted facts into a hideous, lying brand and
placed that brand in the hands of his worst enemy.

Hector did not have far to seek for his motive.

The treachery of a trusted friend is the bitterest treachery any man
can face.

Hector had to face it.

And he could not even clear himself in his friend's eyes, for that
would show up Mrs. MacFarlane in her true colours and break
MacFarlane's heart.

He felt himself suddenly deserted, standing up alone under a rain of
blows, blows from behind as well as from in front--blows from
behind--crushing----

And set his teeth to endure.


V

"Mac," said Hector, "come over to my quarters and smoke a pipe.  I
want a word with you."

MacFarlane could not well refuse.  He followed his chief through the
snow.

"Now, Mac"--when they were comfortably seated--"we'll talk a certain
matter over, man to man."

MacFarlane, under heavy, frowning brows, searched his face.  Hector
was pale, with shadows under his eyes, as if he had not slept well
for several nights.  MacFarlane sensed vaguely the gist of what his
chief was going to say.

"All right, Hec'," he said, striving to be thoroughly at home.  "What
is it?"

"You've seen this?"

Hector pushed over a folded newspaper--the _Prophet_, containing the
story of Moon.

Despite himself, MacFarlane could not quite conceal his uneasiness.
After a moment he pushed the paper back.

"Well?" he challenged.

"Do you know to whom that paragraph refers?  No?  It refers to me.
The girl is Moon-on-the-Water, daughter of Sleeping Thunder, of the
Assiniboines.  You remember her, of course?"

"Perfectly."

"The story in outline is true.  The details are false.  There never
was anything between that woman and me.  She was accidentally shot by
my trumpeter in the uprising.  She told me the way the rebels had
taken, and died--I suppose, in my arms.  I did owe a great deal to
her, because of that information.  I never pretended that I did not.
You know that, Mac."

MacFarlane stared fiercely at the floor.

"Mac, the Indians, at least of those days, had fine principles.
Among other things, they believed in purity--their women took an oath
of purity and the penalties for those who broke it were very heavy.
Our superior white people have nothing like that oath or law.  They
don't take a public vow of that kind; they don't suffer as the Indian
woman suffered when she overstepped the law.  That poor Indian girl,
who knew nothing of the refinements of civilization, so called, was
as good as gold--far better than many white women."

MacFarlane clenched his fists restlessly.  Every word drove into him
like a driven nail.

"Mac, that story's a lie!"  Hector's hand crashed suddenly to the
table.  "Never, never, never was there anything between that girl and
me.  I know I can't prove it.  I know that twenty papers have taken
up the yarn and if the man who printed it had his way it would be all
over Canada, with the names filled in--the gossips have coupled us
with it now, as it is.  That's the hell of it--I can't fight
it--can't prove what I say or speak a word in defence of either of
us.  But it's a lie!  Now, listen, Mac.  The only man who knew of my
earlier relations with Moon sits in this room at this moment.  _You_
gave that story to Molyneux--my worst enemy--and I thought you were a
friend of mine."

MacFarlane had never suspected that Hector would guess.  But now,
when cornered, he made no attempt to deny the charge--though it
marked him as a traitor.

"Mac--why did you do it?"

Hector's voice came quietly to him.  Then the thought of his fancied
wrongs flamed into his brain.

"You know why I did it, damn you--you know!  How in God's name can
you sit there and ask me 'Why'?"

He pounded the chair with his fists.

"Yes, I _do_ ask you 'Why.'  Mac, this thing has tortured me for many
nights now.  I suspected you and I can't rest till you tell me the
truth.  And you don't leave this room till you do."

MacFarlane uttered a tremendous growl, rose heavily and stamped
furiously 'round the room.

"_Christ!_" he almost shrieked, wheeling suddenly to glare at Hector,
chest heaving, face aflame.  "Do I _need_ to tell you?  My soul,
you've got gall!  What happened in this room while I was away?"

It was out now!

He expected to see his companion flinch; but, except for the
slightest tightening of the jaw, Hector's face gave no sign.
Instead, he rose slowly and walked over until he was face to face
with MacFarlane, looking down on him.

"You ask, 'What happened?'  I'll tell you.  Your wife lost her way
returning from the Quadrille Club.  Wandered 'round until exhausted.
Finally stumbled on my quarters, the only place showing a light.  She
was nearly frozen.  I gave her brandy and warmed her up.  Then my
servant, Blythe, took her home.  If you wish to descend to such
evidence"--this was a two-edged shaft, though Hector did not know it,
and it seared MacFarlane's soul--"you can ask him if this isn't so.
Or ask your wife."

MacFarlane seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

"Surely, Mac, you can trust me.  You've known me twenty years and
never have you had cause----"

"No, I don't trust you!  I can't trust you!  Haven't I eyes, ears,
senses?  I don't believe you!  I know what passed in this room.  Your
excuse is a lie--do you hear?--a lie!"

"Mac, you call me treacherous--in effect, you do--a false friend--the
lowest animal on earth.  And yet you've no proof.  On the other hand,
you admit treachery to me.  How can you reconcile the two?"

"How can I?  Because you've given me cause for treachery, as you call
it, by your own treachery.  An eye for an eye, my lad!  I told
Molyneux that story and I think I'd good reason for it.  And if it
breaks you, well and good.  You and your virtuous In'juns!  Pah!
Moon-on-the-Water better than many white women----"

"Be careful, Mac; be careful!"

Hector's face was paler now than ever, and at mention of Moon's name
he seized MacFarlane by the shoulders in an iron grip.

But MacFarlane wrenched himself away and raved on.

"Hell!  You're no saint!  You're just a man, like the rest of us!
The story's true!  _You_ can have a taste of what _I've_ put up with,
now!  And you can do what you please."

"Mac, is that your last word?"

"You're damn right it is!"

"Very well.  If this thing finishes me, I shall have the satisfaction
of knowing that I'm not the first man who's had a friend named Judas.
Some day, Mac, you'll realize the truth.  And then I hope you'll have
regret for what you've done and said.  Please close the door as you
go out."


Two days later MacFarlane and Mrs. MacFarlane were suddenly
transferred to Edmonton.


VI

Hector was surprised to receive this letter from MacFarlane:


'MY DEAR ADAIR:

'This is going to be the hardest thing I ever wrote.  Two months ago,
you remember, you told me some day I'd realize the truth.  The day
has come.  The Commissioner put me right.  When he was up here last
week, I went to him like a skunk to try and help the _Prophet_ story
along; but it didn't work.  The Commissioner's too strong a man and
too good a friend of yours to listen to gossip.  Then he told me that
you'd arranged my transfer here and indicated that he had guessed
why.  You had told him nothing of what had passed between us, he
said.  He also pointed out to me just how you would have acted had
you been the hound I said you were--sending me away on duty and that
kind of thing, as is sometimes done in the Services.  Take this from
me, Hector, I know where I am now and what I've been--a blind fool
and a swine.  God knows if I can ever save you from the consequences
of what I did; but I'm going to do my best.  The Commissioner thinks
the story will die a natural death.  I hope so, if I can't kill it
myself.  I can't ask your pardon--I don't deserve it.  But love is
blind--and sometimes crazy.  I know I was.  Keep a good heart,
Hector.  You're too good a man to be downed by a story of that kind
anyway.

'Yours, Mac.'


So MacFarlane had come to earth at last!




Chapter IV


I

In the early springtime, over a year after Hector's receipt of
MacFarlane's bitter apology, a notorious half-breed horse-thief and
cattle-rustler named Whitewash Bill was being conveyed, under escort,
to the cells at Broncho.  A favourable opportunity presenting itself,
the said Whitewash Bill succeeded in making his escape.  Hector
turned out scouts and patrols, which traced the wanted man to the
nearest Indian reserve.  At the reserve they ascertained that he had
secured food and horses and had again taken flight.  All detachments
were warned and the entire machinery of the Broncho district was set
going with the object of landing Whitewash Bill.

Thus began one of the most famous Western Canadian man-hunts; on one
side the Mounted Police, parties of special constables recruited from
the settlers and cowboys, Indian scouts and trackers, all directed
and controlled by the sleepless brain and strong hand of the great
'Spirit-of-Iron'; on the other one lone desperado of tremendous
endurance and fanatical courage, secretly aided by his own kinsmen
and by others whose sympathy was with the criminal class.

Money was also on the side of the law--and money talks very freely.
The big ranchers, who had suffered much at the hands of Whitewash
Bill, put up a reward of several thousand dollars for the capture of
the quarry, dead or alive.

The hunt ranged from the foothills to the heart of the great plains,
over the 27,000 square miles of the Broncho district.  The days
became weeks, the weeks months; the horse-thief rode and starved
himself to the point of exhaustion; the Mounted Police searched and
prodded, cast and recast their net, watched, tracked, questioned--and
Whitewash Bill remained untaken.  The district fretted, nerves on
edge, the whole country ready to see a Whitewash Bill in every
swaying tree or under any shadowed boulder.  The real Whitewash Bill
danced to and fro through the fog of uncertainty like a
will-o'-the-wisp.  He stole the horses of a civilian posse from the
stable while it sought a much-needed meal in a settler's kitchen.
Constable Jinks, making bread on detachment, heard a noise behind him
and saw Whitewash Bill in the act of riding off with a bag of oats
from the store-house in rear.  Jumping out, the policeman fired a
shot, but his hands were thick with dough and he missed.  Cornered in
a tent by a party under Lone-Elk-Facing-the-Wind, the criminal cut
his way out through the back and shot off the scout's hat as he sped
away.  Trapped in a barn wherein he sought temporary refuge and a
sleep, he was smoked out but managed somehow to give his enemies the
slip under cover of the flames from the barn, which he set on fire.
In the course of his meanderings, he killed a settler who refused to
help him and shot down a buck policeman, who was now in hospital on
the verge of dying.  After that, Broncho district lay in bed and
trembled, not daring to move, while Whitewash Bill rummaged like a
great rat in the larder and galloped off into the night as soon as
satisfied.

When the chase had lasted long enough to cause anxiety and give the
critics of the Police a chance, the worst happened.

Mr. Steven Molyneux saw the glorious opportunity and opened fire with
all his broadsides on the director of the hunt, 'Spirit-of-Iron.'


II

Mr. Molyneux's energies had not been fully turned against Hector for
over a year--not, in fact, since his attempt to discredit his
opponent through the story told him by MacFarlane had failed.  In
relying on that story, the politician had not taken into account the
lapse of time.  Most people had forgotten the minor events which
preceded the coming of the railway, and even the romantic tale of the
Indian girl who died in the arms of a Mounted Police officer during
the revolt was remembered by few.  He had also failed to account for
the feelings held by this handful for Adair--feelings which kept
their mouths close shut.  Again, he had not calculated on the
sporting spirit which favours the weaker side.  Finally, he had
overlooked the ignorance of Easterners on Western matters.  The story
had lived a long time, but the principals had remained anonymous in
spite of the politician's broadest hints.  So the dirty coup was by
this time in its grave.

Molyneux--formerly Joseph Welland--was much too clever to go on
fighting with a broken sword.  He decided that the only way to kill
his man was by catching him in some glaring inefficiency.  So he had
lain low, awaiting that inefficiency, which, he argued, must come
sooner or later.

In the meantime, he went on organising his political forces and
undermining Hector's position.

His power constantly increased.  He was fast making money, in real
estate, railway stocks and cattle.  In a few years he hoped to become
a director in one of the big lines.  Sedulously serving their
interests, he had been rewarded by admission to their inner ring.  He
had built up a small combine in cattle, which was soon to become a
large one, giving him a decisive voice in the market throughout the
Territories.  And so with grain.  Politically, he possessed much
strong support.

The skyrocket was climbing steadily towards its zenith.

On the face of it, the politician should have found it easy to crush
the policeman, for he enjoyed wide power.

That power was now let loose.

Welland chose his time admirably.  A restless, frightened country
found in the _Prophet's_ first tirade only an echo of their own
sentiments.  What more natural than that the Eastern papers should
gradually follow suit?  What more natural than that paternal M.P.'s,
animated by only the purest motives, should in their turn rise to
their feet in the Dominion House and ask the Right Hon. This and the
Hon. That whether, in view of the so-and-so in the Territories, they
did not think, etc., etc., etc.?  These things fanned the flames.  In
due course it became evident that public opinion, as a whole,
believed that the Mounted Police were lamentably failing.  Thence it
was an easy step to the day when wise-acres in every part of the
Dominion showered the hunters with advice and criticism.  And
gradually the matter crystallised into one indisputable fact: that if
Mr. Whitewash Bill was not taken, and taken soon, someone would have
to resign.

That someone was Superintendent Adair.

Led by the big ranchers--Jim Jackson could not control them--the
people and the papers did their best to assist the hunt by hounding
on the Police in general and the commander of the Broncho district in
particular.  'What are the Police doing?' shrieked the papers.  They
censured Hector's dispositions, recommending marvellous sweepings and
watchings, as if the hunt had an army at its command or was playing
blind-man's buff in a nursery rather than a perilous game of you or
me over an area as large as Scotland.  When he exercised patience,
they demanded vigorous action.  When he gave them vigorous action,
they talked of needless loss of life.

So they hounded him.  Yet the hounding did no good.  What is the use
of lashing a dog when he is definitely checked on a lost scent?

Behind it all, carefully encouraging the detractors, stood the
disinterested but righteously indignant Mr. Molyneux.

On the other hand, one paper alone maintained a violent
counter-offensive--the _Branding-Iron_.  Tom Williams believed in
plain words, thrown straight.  He threw them.  At a critical stage,
unfortunately, Mr. Molyneux sued Mr. Williams for libel.  Pending
trial, the judge ordered the _Branding-Iron_ to leave the politician
alone.  Justice was thus deprived of a powerful ally.  Injustice
ranted on.

In the midst of this storm, apparently sublimely indifferent either
to friend or foe, invulnerable, immovable, acting only as he thought
best and not as others thought, cunning when he thought it wisest to
be cunning, reckless when, in his view, the need arose, the leader of
the hunt, 'Spirit-of-Iron,' stood up alone, 'four-square'--as
Williams put it--'to every wind that blew.'

Whitewash Bill?--merely the pawn in this great contest between Right
and Wrong!

Upon his escape or capture depended now--as Hector knew and Molyneux
knew--whether Superintendent Adair or Joseph Welland was to be
victorious in their private battle.


III

One afternoon in May, when the hunt had been in progress nearly three
months and the unrest was at its height, there came to Superintendent
Adair a certain Broncho clergyman.  His name was Northcote.  He was a
big man--big physically, mentally, spiritually, with a fine, deep
voice that reminded one of his own pipe organ, and a noble head, as
dignified as a Cæsar's.  In fact, he looked like a Cæsar, for he was
clean-shaven, ruddy and strong of face and besides was blessed with a
look of kindliness seldom seen in portraits of the old Emperors.
Sensible, broad-minded, tolerant, the Rev. Mr. Northcote well
deserved his nickname of the 'Human Parson.'  Naturally, he was now,
and always had been, on Hector's side.

Hector had just come in from thirty-six hours in the saddle, covered
with mud, hungry and quite comfortably tired--he had almost lived in
the saddle for weeks now--but he welcomed the clergyman, who never
bothered him without good cause.

They shook hands warmly.  Northcote began.

"I've no idea of the present situation as regards Whitewash Bill,
Major, except that he's still at liberty and I don't want to worry
you with questions that don't concern me.  But I want to give you
some information I think you ought to know; and it's on good
authority."  The clergyman dropped his voice and spoke with great
caution.  "There's a certain element--smaller ranchers, low-class men
in Broncho, cowboys who know no better--that is planning just
now--_to lynch Whitewash Bill when you take him!_"

"I see.  The details?"

"Well, so far as they go, are simply this: as soon as Whitewash Bill
is arrested, they'll ride out to the scene of action, take him away
from the escort, and string him up.  If they don't do that, they're
to storm the barracks and hang him from a telegraph pole."

"The idea being, I suppose, to take it out of the man who's
terrorized the country and to set an example to would-be outlaws of
the future?"

"That's about it, Major."

"Perhaps it will also show that we can't protect our prisoners when
we have got them or see that the law takes its course--eh?"

"That also may have influenced them."

"Do you know who's at the bottom of it?  Or the ringleaders?"

"No.  But men with the country's good at heart who are yet afraid to
be seen giving information to you or even to mention any names to me,
have tipped me off."

"And you--?"

The big parson smiled.

"Well, you've had enough trouble, Major, without this thing being
added; and there's never been a lynching in Canada--"

"It's good of you, Northcote.  It happens I already know of this
plot.  Despite what's said of us, we're not quite asleep."

"Good.  Well, I won't waste your time any further."

"Just a minute," said Hector.  "You may be interested in the present
situation."

"Yes!" said the parson eagerly.

"It's this.  Whitewash Bill has worked his way to very near the
boundary.  Three days ago we thought we had him cornered.  He slipped
away during the night--the party on the spot was too small to hem him
in.  Since then we've completely lost him.  I'm afraid, if we don't
pick him up again in a very short time, it will mean--"

"Don't say--"

"--That he's slipped into the States.  And that means the end--and my
resignation."

"Oh, that's impossible."

"It isn't.  The uproar is so great that the man who fails will have
to suffer.  We're at the climax now.  It will all be over in two or
three days."

"But the people won't stand for it, Major.  They know you've done
your best.  They trust you."

"Do they?  We'll see.  Of course, there's hope yet.  The men are at
boiling point.  If they sight Whitewash Bill again, he'll never get
away.  I've ordered him taken alive, though, which makes it rather
more difficult."

"You've every honest man behind you, Major."

"Pleased to hear it.  Well, there's the situation."

At the door, the clergyman paused.

"Can you give me any message--to those who sent me?"

"You can tell them--first, that Whitewash Bill will be taken alive;
second, there will be no lynching."

The Rev. Mr. Northcote beamed.

"There's a big mob thinks otherwise, I'm pretty sure, Major.  But
what Manitou-pewabic says is pretty sure to go.  The rest of us are
satisfied."

And he closed the door softly behind him.


IV

At dawn, two days after Mr. Northcote's visit, a despatch rider
clattered into barracks with word that Cranbrook had again cornered
Whitewash Bill, this time at a point fifteen miles south of the
Piegan Crossing.

This put an end to a terrible period of suspense, which had held
Hector inactive at Broncho--where, as director of operations, he had
been forced to remain while his whole future was being decided
somewhere out in the vast darkness.

He could now take action.  He had already decided what to do.  He
feared neither the outlaw nor the would-be lynchers.  The latter,
especially, he held in contempt.

Awaiting news, he had spent the whole night awake, and fully dressed.
It was a matter of a moment to fling on cap, gauntlets and revolver
and hurry over to the orderly-room, where Forshaw was keeping watch,
a matter of a minute or two to order out Donaldson's four-horse team
and the two constables, Dunsmuir and Kellett, who were standing by.

The railway from Broncho approached the Piegan Crossing by such a
circuitous route that it was quicker to proceed to the scene of
action across country.  Except for Donny's team and the
Superintendent's own horse, which was played out with the hard work
of the past few weeks, the only horses in barracks were crocks.
Every sound animal was out with the hunting patrols.  Hector wanted
to take Forshaw and the two constables with him because he knew
Cranbrook was short-handed.  The only way to do so was for the whole
party to drive with Donaldson the thirty miles to the spot where
Whitewash Bill was lurking.

In less than twenty minutes after the receipt of the despatch they
were on the trail.

The trumpeter sounded 'Reveille' as they rattled out of the
barrack-gate--just as his long-silent predecessor had sounded it
when, as a buck constable, Hector left Fort Macleod with
Sergeant-Major Whittaker to make his first arrest twenty long years
before.  Was this a sign that the present arrest would be his last?

As the sun rose, they came full upon an immense herd of drifting
cattle.  It was the time of the spring round-up and the punchers all
over the Broncho district were hard at work.  The herders, statuesque
on their ponies against the cool glow of the morning, crooned a
cowboys' lullaby while the trap slowly made its way through the herd.
They touched their hats to the Superintendent.  In a little gully,
beside the chuck-wagon, the cook was boiling coffee.

Hector's mind went back to the day when, in company with the old
'originals' of the Force, he had cleaved his way through as immense a
herd, a herd of the vanished buffalo.

What changes he had seen!  Twenty years in the North-West, growing
with it and watching it grow, developing with it and helping it to
develop!  A lifetime given to his country--and was he to be broken,
now, by an upstart parasite battening on the blood and sweat of
better men?

"Push on, Donaldson, push on!"

"Can't go any quicker till we're out o' this, sir," answered Donny
sturdily.

But get there--get there--get there--before it's too late!

Clear of the herd, they dashed onward again at breakneck speed, Donny
handling the ribbons like a veritable Jehu.  Round corners on two
wheels; down into hollows with a terrific bump; up steep slopes at a
canter; mile after mile left behind; and the two constables in the
back seat, hanging on like leeches, looked at each other through the
dust and grinned.

"Chief's crazy!" muttered Dunsmuir, sideways, through his teeth.
"This is pounding my ruddy tail off!"

They sighted the river--broad and deep and silver-grey, winding
slowly through shouldering rollers of drab brown land.  Donny swung
his sweating horses down towards the ford--swung them, drove them
on--halted--

"What are you stopping for?"

The chief's voice lashed him unmercifully.

"It looks very tricky, sir," Donny answered doubtfully, with a
thoughtful hand to his big moustache.  "Over the horses' heads, I
should say, sir.  How about the other ford, sir?"

"Ten miles up?  _No!_"

"He's going to drown the lot of us," whispered Kellett.

Hector seemed to catch the thought though he had not heard the words.

"If you're afraid to go on, any of you, you can get out," he said.

Afraid to go on!  Who would admit it, when he put it that way?

"All right, Forshaw?"

"All right, sir!"

"Then push on, Donaldson!"

Donny squared his jaw and put the whip to the horses.  They plunged
forward, into the river.

In a moment the icy water reached the hub of the wheels; then the
horses' bellies; then lapped over the floor of the trap; and surged
around the breasts of the gallant leaders.

"Hup there, Sir John!  Hup, Laurier!  Hup there, Aberdeen!" shouted
Donny.

The horses were swimming now, thrashing out desperately, in the
middle of the river.  The wagon floated after them, like a crazy
barge, rocking to and fro and occasionally grounding on unseen
boulders.

"Sit still behind," ordered Hector grimly, the water round his knees.
"Sit tight and don't move!"

"If she turns over, we're done," said Kellett to Dunsmuir.  "Don't do
that, you fool.  Think we want to be drowned because you're afraid of
wetting your plutocratic hoofs?  How deep is it hereabouts?"

"About twenty feet, I guess!" drawled Dunsmuir.

Near the bank, Donny flogged the plunging horses and called on them
with the most lurid language in the calendar.  A crashing collision
with a sunken rock that almost turned them over, Hector throwing his
weight in the right direction in the nick of time; a wild struggle on
the part of the leaders to gain a footing on the slippery ground;
Donaldson, responding to a fierce 'Give me the reins!' went
overboard, neck-deep, to drag his horses round; a last upheaval; and
they rolled out on dry land, out of the reluctant fingers of imminent
death.

Hector gave Donaldson a nip of whiskey, and a short rest.  Then the
trap dashed forward anew.

Far off, on the horizon, as they advanced, they saw a long train of
crawling, white-tilted wagons, belonging to one of the many parties
of farmer-settlers now pouring into the country,--symbol of still
another change, impending, when the stockmen's supremacy would be
challenged by the growers of grain.  A few years more and the plains
would be fenced and agleam with acres and acres of wheat, the
Territories would leap to Provinces and Western Canada would take her
place as a great power in the land, providing those twin necessities,
bread and meat, to the whole wide world.

A lifetime given to the furtherance of these changes--and was the
evil force which had come with them to cut him down?

"Push on, Donaldson, push on!"

The river was five miles behind them now, the sun well risen.
Suddenly the distances conceived a horseman, who came rapidly towards
them, leading two horses.

It was Dandy Jack, one of Cranbrook's party for some weeks past.
Cranbrook, anticipating his chief, had sent the young puncher to meet
them with horses for the Superintendent and the Adjutant, so that
they might get the sooner to the scene of action.

"What news, Jack?"

Hector shot out the question as the trap pulled up.

Jack flung a hand to his sombrero and smiled.  Though he had been
constantly in the saddle for days, the angel-faced boy looked as
fresh and faultlessly turned out as ever.

"Got him still cornered, Major.  He's in a little hollow 'bout an
hour's hard ride from here.  Quite a big bunch o' cattlemen come up
last night an' this mornin'.  Mr. Cranbrook said I was to guide you
an' to ask you to hurry, if it don't hurt you any."

"All right, Jack!  No, never mind the stirrups!  Donaldson, follow as
quickly as you can.  Come along, Forshaw!  We've got to get there in
time!"

With that, they swung to the saddle and thundered off across the
prairie.

"God, I'd give my eyes to be in at the death!" groaned Kellett, as he
watched his chief disappear.


V

Behind a ridge Hector found assembled a large and noisy crowd.
Cranbrook, mounted, stood in the centre, heatedly arguing.  Then he
saw Hector, with obvious relief.  Shouldering his horse through the
throng, he cantered over.  The stockmen, recognizing Hector, fell to
uneasy muttering among themselves.  If any man could baulk them of
their prey it was Adair; and they knew it--and were correspondingly
disgruntled.

"I've got a ring of scouts round his hiding-place, sir," Cranbrook
said.  "Lone-Elk-Facing-The-Wind picked up his trail near here just
before dusk last night.  He can't escape, but he's too dangerous to
rush.  So I thought I'd wait till you came."

"You did right," replied Hector.  "And these--are the lynchers, I
suppose?  Yes?  Then leave them to me."

The stern face set.  Here was something physical to meet and
overcome--at last.

"Boys," he told the crowd, checking his horse in front of them,
"what's this I hear about lynching?  That's tenderfoot talk.  The man
will be taken alive and properly tried.  If he's guilty of murder,
rest assured he'll get what's coming to him.  But he's entitled to a
fair trial and he's going to have it.  There's never been a lynching
in Canada and there's not going to be one now."

A storm of hostile shouts and a yell: "Who'll stop us?"

"I will.  I will--and my men."

More tumult; and the crowd, hands on guns, grew threatening.

"Your men.  Hell!  You've only got five or six.  We're twenty to one."

"There'll be no lynching all the same."

The crowd hooted.  A huge puncher, built on the lines of a grizzly
bear, shouted Hector down and began to harangue his companions,
asking if they were afraid of one man and were going to let him
dictate to freeborn citizens who had been deeply wronged.

"Look out!" shouted a little man on the outskirts, seeing the
fighting look fast taking possession of Hector's face.  But the words
were lost in the tumult.

Hector quietly dismounted, tossing the reins to Cranbrook, who had
also dismounted, and faced the big puncher.

"Another word from you, my friend, and--"

For answer the man whirled a violent blow at Hector's head and his
hand flashed to his hip.  Hector smashed in his right, all the
pent-up emotion of days behind it.  The big puncher hurled crashing
to the ground among his friends.

"Anyone else want any?  All right.  We'll take him up for inciting to
riot.  Now, boys, do as I tell you and go home."

The spirit of the mob was broken.  One prompt, telling blow, backed
by absolute firmness in the face of great odds and the thing was done.

To deal with Whitewash Bill remained.  And on Whitewash Bill depended
everything.

Hector turned to Cranbrook and, to Cranbrook's astonishment, he was
smiling.

"Now for the outlaw.  I want you to point out where he is."

Cranbrook, handing the horses over to Dandy Jack, led him forward.
Forshaw followed.

"Easy here, sir.  Keep low," said Cranbrook.

They stole on until they could look round the shoulder of the ridge.

"He's in those bushes," Cranbrook stated, pointing to a small thicket
about seventy-five yards away.

"I see," said Hector.  "Well, now's the time."

And he took off his greatcoat and gauntlet, revealing his scarlet
tunic.

Cranbrook and Forshaw looked at each other and Forshaw paled a little
under his ruddiness.

"What--are you going to do, sir?"

"I'm going to arrest him myself.  Pah, I'll be all right.  He daren't
shoot me.  Cranbrook, go round your scouts and tell them to keep a
lookout in case he runs for it."

"But--God, sir, he'll kill you!  He's stopped at nothing.  He'll
certainly shoot you.  And what a target you're making of yourself!"
exclaimed Cranbrook, his concern overcoming his deference.

"Best starve him out, sir," added Forshaw.

But Hector had long ago made up his mind.  Better to be shot than to
face dishonour; better to attempt the arrest himself than to force it
on his subordinates.  The crisis of the hunt had come and he did not
intend to risk failure by leaving the work to another.

If Welland was to win, it would be through no fault of his.

He had faced death before this, with less cause.  He could easily
face it now.

"Starve him out?  And have him give us the slip again?  No.  Go
along, Cranbrook, go along."

Cranbrook had to obey.  Forshaw, sensing a little of what this
business meant to his chief, said no more.  But he felt that the
Superintendent was going to his death--deliberately sacrificing
himself to his duty.

Cranbrook returned.

"All right, sir."

"Good.  When I throw up my right hand, come after me."

The lynchers--lynchers no longer, but firm admirers of the
law--gathered in a tense, awe-struck group behind the Police officers.

Hector loosed, but did not draw, his revolver.  Then he walked
straight out into the open, holding his arms wide, to show the hidden
half-breed that he held no weapon.

Absolute stillness held the world.  In the sunshine, the steadily
advancing scarlet coat gleamed like a flame, inviting disaster.
Forshaw and Cranbrook awaited the sound of a rifle-shot.

When within a few paces of the outlaw's hiding-place, Hector heard
the click of the breech-bolt.  A brown face, ferociously set, peeped
from among the leaves.

"Keep off, you, keep off!" whispered Whitewash Bill.

But the man in scarlet had three great forces on his side--the
tremendous moral force of the coat he wore, badge, as it was, of the
terrible North-West Mounted Police, the Keepers of the Law, the whole
corps embodied in one lone individual; the great moral force of
absolute fearlessness and determination shown in the teeth of certain
destruction; the stupendous moral force of the personality which the
Indians dreaded and respected and which the outlaw himself had long
known--the personality typified in the name 'Spirit-of-Iron.'

These three moral forces faced the half-breed now.

"Keep off," he repeated, "or I shoot."

"You daren't shoot me," the white man's voice came to him,
remorselessly.  "D'you hear, Bill?  You _dare_ not shoot me.  See!
My hands are empty--but you dare not shoot me, just the same...."


VI

That night, in every part of Canada, the printing-presses roared out
their headlines, headlines which were once to have doomed and damned:

  WHITEWASH BILL CAPTURED!  SUPERINTENDENT ADAIR'S
  GREAT VICTORY!  GALLANT COMMANDER OF HUNT
  TAKES MURDEROUS OUTLAW SINGLE-HANDED!
  WITHOUT USING A WEAPON!  A LYNCHING
  AVERTED!  ENEMIES DISCOMFITED!
  SPIRIT-OF-IRON!




BOOK FOUR: _Coup-de-Grâce_



Chapter I


I

The great spring rush down the Black Elk River to the gold-fields of
Discovery had begun.

From the town of Nugget, where they had passed the winter, a great
host of fortune-seekers, lured thither by the call of Greed from the
four corners of the earth, was now on the move.  The surface of the
river was white with their sails, black with their hulls.  Hector,
commanding the Mounted Police in Black Elk Territory, sat on a hill
above Nugget and watched the fleet set out.  Like Moses, he meditated
over his innumerable flock of tenderfeet as they passed in review
below him.

The backbone, veins, arteries, in fact the whole organism of the
Territory centred in the Black Elk River.  Rising at Lake Nugget,
near the city of that name, the Black Elk ran into Lake Fortune, a
fair day's sail to the north, bumped down a half-dozen dangerous
rapids, swept through several sword-cut canyons, eased to a jog-trot,
broadening comfortably the while and so, becoming ever more placid,
ever more imposing, tumbled itself at last into Northern seas, a
thousand miles away.  Four hundred miles from Nugget, Discovery Creek
contributed its quota of waters to the majestic river and at the
mouth of the creek stood Discovery City.  A chain of gigantic
mountains, cleft on the coast side only by a single entrance, Hopeful
Pass, walled in the Black Elk country from the Western sea and threw
almost insuperable obstacles in the way of any attempt to reach the
Territory by land from the civilized Canada to the south, while the
country between the mountains and the coast, wherein lay the town of
Prospect, on the sea-board, belonged to the United States.  So Hector
was isolated in the Black Elk country; with Hopeful Pass as his
Thermopylae.

Two classes of people inhabited this tremendous Territory: the
original prospectors or pioneers, and the fortune-hunters or
newcomers.  The pioneers were a mere handful, long established, grown
old and seared in the service of the North, some firmly settled in
the new gold area, the rest working claims or seeking strikes in ones
and twos all over the Territory.  The newcomers, the tenderfeet,
outnumbering the old hands by hundreds, the adventurers now on their
way to the gold-fields or struggling up through Hopeful Pass In the
rear-guard of the advance--these were the people with whom Hector had
most to deal.

Only a strong, stern, sane administration could guide and govern such
a crowd as this.  It represented every nationality, creed and race on
earth.  When the Archangel blows his trumpet to summon all men to
judgment on the Last Day, he will simply reproduce, on a larger
scale, the gathering then in progress in Black Elk Territory.  There
was in this gigantic mob no harmony, no discipline, no uniformity.
It was one only in its arrogance, its greed and its ignorance.
Hector knew its weaknesses well.  He had seen it swindled, robbed and
murdered by the Prospect gangsters.  He had watched it fighting to
make headway on the trail to Hopeful Pass, with dogs it could not
drive, pack-horses it could not pack, tools it could not handle.  He
had seen it freezing in scanty clothing, starving on luxuries that
should have been necessities, dying of weakness and disease,
quarreling for precedence, fighting for life with 'six-guns' against
thugs who made an end of the fight when it pleased them.  He had
heard it shout for joy when it won at last to the Mounted Police post
on the summit of the Pass, sighted the Union Jack and scarlet coats
which symbolized Law and Order, put away its weapons as no longer
necessary and pushed on through the entry as though it went through
the pearly gates, from Hell to Heaven.  He had watched it settling
down to spend its miserable winter.  And, last of all, that morning,
when the ice was finally departed, he had seen it embark--men, women
in tights, children, dogs, ponies, cattle, goats, equipment and
supplies--and rejoicingly set sail on the closing leg of its
desperate journey.

With his men, he had played father, mother and big brother to this
extraordinary conglomeration through all the winter, from the moment
of their entry into Canadian country.  He had now to see them safely
to Discovery and to safeguard their interests and the country's
interests when they got there.

For this engaging task, he had at his command unlimited authority and
two hundred men--two hundred men among thirty thousand, two hundred
men in a territory the size of France; unlimited authority, his own
ability, two hundred men and the prestige of the Mounted Police.

He mentally ran over the dispositions he had made:

At Hopeful Pass, holding the keys to Heaven against all Hell, one
Corporal St. Peter surnamed Dunsmuir with a dozen wingless buck
policemen; at Pioneer Lake and Lake Miner--in the mountain chain
cutting off Black Elk Territory from the civilized Canada to the
south--at Nugget City and the town of Lucky, north of Lake Nugget,
and at Discovery Creek--to name the more important points--were other
detachments; posts at intervals along the Black Elk above and below
Discovery City; and, in barracks at Discovery City, headquarters, the
jail and what was left of his two hundred.

Their duties: general maintenance and enforcement of the law, with
all it meant; imposition of punishments; arbitration of any dispute,
from a fight involving life and death to one involving the possession
of a can-opener; care of the sick and destitute; burial of the dead;
collection of taxes, Government royalty on gold, and of customs at
Hopeful Pass; relaying the mails from post to post or escorting them
by steamer to the seagoing vessel at Prospect; guarding and escorting
gold deposits; and running the boats of the ignorant herd through the
rapids so that no lives might be lost.

The detachments, in order to carry out all these jobs, must travel
immense distances in the heat of summer or depth of winter, take
their lives in their hands at least once a day and, for the rest of
the time, enjoy the delights of camping in leaking, wind-swept tents,
flooded inches deep, pitched in the trough of sunless valleys or on
the bleak flanks of frozen mountains; while they received, for their
pains, an average stipend of under a dollar a day and were not
allowed to stake claims.

The command was no task for a weakling.  Hector remembered what the
Commissioner had said in sending him to take that command six months
before: 'It's the last bit of true pioneering this country will see,
Adair.  Carry it through, and you'll have played a part in the whole
show, from the settlement of the North-West to the end.  It will be a
big job--one of the biggest we've ever done--this job I'm giving you;
but it will be a splendid thing in the way of a crowning achievement
to all you've done already.  Make it a credit to yourself and Canada.'

The 'big job' was now at hand.  The spring rush marked its advent.
The winter had been only the prelude.  Hector, watching the boats
from the hill above Nugget, sensed the coming battle.

Tomorrow he would return to Discovery, there to fight it out.

Dusk hiding the fleet at last from his eyes, he walked down to the
rough shanty in Nugget where Cranbrook had his headquarters.

"Corporal Dunsmuir reports a distinguished visitor arrived at Hopeful
Pass, sir."  Cranbrook greeted him as he reached the door.  "At
present he's taking a breather but will move on to Discovery in a few
days."

"Who is it?" asked Hector.

"Molyneux--the M.P.," answered Cranbrook.


II

"Major Adair, this is Mr. Steven Molyneux," said the
Lieutenant-Governor of Black Elk Territory.  "I think you've met
before, haven't you?"

A week had passed since Hector had watched the commencement of the
great spring rush.  In the Lieutenant-Governor's office in Discovery
City, he shook hands with his enemy.

The Lieutenant-Governor offered chairs and cigars.  There was an
awkward pause.  Gentleman as he was, he hastened to fill it.

"Mr. Molyneux had a pretty tough time on the way up here, Adair," he
said.

"I tell you, Mr. Lancaster," the member for Broncho agreed, "I was
never so glad to see the Old Flag as when I got to the top of Hopeful
Pass.  That place Prospect is beyond description.  Everything was
wide open and, while I was there, gun-fights through the streets
every hour of the twenty-four.  I saw fellows lying dead by the
roadside with their pockets turned inside out.  If it hadn't been for
your Police being with me, I'd have been robbed sure.  What a
contrast between here and there!  They say that Greasy Jones just
runs Prospect.  He must be a corker."

"He is."

"Don't let him in here."

"Don't worry," said Hector.  "He daren't cross the line."

"There's some pretty tough birds in Discovery, all the same.  Can you
handle 'em?"

The Lieutenant-Governor put in his oar.

"I'm sure we can leave that to Major Adair," he said.  "There'll be
no reproductions of Prospect in Canadian territory while he's here."

"Excuse me, Major Adair."  The politician smiled.  "I don't mean to
be critical.  I guess my nerves have been scraped the wrong way in
the past few days, that's all."

Hector answered diplomatic smile with smile.

"That's all right, Mr. Molyneux.  How long are you here for?  We must
try to make your stay as pleasant as possible."

"Oh, don't worry about me, Major.  I'm here for a good long time.
I'm just making a private visit, of course--going to have a look
'round and size things up in this wonderful country.  I might try to
get in on a good thing if I see it, needless to add."

"Quite naturally," said Hector.

The conversation languished.  The Lieutenant-Governor, to enliven it
a little, went into the next room in search of liquid refreshment.

Hector was alone with Welland for the first time in many, many months.

"This gives me a good opportunity, Adair," said the politician, as
soon as Lancaster had gone, "to say something I've been wanting to
say ever since I got here.  I really _am_ up here just to look
around.  I've not come up here to spy on you--or worry you.  I know
just what a hell of a job you have before you and I'm not going to
make it harder for you.  I've every confidence in your ability to run
this show right.  I want bygones to be bygones.  I guess I was wrong
in the past.  It's a hard pill for me to swallow, this.  I'm a proud
man, but--well, what d'you say?"

This halting declaration surprised Hector.

"You can rely on me to play the straight game, Molyneux," he
answered.  "My duty up here is to look after the interests of the
country and community--nothing else.  I've no quarrel with any man
who keeps the law."

The Lieutenant-Governor returned before they could say more.

"I hope you don't think I was indiscreet, Adair?" Lancaster queried
anxiously, when the visitor had taken his departure.  "I know all
about Molyneux's efforts to knife you in the past; but you see----"

"Well, we had to meet some time," Hector soothed him.  "So why not
under your roof?  Where better?"

"Exactly," said Lancaster, much relieved.  "And he can't hurt you
here, Adair--while I'm around."

"Oh, that's all over now," Hector replied.  "We've just cried quits."

"Splendid!" exclaimed the Lieutenant-Governor.


III

At three o'clock in the morning, when Hector was able for the first
time to spare a thought to Welland, he pondered awhile.

His enemy's arrival in Black Elk Territory was a serious thing.
Though Welland's attempt to crush him through the Whitewash Bill
affair had failed at the eleventh hour, he knew very well that the
Commissioner had sent him to the gold area not merely in order to
promote him, but mainly to safeguard him against any further attacks.
Hector's successful handling of Whitewash Bill had made Welland a
laughing-stock and the Commissioner had feared that the result would
mean further and greater danger for Hector.  He had never dreamt that
Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., would follow Hector to such a remote
point.  And Mr. Molyneux--well, here he was!

His purpose?  To size up things, to get in on the gold claims, to
look around--decidedly, yes.  To make Hector's
administration--already difficult, as he had admitted--as difficult
as possible, or at least to watch that administration, gather
together all observations tending to injure Hector, and then to use
them at Ottawa for his removal--again, yes; and a thousand times,
yes!  Hector had not been deceived by the friendly overtures of the
afternoon.  His enemy had come to Discovery to plot his ruin.  Hector
was certain of that.  After all, why should Welland quit at this
stage?  If he had desired to revenge himself on Hector or put him out
of the way before, he was far more likely to have that desire now.
Hector had forced him to eat humble-pie before all Canada.  Yet
Welland, by this time, had become a dominating figure in Western
Canadian politics.  Hector was isolated in Black Elk Territory and
unable to move from it, while Welland could go to Ottawa when he
wished and there bring about his downfall.  Welland had never been in
a better position to fight the fight, never in a better position to
win the fight, than he was at this moment.

At the same time, Hector could have found no better arena for the
last struggle than that of Black Elk Territory.  Why?  Because, in
Black Elk Territory he was a power on a far superior footing to
Welland, whose status was only that of a private individual.  With
the Lieutenant-Governor, his firm friend, he held an almost absolute
authority.  Even Welland, so long as he remained in the Territory,
was entirely dependent on Hector for protection--an ironical
situation for one who had so often attacked the Police!  If Hector
went down here, he was doomed to go down anywhere!

What were Welland's real plans?  Time would soon tell.

At this point Hector went to sleep on it.




Chapter II


I

"What d'you want to see me for?"

In a small, dark room in a Prospect hotel, two men sat facing each
other over a table.

One was Welland.

The other was Greasy Jones, master of the gang of gunmen dominating
the little American port at the head of the route to the Black Elk
gold area.

Greasy Jones was medium-sized, thin and wiry, a rapier rather than a
bludgeon.  His face was artistic, almost delicate, the nose aquiline,
the cheek bones prominent, the forehead high.  His hands, spread out
on the table before him, were long and thin, the kind of hands that
are thoroughly at home on the keyboard of a piano.  But his skin was
too brown and rough for an artist's or musician's, his chin too
prominent, his lips too thin and cruelly set, his strange eyes, under
the overhanging brows, too hard and keen.  The murderer overshadowed
the dreamer in his face, his terrible hands were mobile only for the
pulling of triggers.

"What d'you want to see me for?" the gangster repeated.  "I'm a busy
man--can't afford to waste time."

Welland threw a cigar-case on the table and poured out drinks from a
convenient bottle.

"So you came, after all," he remarked coolly.  "I doubted if you
would."

The gangster pushed back his slouch hat and, leaning over, lit his
cigar in the candle flame.  The action revealed the heavy belt of
ammunition he wore buckled over his dingy coat and his battery of
revolvers.

"Well, I don't gen'lly pay no attention," he said, smiling, "to
strangers that stops me on the street--unless to fill 'em full o'
holes for their nerve.  But I sized you up, Mister, as diff'runt.
An' when you ast me where you could meet me for a talk,
well--anyways, here I am."

"Good," said Welland.  "Now, before we talk business, Mr.
Jones--introductions!  On my part, I mean.  I don't need them from
you."

"No, I guess not," the gangster agreed.  "Everybody knows me an' my
bunch in this here town, that's straight.  Well, go ahead."

"Right.  There you are."

The politician, pulling out a wallet and a mass of papers, spread
them out before the gangster.

Greasy Jones read them leisurely.  When he had finished he knew that
his companion was Mr. Steven Molyneux, prominent Canadian M.P.,
visiting the Black Elk country for a 'look 'round.'

This was bigger game than the gangster usually dealt with.  He was
impressed but suspicious.

"Say," he queried, pushing back the papers, "what's the game, anyway?
Seems mighty queer that a guy like you wants dealin's with a guy like
me.  Take care, my gent, who you try any foolishness on.  Get me?"

"Suppose I convince you that we _have_ something in common--a good
deal, in fact.  Will you be satisfied?"

"All depends," said Greasy Jones.  "Shoot."

In five minutes' hard talking Mr. Welland convinced the skeptical
gangster that he, too, had followed the crooked path very closely in
his time.

"That's all right," Greasy admitted, "but you're a straight man
now--anyhow, in public.  This bein' so, what I want to know is:
what's the game?  What does a fellah 'way up want with a fellah 'way
down, as some folks see it, like me?  Is it some little job you've
got for me--cut someone's throat, eh?"

Welland smiled.

"No, it isn't.  I want to help you."

"You do!  By God, if you're trying to do the dirty on me----"

Greasy Jones flashed a hand to his hip.

"No, no.  Hear me out, can't you?"

"Go ahead."

"All right.  And keep your hand off your gun.  See here, Mr. Jones.
I got into Black Elk Territory about a month ago.  I've spent most of
my time going 'round having a look at things, with Discovery as my
headquarters.  Incidentally, I've got in on one or two good
claims--but let that keep for a minute.  The Mounted Police have
given me a free hand to do as I pleased.  They allow me to go through
Hopeful Pass without question and so on.  Just now, I'm supposed to
be here looking up some goods of mine that have gone astray--_not_
seeing you.  You understand--a man in my position----"

"Yes.  Go ahead.  Cut it short!"

"Well, they don't suspect anything.  Now listen.  On the strict Q.T.,
I've sized up the situation along the creeks and down here in
Prospect pretty well.  And I've found this: there's a large number of
men both sides the line that aren't satisfied with the way the
Mounted Police are running things."

"That's right," muttered Greasy fiercely.  "The yallah-legged sons
o'----!"

"They aren't satisfied," pursued Welland, heedless of the
interruption, "and they'd sweep them out of the country if they
dared.  A lot of men over there on the creeks aren't fit to hold
their claims--rich claims.  There are others who came into the
country weeks after the majority and struck it rich, while the rest
go begging.  Now, that crowd of discontents along the creeks think
this: those fellows who aren't fit to hold those fine rich claims
should be told to get off.  Those that came into the country last but
struck it rich first should be made to hand over _their_ claims, too.
The first comers, and the strong men, the men that need the money,
should have first show on all the gold on Discovery.  That's the way
they size it up in the Black Elk country."

"Well--what's that to do with me?"

"I'm coming to that.  As I was saying, that's how it's sized up
there.  And why isn't it so?  Because--again--of the Mounted Police,
who have the lucky ones under their protection, according to the law.

"Now about the men this side the line.  Hundreds, even thousands,
this side Hopeful Pass have just as much right to get in on the Black
Elk gold as any man alive.  But they can't.  Again--why?"

"Because the yallah-legs won't let 'em," muttered the gangster.

"Just so.  The Mounted Police call them undesirables and shut the
door in their faces."

"Well, where do _we_ come in?  Cut it short, man; cut it short."

Welland took several leisurely puffs at his cigar.  Then, leaning
over, he said with marked emphasis:

"We are in sympathy with that discontented crowd--you are--and _I_
am!"

"I am--cert'nly," exclaimed Greasy, looking at him suspiciously; "but
_you_--say!"

"Yes, I am.  I'm for justice."

"Like sin!" the gangster sneered.  "You're a Canadian M.P.  You're on
the side o' the law.  Your bread's buttered on that side, and you eat
it."

"Not at all," declared Welland.  "I'm on the side of right, I tell
you.  I think the laws that govern Black Elk should be made at
Discovery, not at Ottawa, and by the miners, not the Police.  And the
miners that make 'em should be the strong miners, whether in the
majority or not.  Might makes right in a new country and it ought to
here.  You agree?"

"I run this town with a hundred gunmen--I've been kep' out o' the
Black Elk country by the yallah-legs--an' he asks me do I agree?
Cert'nly, I agree!"

"Then why _doesn't_ Might make Right over there?"

"Because o' the yallah-legs."

"Just so.  Yet there are only two hundred of them.  A few men with
guts could soon put them where they belong."

"Huh!  You think so.  You don't know 'em like I do."

"Have you ever tried to force Hopeful Pass?"

"What's the good?  They've got a Maxim and a dozen men in a place
'bout a yard wide!  They'd mincemeat us before we got into gun-range.
I prefer down here, sir, where the pickin's is easy!"

"You don't think it could be forced?  Well, what would you think of
this?  Stir up the Black Elk country _from the inside_ till every man
worth his salt realizes it's time the Police tyranny went out.
Then--just tell the Police they must either go or change the laws."

"They wouldn't go."

"Suppose you showed 'em force.  Eh?"

"I think they'd fight to the last shot."

Welland was irritated.

"Well, if they _did_ fight?  They could be wiped off the map in a
minute.  It would be ten to one at least."

The gangster frowned.

"Suppose they are wiped out--or kicked out--or they change the laws
to let all hands come in and give the claims to the deservin'.  Well,
what then?"

"Then, my friend, the men that had led the--little protest--would be
masters of Black Elk Territory!"

Greasy Jones thoughtfully chewed his cigar, his eyes on the
flickering candle flame.

"That's so, by God!" he said at last.  "But where--again--do _I_ come
in?  I can't get through Hopeful Pass to stir up trouble."

"No.  But others can--men the Police don't suspect----"

"And me?"

"You'll run the show from this end.  You'll organize the whole
thing--secretly, of course--and when the time comes, you'll get
through Hopeful Pass and take charge."

"Take charge?"

"Yes.  Why, can't you see what this means?  It needs a man with real
guts, who doesn't care a hoot in hell for anyone, to run this thing.
You're the man!"

"That's all right," said the gangster cautiously.  "I don't care a
hoot in hell for any man, that's true.  But I ain't goin' to jump
into the Police trap in Discovery."

"You won't have to go into the Black Elk Territory till everything's
ready.  When the time's ripe, we'll see you get there all right--get
there just in time to lead the boys.  If necessary we'll smuggle you
through."

"An' what'll I get out of it?"

"Haven't I said you'd be at the top of the whole thing--boss of Black
Elk from end to end?  Remember what that means."

"I know what it means," the gangster said, his avaricious eyes
gleaming.  "I'd have earned it, too.  I guess I'd take all the risks.
And--what'd you do?"

"I'd help you along in every way while you organized the show and
keep you posted on developments.  There'd be one condition,
though--I'd deal with you only; and you'd have to keep my name out of
it."

Greasy nodded.

"Yep, I see your point.  'Twouldn't do for a Canadian M.P. to be
mixed up in it," he grinned.  "Of course, it's a long chance.  S'pose
the yallah-legs got wind o' it?  Or s'pose, if we did pull it off,
they sent soldiers from Canada to smash us?  Eh?  What then?"

"They won't.  And if they did, you'd know about it long before.  Then
you could take your pickings and 'git.'"

"Give us the idea again--and give it slow."

Welland complied.

"Here's the general scheme--details to be arranged later: You'll send
people into Black Elk--people the Police don't suspect--to stir up
trouble along the creeks; not to preach violence, mind you, nor yet
preach _anything_ openly, but just to get the boys ready.  At the
same time you'll organize your gunmen here.  When the time comes, you
and your men get into Black Elk, finish preparing the boys, and then
get 'em all together, on the quiet, and throw down your cards.  Then,
if the Police won't give in, you smash 'em and run the country.  If
they do give in, you run things to suit yourselves, just the same.
Then you get your pickings and clear out.  While you're getting your
pickings, you get the U.S. Government to promise to annex the
Territory.  See?  That'll keep the Canadian Government quiet and
you'll be a hero in the little old U.S."

"What if they don't promise?"

"They'll promise, all right.  Anyway, even if they don't, you can
tell the boys they have and that'll give 'em all the heart they want."

Greasy pondered again.

"Say, it sounds a fine idea," he admitted at last.

"It is a fine idea!"  Welland was quick to press the opening.  "Why,
it'll be a cinch for you.  And you'll get real pickings.  A thousand
times what you can make by robbery here and not a tenth the risk.
Sooner or later, you'll get yours if you stick at this game, whereas
if you do what I suggest you'll be able to drop it and live like a
king."

"That's so," the gangster agreed.  "Now--we might as well talk the
thing out, while we're at it--s'pose this thing falls through, in the
end.  What do I get for my trouble?"

Welland smiled, as though expecting the question.

"There's always that possibility.  And, naturally, it wouldn't be
fair to you to have a lot of work wasted.  Remember my mentioning
that I'd some good claims on Discovery?  Well, I'll guarantee
delivery to you of so much in dust and nuggets every month till the
show's ready.  That'll pay you for your trouble, won't it?  I can do
it on the Q.T. and no one the wiser."

"_Now_ you're sayin' something!" declared the gunman.  "Wait, now.
S'pose I agrees--and me an' my gang works this thing up and pulls it
off.  Where do _you_ come in?  What makes a man like you play with
fire like this?"

"I told you, I want to see justice done.  Isn't that good enough?"

"No, it ain't."

"Well, it's true."

"Say, come off.  This thing's got to be on the square between you an'
me or it won't go at all.  What's the game?"

"That's true, I tell you," Welland persisted.  "Of course, I'd expect
my share of the pickings.  Isn't _that_ good enough?"

"Your share--_that's_ more like it.  Now we know!" the gangster
grinned ironically.

"Your answer?"

Again the gangster became cautious.

"I'll have to put it to my bunch--just a few--my 'trusty
lieutenants,'" he said.  "They'll be the bed-rock o' the whole show,
y'see, if it comes off at all."

"All right.  There's no hurry," Welland declared.  "I'll wait for
your answer if you can give it inside twenty-four hours."

"That's all right.  I'll do it."

"Good.  Remember--no mentioning my name."

"Trust me.  I'll be mum as a clam."

Both men were silent.  Then, suddenly, the gangster spoke again.

"Say, that's a great idea!" he exclaimed.  "You're a real smart kid."

Then, before Welland could move an eye, his two revolvers were on the
table, covering the politician.

"You see these guns?" he hissed; and his face was devilish.  "They'll
pump you full o' lead from head to heel if you're tryin' a
double-cross on me.  Get me?"

"A double-cross?" asked Welland, with no sign of alarm.  "Why should
I double-cross you?"

"That's neither here nor there.  Just you mark what I said, that's
all."

"And in return," said Welland slowly and distinctly, "you'll just
remember this: if you give me away to a living soul, by so much as a
word, I'll see you cut to pieces.  I know just how to get you.  And I
can get you when I please."

Greasy's eyelids flickered.  This man was of a type which was strange
to him--one with whom it was not safe to trifle.  He might have the
power to do as he said.  Smiling, he put up his weapons and rose from
the table.

"Well, I guess we understand each other, Molyneux.  There won't be no
double-crossin', here or here.  We're pardners, on the square--an' no
questions ast.  Correct?"

"Correct," said Welland.

"Then shake."

They shook.

"All serene," declared Greasy, this little ceremony over.  "Then
tomorrow, here, at eleven, if that suits you, I'll let you know
whether you can count me in on the--say, what'll we call this thing,
anyway?"

Welland smiled.

"The republic," he suggested.

The gangster grinned back.

"That's it--whether you can count me in on the republic."

And they parted.

As the gunman went down the stairs, a man waiting at the foot shrank
into a corner to escape his observation.  Greasy passed out without
seeing him, and the man resumed his post at the foot of the stairs,
his eyes on the door of the room where Welland still sat.


II

Six men sat 'round a table in a private room of the Eagle dance-hall,
one of Prospect's leading places of entertainment.  The door was
locked on the inside.  Through the flimsy walls the blare of a brass
band, shouts, shrieks and laughter rolled into the room from below,
and an occasional outburst of firing told of gentlemen exchanging
compliments in the street outside.

At the head of the table Greasy Jones presided.  His companions were
his 'trusty lieutenants,' the leading members of his gang.

The prisons of all ages, the literature of all countries, might be
raked through and through without producing a choicer set of villains.

On Mr. Jones' right sat No-nose Joe.  As his nickname indicated, the
most prominent feature of his face was absent, having been either
shot or knocked off.  Its absence added a final grand touch of
ferocity to an already hideous, unshaven face equipped with piglike
eyes.  Joe was built on a burly scale and was noted for deeds, not
words.

Next to Joe sat Pete, a haggard youth, pale, clean-shaven,
sleepy-eyed, but cunning, quick and nervous in all his movements,
like a rat.

Monsieur Philibert was at the foot of the table.  Philibert's hair,
what there was of it, was black, streaked with grey.  His straggly
beard was also grey, embellished by tobacco juice.  He had bright,
enquiring brown eyes and hairy hands, like an ape's.  Apart from a
generous sprinkling of blood-curdling adjectives, occasionally
applied, his English was perfect.

The fourth man, Sure-thing Kelly, was plump, ruddy and
innocent-looking.  As a smiling grocer, he would have been perfect.
Actually, he was perfect as a smiling butcher--pistols his tools.

Spanish Alphonze brought up the rear--a sturdily built fellow, with
slanting eyes, thin, black, drooping moustache, hair on end, skin the
colour of a dried fig.  A lady of Seville had decorated him in youth
with a livid scar stretching from ear to chin.  This made him
interesting.

The entire party were heavily armed after the fashion of their
master, Greasy Jones, who was quite evidently the brains of the
gathering.

Having explained Welland's scheme in his own vivid style, Greasy
proceeded to put the finishing touches to his discourse by answering
the questions of his interested followers.

"We are to smuggle our men in slowly, so as to have as many as
possible over there before the show-down?"  The query was
Philibert's.  "And we go in last to take charge--chiefly because we
don't want to risk being landed by the Police before it's strictly
necessary?"

"Got it dead right," grinned Greasy.

"And the arms--for the boys already in Black Elk--the boys that need
'em--that we can trust?  I suppose we smuggle the arms across as
well?"

"Right once more.  Your head's screwed on as it should be, Philibert!"

"How're we goin' to stir the boys up?" asked Pete.

"Well, o' course we'll do it secret--an' all constitootunal!  My
friend, the nameless friend, as I told you before, he says they think
the laws is wrong an' should be made by the men in Black Elk, an'
that Might makes Right in a new country.  This partic'lar crowd over
there thinks so, I mean.  Well, we must encourage 'em in that--on the
Q.T.  Tell 'em, quiet, that if force is required, force should be
used.  Then we provides 'em that ain't got it with the force
necessary.  'But,' we says, 'we won't use no force if it ain't
required.  Oh, no.  That'd put us in bad everywhere!'  See?  Then we
tells 'em, 'Look who you've got behind you.  The best men on the
continent's behind you'--meanin' you an' me, boys--'an' when the time
comes, they'll lead you on to vict'ry.  But just now it's a secret.
See?'  An'--more 'n' that!--we'll tell 'em this: 'The Gov'nment o'
the U-nited States is behind you!  An', with the U-nited States
behind you, you can do as you damn well please!'  That's what we'll
say--later on, when the time's ripe.  That'll put guts in 'em.
That'll get the Yankee patriots in Black Elk as nothin' else can!"

"Say, you're a ruddy genius, Cap," asserted Sure-thing Kelly.  "But
say--is the U.S. really goin' to back us up?"

Greasy looked all 'round the table with great effect before replying.
Then, leaning over, he whispered, smiling:

"That is a fact, boys, I've got it on good authority from that
nameless gent that the li'l old U.S. will see us through."

"Well, say!" exclaimed the listeners, with shining eyes.  If anything
could completely win them over to the plot, it was this promise of
support from a great power--gratuitously given by Greasy Jones on a
hint from Welland.  This promise, with its assurance that the great
United States would save their coward hides if anything, by the
slightest chance, went wrong, was a trump card.  And Greasy knew it
well.

"Is that all clear now?  We run the show from here--send our boys
over by ones and twos--go over ourselves when ready--take
charge--down the yallah-legs--set ourselves up in full command--strip
the country--and clear out.  Get me?"

"You bet!" said the trusty lieutenants.  "We're in this thing up to
the neck!"

"Stop a minute!"  The keenly perceptive Philibert had one more
question to ask.  "Who is to do the 'stirring up,' Captain?  You'll
not want any of us to put our heads in the lion's mouth, I hope?"

"No," replied Greasy.  "We'll choose some respectables with the gift
o' gab from among us here in Prospect--pay 'em well--oh, yes, we'll
have to pay 'em--an' send 'em over to do the talkin' for us.  If
they're caught, that's their look-out.  But they won't be caught.
This thing's a dead secret from first to last.  Understand that,
boys--every man keeps his mouth shut.  Before God, if there's a
squealer, he'll get his from me!"

His lieutenants knew he would keep his word.  There would therefore
be no squealing.

"Well, boss, what do we do first?" asked Sure-thing Kelly.

"Nothin' just now--not a word--not a thing--till I say so.  I just
wanted to get you all in on this tonight.  Now, fill the glasses,
Pete, an' I'll give you something to drink to.  Here y'are,
boys"--the gangster rose to his feet, smiling benevolently.  "To the
finish o' the yallah-legs; an' success to the Black Elk Republic!"

"The Black Elk Republic!"

They drank.  Just as he set down his glass Greasy Jones whipped out
his revolvers and blazed a volley into the door.  The startled men
sprang up.  Philbert had the door open in an instant.

"Boys, there was someone listenin' outside!" exclaimed the gangster,
his cruel face twitching.  "By God, I'll kill the man that runs this
joint!"

But in the passage there was nothing.


III

When Welland, his business in Prospect transacted, returned to
Discovery, he did not know that two pairs of eyes held him under
close observation throughout the journey.

In telling Greasy Jones that he had come to Prospect to recover a
shipment of goods, the politician had spoken the truth.  Having
received word of the gangster's successful parley with his
lieutenants, Welland traced the goods and hired a packer with two
ponies and a partner to carry them through Hopeful Pass to Nugget and
there transfer them to the side-wheeler Black Elk Belle, the packer's
partner remaining with Welland to see them safely to Discovery, while
the packer himself returned with his ponies to Prospect.

To the packer's partner aforesaid belonged one of the two pairs of
eyes which kept watch on Welland.

The second pair did duty in the head of a quiet, unobtrusive little
miner supposed to be on his way from Prospect to a claim on Discovery
Creek.

Of the packer's partner and his watch, the little miner knew nothing.
Of the miner and his watch, the packer's partner knew nothing.  They
worked independently.

On arrival at Discovery, the packer's partner saw the goods safely
home.  There the Rev. Mr. Northcote welcomed Welland warmly.  The
Rev., like a true Crusader, believed in fighting his battles in the
vanguard, where blows fell thickest and courage was an asset;
wherefore he had always been a pioneer and was now in Black Elk
Territory, youngest and wildest of Canadian communities.  When Mr.
Molyneux tired of hotel life in Discovery City, the Rev., swallowing
his dislikes and prejudices, had offered the politician half his
kingdom, a little shanty not far from barracks.  Welland had
accepted.  Necessity and pioneering make strange bed-fellows.

The question of a job for the packer's partner--who had decided to
quit at Discovery--came up at that moment.  Welland had promised to
help him.  The Rev. Mr. Northcote needed a general factotum.  The
packer's partner had many qualifications.  Thenceforth he became Lord
Chamberlain to Mr. Northcote and assumed the name of Charlie.  That
night Charlie wrote a short note and posted it at the barracks.  It
was addressed to the packer in Prospect.  But it was intended for Mr.
Greasy Jones.

"Will watch him all right," said the note.  "Have a job here that
suits it fine."

Mr. Greasy was running no risks of a double-cross!

And the unassuming miner?--went straight from the wharf at Discovery
to--Police headquarters.

Ten days later he met with a stray bullet--a real stray, intended for
someone else--fired by a member of Greasy's gang in Prospect.  A good
Samaritan rifled his pockets and buried him.




Chapter III


I

Men of all nationalities, and of all professions, honesty of purpose
their only common bond, made the Superintendent's quarters at
Discovery their nightly rendezvous.  The Superintendent's great
personality drew them.  Coming to his office for assistance or
advice--as they did, in dozens, during the day--they were glad to
accept his invitation to visit him 'off duty.'

At eleven o'clock one night a representative gathering of this kind
held crowded converse round his chair.  Lancaster, the
Lieutenant-Governor, headed the scale.  Forshaw, transferred from
Broncho with Hector and still his Adjutant, sat on the
Lieutenant-Governor's right.  Cranbrook, on a flying visit from
Nugget, was also present.  Inspector Gemmell, a good-looking,
curly-headed youngster of two or three years' service, maintained
discreet silence in the background.  Medicine was typified by Doctor
Quick, Commissioner of Public Health for Black Elk Territory.  The
Rev. Mr. Northcote stood very well for Religion and Mr. Steven
Molyneux for Politics, or Statesmanship.  There were also in
attendance a few nondescripts, good men and true but of no particular
account.

The talk, from frivolities, had settled into serious channels.

"More claim-jumping on Lake Miner, I hear, Major," said the Rev. Mr.
Northcote.

"Yes, I believe there was an attempt at it," Hector answered.  "But
the detachment there has handled it satisfactorily."

"There's an ugly crowd up there," asserted Molyneux.

"There are ugly crowds," said the Lieutenant-Governor, "in all parts
of Black Elk Territory.  Major Adair sentenced forty men today."

"He'll sentence lots more if this trouble goes on," suggested the
politician.

"I don't anticipate it," Hector answered.

"You don't!"  Molyneux looked moderately surprised.  "But--consider
it: This claim-jumping at Lake Miner--this unrest on the creeks----"

"Yes," said one of the nondescripts, a German, "der unrest on der
creeks!  Growls aboud der royalty on der gold ad Bioneer Lake!
Intimerdation hof der regorder ad Lucky!  Der meeting of brodest at
Nugget!  D'reats hof violence on Discovery idself!  Vat do you make
of dat, Major Adair?"

"Nothing to be alarmed at," Hector declared.

"You don't think it's--" the Rev. began.

"The rumblings of a volcano?" Molyneux finished.

"No, I don't," said Hector.

"Phew!  I'm glad to hear it," said an American nondescript.  "It
looks just a little suspicious.  But you ought to know."

"Yes, I should," Hector smiled.  "And I do."

The talk swung to other matters.  But the American nondescript was
not really satisfied.  Presently he returned to the subject.

"Say, Major--frankly--we're all friends here, and trustworthy--won't
you say--unofficially--what you _really_ think?  Surely there _is_
trouble of some sort in the wind?"

"I've told you precisely the truth," Hector answered steadily.  "I
don't believe there's anything to fear.  There may be trouble--but we
can handle it."

"You can?"

Molyneux, still smiling, asked the question.

"Absolutely."

"You've only d'o hundred men here, Major, and dare are dousands hof
tough nuts in der Territory," said the German.

"Never mind."  Hector was very sure of himself.  "They'll listen to
reason, if handled properly.  If they won't, there are plenty of
stout-hearted, law-abiding citizens here to help us."

"Well said, sir!"

The Rev. most heartily approved.

"Supposing there was trouble, Major," persisted the politician, "in
confidence--as our friend said, we're all reliable fellows here--just
how _would_ you handle it?"

Again his guests looked intently at the Superintendent.  But Molyneux
searched Hector's face in vain for the sign he sought.

"I'd appeal to reason first; then, if necessary, to force.  In
employing force, I'd rely exclusively on my own men.  I wouldn't use
any other weapon except as a last resort."

"Being confident," said the American, "that you could get along with
your two hundred?"

"Being confident--whatever happened," replied Hector, "that I could
get along with my two hundred."

"The fool!" thought the politician.

Thinking of Greasy Jones and the plot they were concocting, he hugged
himself inside.


II

One fine midsummer morning there came to the barrack gate a
boisterous, turbulent crowd.  The sentry called out the guard.  The
noise penetrated to Hector's sanctum--a most unwonted noise----

"Sergeant-Major"--he motioned to Bland, transferred from Broncho to
Black Elk Territory at Hector's request--"find out the meaning of
this disturbance, please."

The Sergeant-Major hastened out, visions of riots in his head.  When
he reached the gate, however, he found that the crowd had
good-humouredly fallen back, leaving the person on whom their
attention centred to pass through the line of Police undisturbed.

"Well, what was it?"

Without looking up from his writing, Hector flung the question at the
Sergeant-Major as that worthy N.C.O. returned.

Bland thanked Heaven for the Superintendent's preoccupation.

"It's--it's--" he began.

"It's Constable Oswald," said an alluring voice, "and he's brought
you a prisoner."

Hector looked up to see before him: _One_, the Rev. Mr. Northcote, on
the broad grin, held captive by _two_, a buck policeman, standing at
attention.

"What does this mean?"

Hector's tone was icy.

He never permitted liberties.  It seemed that this was one; for
Constable Oswald was--a woman, in the complete uniform, scarlet coat
and all, of a member of the Force!

"Come along, what's the meaning of this?" demanded Hector again,
though the sternness was gone from his voice and there was a twinkle
in his eye.

Constable Oswald burst out laughing.  Northcote lifted up his voice
and bellowed.  Bland went into a corner and shook.  After that,
Hector could contain himself no longer.  The office rang with mirth.

"How dare you come in here like this--and play such tricks on me?
Northcote, I insist on an explanation," Hector said, as soon as he
could get his breath back.

"Major Adair, I'll explain," the lady declared.  She was still
laughing.  "The fact of the matter is--I was in a boat--coming down
the Black Elk this morning--when she upset.  My valise was lost
and--well, the corporal in charge of the nearest post came to the
rescue and put the wardrobe of the post at my disposal.  Not wishing
to elevate myself too highly, I chose a constable's outfit.
Honestly, it was all there was!  Will you forgive me?"

"It's a misuse of the Queen's uniform, of course, Miss----"

"Oswald----"

"Miss Oswald--but--well, you plead so nicely and the circumstances
are extenuating, so we'll let you off this time.  And Mr. Northcote
must see you properly provided for.  By the way, were you the cause
of the excitement outside?"

"Yes."  Her eyes beamed laughter.  "I think a woman constable is a
new thing in Discovery."

It was.  Nothing like it had been seen in the Territory before, nor
was ever seen again.  Miss Oswald's entrance, like everything else
with which she was connected, was original and exclusive.

"And now--what I really came here for," she went on, quite at home in
her strange environment and attire, "was to state my business.  I'm a
woman reporter and I've come up here for the Montreal _Comet_ to
write up the Black Elk country."

"You're plucky.  This is a dangerous part of the world."

"Oh, I love excitement and danger."  This was obviously true.
"Besides, I----"

"Excuse me--but--" some far depth in Hector's memory had been
sounded--"didn't you come up to Regina with the Press Association
in----?"

"Yes!" cried Nita Oswald delightedly.  "I _told_ Mr. Northcote you'd
remember me--and my bustle!"

A stout-hearted, unfailing friend, a credit to journalism, this
energetic woman was to prove herself.


III

That was a busy and momentous day for Hector.  The door had barely
closed on Nita Oswald when he found himself in conference with the
Lieutenant-Governor.

"Have you heard anything"--Lancaster was very thoughtful--"that would
lead you to suspect our administration of--well, graft, Adair?"

"Graft, sir?"

"Yes, graft--and double dealings--and rottenness----"

"Nothing definite."

"Humph!  Well, we've got it, just the same.  I've positive evidence,
unfortunately, that some of the recorders have been accepting bribes.
At Pioneer Lake, for instance, the recorder falsified his books to
show that a certain party had staked a certain claim before it was
taken up by another man.  Some technicality or other bore favourable
witness to the falsehood.  Shortly afterwards, when the rightful
owner had been ousted, the recorder became suddenly rich.  He was
suspected and--well, anyhow, the whole story is now in my hands."

"Bad business!"

"Yes.  But it doesn't stop there.  I've learned of similar things at
Nugget and on Discovery.  At present, I don't know a man in the whole
Department whom I can absolutely trust."

"What do you propose to do?"

"I can only warn them and watch them.  Fire the lot?  Where could I
replace them?  And the new set would be as bad as the old."

"If there's anything I can do, sir----"

"You can do a great deal, Adair.  Put your men on the alert for
anything suspicious.  Help me--and get them to help me--in this fight
for clean administration.  You can do that."

"I will, sir."

"Good.  We'll clear up the mess by degrees.  And we'll make a strong
team.  Now, I'd like to know, confidentially, has anything of the
sort come to your notice?  Have any of your men----?"

"Been offered bribes, sir?"  The Superintendent stiffened.  "I've
heard of none.  No-one would dare to attempt to bribe them!  And they
wouldn't take one--not a man of them."

"You've heard of none, then?  But you wouldn't--if it was accepted."

"Wouldn't I?  You don't know my men, sir, as I do."

"Well, if you hear of any such attempt, will you let me know?"

"Yes, sir.  But I _won't_ hear of any such attempt!"

"How he loves those men, and trusts them!" thought the
Lieutenant-Governor, not without envy and admiration.

"I'll rely on your help?" he said aloud.

"Absolutely."

"Good.  That's all--just now."


Hector pondered over Lancaster's report for several hours.  Bribery
and corruption creeping in--here--there; and he sought for a light in
the darkness.

In the afternoon Fate startled him with a piece of news directly and
unpleasantly bearing on the conversation of the morning--Fate
assuming the form and personality of Inspector Gemmell and of
Sergeant (ex-Lieut Col.) Kellett, who came into the office to see him.

A curious pair they made, Kellett and Gemmell--the grey-headed
Sergeant, with his breast of ribbons, taking orders from the boy, who
might, under other circumstances, have passed for his son or the
junior subaltern of his regiment.

"Well?"

The stern ejaculation jerked Gemmell into action.

"I've brought Sergeant Kellett in to report an experience he had
yesterday, sir," said the curly-headed Inspector.  "I thought it
better you should hear it, sir, from him direct."

"All right, Kellett--your story."

"Sir," said Kellett, "yesterday, when collecting royalties, I was
offered a bribe."

Hector's mind flashed back to his conversation with Lancaster.  A
bribe!

"The man was a Swede, Hendrick Olson, working a group of claims on
Lake Fortune and another on Discovery.  He handed me a large poke and
told me there was more where that came from if I would not ask him to
pay the royalty, or words to that effect."

"And you----?"

The Superintendent looked anxious.

"I gave it back to him, sir.  Then I knocked him down."

A little of the severity in the C.O.'s thoughtful face relaxed.

"Go on."

"Then I gave him a good round talking to, sir.  I told him that his
was a criminal offense.  I tried to make him understand what the
Force represents and maintains, sir.  Finally, I told him that the
surest way for him to damn himself in our eyes was to play the
crooked game.  I think he grasped it all, sir, in the end."

Here was a man with the honour of the Force at heart--a man long
trained in true _esprit de corps_--with real knowledge of and
sympathy for his chief.  Not for nothing had Sergeant Kellett
commanded his own regiment in his time!

"Thank you, Kellett.  Report any further affairs of this kind that
come to your notice, will you?  You did the right thing, Mr. Gemmell.
That will do."

The Superintendent shook hands with them both; and in that moment
there were between them no distinctions of rank.  They were simply
comrades-in-arms, united in their jealous love of the corps they
served.

Forshaw came in a few minutes after the others had gone.  He looked
serious when Hector told him what had happened.

"What do you propose to do, sir?" he enquired.

"With the men?  Nothing," answered Hector.  "Only--trust them."

Later, when he saw the Lieutenant-Governor again, the latter asked
him a little banteringly:

"Aren't you alarmed--in case your Department should fall from its
high estate, as the recorders have done?"

"No, I'm not," he replied.


Then, on the same day, came to hand two reports, one from Dunsmuir at
Hopeful Pass, forwarded through Cranbrook, the other from Cranbrook
himself, returned to his station at Nugget, both bearing much on the
situation developing in the Territory.

Hector read the first report:


'Nugget City, B.E.T., Today's Date.

  'Officer Commanding, N.W.M.P.,
      'Black Elk Territory.

'Sir: I have the honour to report that at 3 p.m. yesterday it was
reported that word was being circulated through the camps on Upper
Nugget for a secret meeting of certain miners to be held in
_O'Brien's Place_, a Nugget City dance-hall, before opening time,
i.e., 7 p.m., that day.  I considered it better to permit the meeting
to be held but to attend same myself in order to ascertain what
occurred.  I therefore caused it to be circulated throughout Nugget
that I would be out of town when the meeting took place.  I then
secured admission to _O'Brien's Place_ undetected and secreted
myself.  Before the meeting the hall was searched, but I was not
discovered.  Sentries were also posted, but in an unobtrusive way,
nor were the doors or windows locked, the object being, in my
opinion, to deceive us if we interrupted the meeting and cause us to
believe that those in attendance had nothing to conceal.

'At 6.30 p.m. the meeting was declared open.  The chair was taken by
Ginger Yates, whom I have had under suspicion for some time but
against whom I have been unable to obtain evidence.  There were also
on the platform three miners from this district.  About seventy-five
men occupied the auditorium.  I could not recognize many of them nor
was I able to identify those joining in the subsequent discussion, as
my hiding-place did not afford a good view of the hall, but the
majority must have been men from this district.  The names of those
recognised and in any way concerned with the meeting are given in
attached appendix.

'The meeting was addressed by a man unknown to me.  He is a newcomer
to Nugget and may have come in from the outside.

'The chairman introduced the stranger as 'a friend of all miners and
especially of those who had led the rush into the country after the
big strike.'  The unknown man then spoke for a period of fifteen
minutes.  I could not record his remarks in full but, in general,
they were directed against the administration of this Territory.  The
speaker said there were far too many people in the country now and,
in his opinion, the Government should have held at the border all
those attempting to enter after the first big rush went through.
(Cheers.)  In his opinion, the first comers had a right to all the
wealth of the country, but that men who came in later had struck it
rich before them and had been permitted by the administration to
carry off what really did not belong to them under the noses of the
old-timers, many of whom, like themselves, had been thus compelled to
shift to poorer fields, there being no room for them along Discovery
Creek.  He also stated that the laws governing Black Elk Territory
should be made by the miners, _irrespective of nationality_, and not
at Ottawa.  (Cheers.)

'The speaker then repeatedly cautioned his hearers against reading
his remarks as an incitation to violence.  He did not advocate
violence.  But he thought they should respectfully petition the
Government to allow them to make their own laws.  And one of the
first laws should compel all late-comers to hand over their claims to
those who entered Black Elk before them.

'The speaker then said that the meeting was not secret, in the
strictest sense, but had been called quietly together so that it
might not be interrupted by non-sympathizers.  The same consideration
had induced him to select for an audience those known by Mr. Yates to
hold his own views.  It would, at the same time, be necessary to
organize quietly, lest their purpose be misconstrued and their
prospects wrecked.

'He then sat down, amid applause.

'The speaker was evidently a man of some education and talent.  He
spoke excellent English and was apparently not of the criminal class.

'The chairman calling for the audience to state their views, several
members rose in support of the speaker's remarks.  Two were
especially extreme, abusing the Premier, the Lieutenant-Governor, the
Mounted Police and yourself, and favouring violence to gain their
ends.  Yates suppressed these remarks.  Others, whom I judged to be
foreigners, insisted in demanding that the privileges of British
subjects be extended to all resident in the Territory.  I gathered
that the audience was of a low moral character and somewhat hostile
to the Force.

'A resolution was then passed, sympathizing with the speaker's stand
and pledging all present to work quietly towards awakening the
first-comers to 'a proper appreciation of their grievances.'

'I am having search made with a view to discovering the whereabouts
and identity of the man who addressed the meeting and am also keeping
O'Brien, the proprietor of the hall, and Ginger Yates, the chairman,
under observation.

'I have the honour to be, sir,'


And so to Cranbrook's flourishing signature and a conclusion.

Forshaw watched his chief's face closely as he perused this report,
but could read nothing there.

"What d'you think of it, sir?" he asked.

"My only wonder, Forshaw," answered the Superintendent, "is that
we've not had similar reports before!"

"Then this one from Corporal Dunsmuir won't surprise you, either."

And the little man laid the following before him:


  'Hopeful Pass Detachment, B.E.T.,
      Today's Date.

  'Officer Commanding, N.W.M.P.,
      'Nugget City.

'Sir: I have the honour to report that I discovered concealed in the
outfit of a negro giving the name of Rastus Lafayette Washington
Green, who endeavoured to pass customs today, these weapons: 6
revolvers, of various makes, all modern; 1 Winchester rifle; 2 Snider
carbines; also 100 rounds assorted revolver ammunition.  I
confiscated same and am detaining Green pending instructions from you.

'This man has made frequent trips from Prospect to Discovery, but no
arms have been discovered on him, though his outfit, clothing, etc.,
have always been closely searched.

'I have the honour to be, sir,'

And so to Dunsmuir's scrawling signature and a conclusion.

The Lieutenant-Governor's report, Kellett's report, Cranbrook's,
Dunsmuir's--and still he searched for light in the darkness.


IV

Three weeks later the Lieutenant-Governor came again to Hector with a
long catalogue of crookedness recently detected.

"It's too bad," Hector sympathized, when Lancaster had finished.
"The temptations in this Territory are tremendous."

"Yes.  But that doesn't matter.  And this fellow Molyneux----"

"What about him?" asked Hector quickly.

"I don't like his presence here, Adair.  He says nothing, does
nothing.  But suppose he carries word of all this back to Ottawa
before I clean it up.  That will mean ruin--to me."

"I hope not, sir."

"I'm afraid so."  The Lieutenant-Governor passed a hand over his
tired eyes.  "Yet I'm doing my best.  I couldn't fight Molyneux,
though, on his own ground.  And the public would suspect me of being
personally implicated in this graft.  They always do suspect the men
on top.  Yes, it will mean my finish."

"I think you'd get plenty of support from the men who know you."

"Perhaps.  But could they fight Molyneux's money?  And the man's been
acquiring claims right and left!  You know that, don't you?"

"I know it, yes."

"By the way, have your men reported anything further?"

"Bribery?  Yes; several more attempts.  I don't like it, sir.  It's
unfair to a man to try him with such temptations.  Even a small bribe
looks worth while to a man drawing fifty cents a day.  But I'm sure
the boys will pull through with flying colours."

"They'll need to.  The feeling along the creeks is rising.  The
miners are very many; the servants of the Government very few."

When the Lieutenant-Governor was gone, Hector sat down to think.  He
fully grasped the significance of the corruption which the
Lieutenant-Governor was fighting.  Molyneux must know of it, since it
was known to many of the miners.  And if Molyneux did not use it as a
weapon on returning to Ottawa, the miners were almost certain to
raise a storm about it.  The community of Black Elk was like a
spirited horse, fretting against the curb.  Every bribe accepted by a
Government official, be he only an insignificant clerk, was a stroke
from the whip.  'The miners are very many; the servants of the
Government very few.'  This statement showed the fear haunting the
Lieutenant-Governor--the fear of serious trouble, of indignant
protest by the miners against this maladministration.  If trouble
came, the position of the minority would be very uncomfortable.  All
in all, Lancaster's anxiety was not surprising.

The situation being what it was, the necessity of maintaining the
integrity of his own command untarnished was greater, if possible,
than ever.  In view of the temptation, and of the delicate situation,
perhaps a little encouragement from higher up might be a good thing.

"Vickers," he told his clerk, "take this down for circulation to all
posts and detachments--to be read by every man in the division----"


Sergeant Kellett, on Discovery Creek, called Constable York's
detachment to attention and read them the C.O.'s letter:

'CONFIDENTIAL.

It has been brought to the notice of the Officer Commanding, Black
Elk Territory, that members of the Force and others have recently
been offered bribes.  The Officer Commanding has yet to learn of a
bribe being accepted by any member of the Force.

The Officer Commanding recognizes no circumstances justifying any
member of the Force in accepting bribes in any shape or form.
Recalling the fact from personal experience, he knows of no instance
since the Force was organized of any member either seeking or
accepting illegitimate remuneration for his services.

All ranks of the Force in Black Elk Territory will remember that the
reputation of the North-West Mounted Police is in their hands.'

The Sergeant gravely folded the paper and dismissed the detachment.
Whereupon the detachment--total strength, three men--flocked round
him and begged to see the letter for themselves.

Followed muttering comment: "'And others'--that's tactful,
eh?"--"'The O.C. has yet to learn'--there's a touch of brag in
that."--"'The Officer Commanding recognizes no'--by Jove, I wish he'd
spent the winter with me in Hopeful Pass!"--"You fool, he went
through worse before you were born!"--"'Recalling the fact from
personal experience'--that's right!  The Old Man came out with the
Originals!"--"'All ranks will remember that the reputation--.'  Good
old 'Spirit-of-Iron'!"

"Yes," said Sergeant Kellett, forcibly annexing the letter, "it's in
their hands!  And, before the Lord, you, York, or any man Jack of
you, if you forget it, I'll take down my stripes and lick the
stuffing out of you!"

"Thanks!" the red-readed York flashed back hotly.  "Think I'd go back
on the Chief?  You just hint that I'd forget it, Sergeant Kellett,
an' I'll knock your block off, stripes an' all!"

"Right-o!" replied the Sergeant, grown strangely husky.  "Keep your
hair on, carrots!  We'll let that sentiment stand for the whole
Force, if you please."

And stand for the Force it did.


V

Miss Nita Oswald, when she first came to the North, had ignored
Prospect as a field for 'copy.'  Discovery City lured her.  But
closer acquaintance had shown her that Black Elk Territory was almost
too law-abiding to be picturesque.  Her Editors were clamouring for
'thrills' and 'ginger.'  Her friends advised her to seek them in
Prospect.  Mr. Northcote thought that Prospect was no place for a
lady.  But Miss Oswald's thirst for sensation ruled her and she
insisted on seeing the place for herself.

"Very well," said the Human Parson, "if you will go, I'll go with
you."

"Chaperone?"  Miss Oswald had queried, with a touch of assumed anger.
"Think I need one?"

"Chaperone?  No!  Protector?  Yes!  Though you mightn't think it, I'm
an artist with a six-shooter; and not a bad fist at boxing."

"Come on, then!  There's no need to ask you to leave your odour of
sanctity behind--you've never had it!"

So they went down into Prospect; and, in due course, sallied out on
knowledge bent.

The streets were a blaze of light.  Crowds gathered thickly, like
blundering, deluded moths, round the glaring entrances of the bigger
dance-halls, cafés, saloons, gambling houses, dope dens and theatres.
On platforms outside the theatres bands blared murderously and
leathern-throated men, standing before posters of scarlet-cheeked
women in all stages of dress and undress, bellowed lurid descriptions
of the delights they had to offer.  From the dance-halls came crashes
of music, shouts and shrieks; shouts, jingling of glasses and pistol
shots from the saloons.  No-one minded them.  No-one minded
anything--except their own business.  When drunken men were flung out
of the saloons, when obstreperous plungers, their last dollar gone,
were pitched bodily from the gambling houses, no-one raised them from
the ground where they lay.  Greasy Jones' gang worked openly through
the crowd.  The men in the ticket-offices sat with revolvers ready to
hand.  Broken men, shuddering from the effects of cocaine or opium,
wandered aimlessly about the dope dens.  Innumerable painted ladies
cried their wares.  There was no peace, no truth, no beauty in
Prospect.  It was a ghastly hunting-ground of Vice and Death.

The Rev. Mr. Northcote and his companion saw it all.

Towards two a.m., seeking a climax, they visited a theatre, the
lowest they could find.  Miss Oswald was determined to see it.  There
were boxes at the sides, benches in the auditorium.  The air was grey
with smoke, the floor a mass of filth.  The packed audience, as Nita
Oswald afterwards told the readers of the Comet, 'would have made the
combined resources of ancient Newgate and modern Sing-Sing look like
a Band of Hope meeting.'  There was a real stage, with real scenery.
A cavern below the footlights accommodated the orchestra, consisting
of a jangling piano and two asthmatic violins.  The artists were of
two varieties--the has-beens and the never-will-bes.  The former
depended on charity and their past reputations, the latter on their
youth, their looks and their self-confidence, which was unfathomable.
There was a bar in one corner, marvellously patronized.  Between the
acts, the younger actresses, in their airy costumes, ran up to the
boxes and beguiled the occupants on commission into buying cigars at
one hundred dollars a box and drinks at ten dollars per.  Greasy
Jones and his cronies occupied a box and were closely surrounded by
bevies of beauty; but he paid for nothing, the proprietor being
entirely dependent on his patronage.

As soon as Miss Oswald and the parson were seated, a man in an old
dress suit appeared on the stage and announced that one of the actors
would deliver an address.

This was a surprise to the audience, 'addresses' being unusual.  But
it proved even more of a surprise to the Rev. Mr. Northcote and the
woman reporter.

The actor, who had previously given a 'black-face' turn, came on in
costume, with his cork still on.  And he began to speak.  He had been
drinking.

"Ladies an' Gennelmun: The lady that pre-ceded me sang you a song,
the composhision of one of our bri'est local poets, directin' upon
that famous force o' sanctimonious red-coats clevuhly referred to as
'the yallah-legs,' the well-deserved arrars of wit an' ridicule.
Ladies an' Gennelmun, I agree with her (Cheers).  You agree with her
(Cheers).  An' I wanna tell you folks what _I_ think should be done
to 'em.

"Ladies an' Gennelmun--fellow-citenens--them fellers have kept you
an' me out o' Black Elk Terr'ty.  Yes, suh, kep'us out' Black Elk
Terr'ty.  Is tha' right!  Is tha' just?  (Thunderous cries of 'No!')
Cer'nly not!  We're en-titled to get in on that gol' up there.  An' I
say we ought ge' in (Cheers).

"Now, why aren't we in there?  Eh?  'Cause them yallah-legs keep us
out.  An' why do they keep us out?  'Cause in'str'ns from--from the
citenens o' Black Elk?  No!  From the autocrats that govern Canada
(Prolonged booing).

"Now, I advocate that the laws oughta be changed.  Yes!  Who should
gov'n Black Elk Terr'ty?  Why, the citenens!  If they gov'ned Black
Elk, you'd find we'd be there!  Yes, suh (Cheers).

"Now, I wan' all you peepul, Ladies an' Gennelmun, to work for tha'
change.  Mos' of us here tonight, 'll stay here--'cause o' the
yallah-legs.  But you can work for tha' change jus' the same!  An'
those on their way in, they can work for 't, too.  An' you can help
fix the yallah-legs."  Here followed two minutes of scathing and
heartily applauded abuse of the Mounted Police.  The speaker worked
himself up to a high pitch of excitement.  Then, "I tell you, Ladies
an' Gennelmun, I'd like to see a new flag over Black Elk!  Yes, I
would!  Any flag--but the Stars an' Stripes preferred!  (Terrific
applause from one section of the audience.)  I want a change.  An' I
tell you, suh, confidenshully, there's goin'----"

Over the hall rang out a man's voice, commanding, terrible:

"Stop!"

All eyes turned to Greasy Jones' box.  The actor hesitated in
bewildered fashion, then, evidently deciding that the interruption
was not seriously meant, went on:

"I tell you, there's going to be a change.  We'll dash the
yallah-legs----"

"Stop!"

"Heavens!  I'm glad we came in," whispered Nita Oswald.  "This is
going to be exciting.  Is the terrible Greasy Jones a British
patriot, after all?"

"He's no patriot," the clergyman whispered back.  "Keep still."

Again the actor looked up at the box.  Greasy Jones, his ladies
having fallen back, was clearly visible, his fierce eyes fixed on the
wretched speaker.

"Isn't tha' what you----?" whispered the actor.

The answer was a pistol-shot, smashing the hush.  Greasy Jones, his
face livid with rage, had fired.  The actor pitched upon his face,
dead.

"Keep your seats, everyone!" ordered Greasy, peering with his hawk
face over the audience.  "Manager, take that man away.  And get on
with the show!"

The audience was stunned into obedience.  The manager followed the
gangster's instructions without a word.  A raucous-voiced actress
tripped onto the stage, where the murdered man's blood had left a
stain, and relieved the tension with a song and dance.  In five
minutes the tragedy was forgotten, the crowd was laughing
uproariously and Greasy Jones was toying with his girls.

Northcote's first thought was for Nita.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

But the plucky reporter's nerve, stout as it was, had been unable to
stand this shock.

"For God's sake, let's get out of here!" she whispered.  "This is
terrible!"

Outside, recovered, she asked Northcote what he thought of the
occurrence.

"I don't know," he answered.  "But, rest assured, I'll see that Adair
hears about that speech and Jones' extraordinary behaviour!"

Next day they returned to Discovery.




Chapter IV


I

Dr. Quick, Chairman and Commissioner of the Board of Health for Black
Elk Territory, was a man with a wonderful sense of humour.  Though
plump and rosy, he did not look a jester.  His face was always solemn
and his twinkling grey eyes were so hidden by his huge round glasses
that nothing could be read in them.  Taking advantage of these facts,
the doctor made his life one round of fun.  He was one of the busiest
men in Discovery City, working night and day and carrying almost all
the burden of his department on his own shoulders; but he still found
time for tricks and jokes.  The doctor was an inexplicable enigma to
those who did not know him.  To his friends he was a perpetual
delight and one of the cleverest practitioners in North America.

The doctor, being a shrewd man, knew the real thing when he saw it;
hence his deep friendship for the Superintendent commanding at
Discovery.

One night not long after the Rev. Mr. Northcote's return from
Prospect, the doctor lingered on in Hector's quarters till the last
of the guests had gone.  Then he suddenly said, in his slow, solemn
way:

"Adair, I'd a queer experience today--a joke.  Last winter, at Nugget
there was a fine big Yankee there, dying of pneumonia.  Very far
gone.  I treated him.  'Doctor,' he says, 'if you're going to save me
you'll have to be quick.'  'Quick?' said I.  I'm always Quick!'"
(The doctor's favourite pun.)  "Well, he pulled through.  He was
grateful, the poor cuss.  Early this evening, Adair, I saw that man
again."

"Is that so?"

Hector wondered what was coming.

"Yes.  I went into the _Cash-In_--no, not for a drink; to see a
fellow lying upstairs with a broken leg, a man who can't be moved.
Afterwards, on my way downstairs, a fearful specimen of human microbe
held me up, asked for my money or my life.  I've lots of money but
only one life.  Besides, he had a gun.  So I obliged.  One of the
first holdups we've had in Discovery."

"Can you describe the man?"

"Yes.  But I don't want him jailed.  He's had his punishment.  That's
the joke.  After the gentleman held me up, I returned to the office.
When I got there, who should I see but my Yankee friend?  Struck it
rich this summer and is on his way home.  Came in to make me a
present of a beautiful nugget, in gratitude.  We opened a convivial
bottle and I told him my experience.  'Could you point the man out?'
he asked.  'Come on, then.  I'll get your money back.'  'I don't want
the money,' I said.  'And he's armed.'  'Never mind.  I want to get
your roll for you.  Don't worry.  I was champion boxer at Yale.'  So,
to humour him, and expecting a little fun, I took him to the
_Cash-In_, a good starting-point for our search.  The human microbe
was in the bar.  Our Yankee friend called him outside--said he wanted
to tell him a secret.  Secret!  Wow!"  The doctor chuckled.  "He got
the human microbe's gun and then pounded him to a jelly.  When the
massacre was ended, the microbe handed over the roll and departed
like a lamb.  Strange, eh?"

"Very.  But," Hector insisted, "we must take the man."

"Aw, Adair, he's had enough."

"No, he hasn't.  Describe him, will you?"

The doctor looked reproachful.

"Adair, if I thought you'd do this I wouldn't have told you the
story.  But the King must be obeyed.  He was a huge, broad-shouldered
creature, with a beard and, strange to say, he had no nose.  Why, do
you know the gentleman?"

"Do I?  That's No-nose Joe, one of Greasy Jones' men, I'm certain.
Grown a beard, eh?  I must see to this."

After a word with Forshaw, Sergeant Savage, at that moment patrolling
the streets of Discovery, was sent for.  The bulldog Sergeant
appearing, he was given a description of the man and told to look for
him at the _Cash-In_.

"And be quick!" said Hector.

"You may be quick, but you won't be Quick as I'd be," said the doctor.

"Don't worry, sir, I'll take him myself."

This to the doctor, whose joke had gone completely over the
Sergeant's head.

For three-quarters of an hour, Hector and the doctor awaited the
Sergeant's return at the office.  At two a.m. precisely, enter a
tableau:

Two solemn constables, one on each side of a battered wreck in
hand-cuffs, like supporters to a battered shield; the wreck, clothes
torn, face blue; Sergeant Savage, the bulldog, both eyes blackened,
nose swollen, tunic torn up the back and spattered with gore.  The
Sergeant at his full height did not reach to the sagging shoulder of
the wreck.

"Well?" said Hector.

The doctor's eyes twinkled but the Superintendent's were very stern.

The Sergeant saluted with a whisk and a clash of spurred heels.

"Sir----" said the Sergeant, "I proceeded direct to the _Cash-In_
saloon; left the patrol outside; spotted the prisoner in a corner,
drinking; arrested him.  He drew a gun and pointed it at me, contrary
to sections 105 and 109 of the Criminal Code.  We struggled.
Finally, I got the handcuffs on him and handed him over to the
patrol.  I regret to have to report, sir, that the following damage
was done to Government and private property----"

Here the bulldog produced his notebook and read:

"'Tunic torn and blood-stained; three chairs smashed; twenty glasses
smashed----' that was when we hit the bar, sir--'table smashed; wall
bloodstained; panel of door smashed.'  That's all, sir."

And the Sergeant closed his notebook and saluted with the utmost
gravity.

"Well, it's the microbe, all right," said the doctor.

"Yes, and it's No-nose Joe!" said Hector.

Of himself he asked, "Now, how did _he_ get through the pass?  And
what is he doing here?"


II

The secret service agents of the Police in Black Elk Territory were
known only to one man--the Superintendent in command; and the reports
they handed in he kept to himself.  They came to him for orders, in
the middle of the night, unseen by any other living soul.  Of their
chief's plans, they knew nothing.  Each worked independently, without
coming into contact with the rest.

One of the most trusted of Hector's agents was Perkins, the gambler
of Regina and Qu'appelle, yet a different Perkins, reformed when
Hector, returning from Arcady, had told him of his mother's death and
shown him whither he was drifting.  Perkins now devoted his knowledge
of crime to the cause of Justice and was hardier, stronger, cleaner,
altogether a better man.

A hint of wintry frost was in the air when Perkins came in one night
from Prospect to report.

"Well, Perkins----" this from Hector--"have you watched Greasy Jones?"

"Sure have, sir.  First thing, I got a job at the _Joyland_, a
Prospect dance-hall.  Greasy visits that place pretty frequent.  An'
I've got thick with him, sir.  I always waits on him.  He thinks I'm
scart o' him, so he sen's for me--enjoys seein' me sweat fear, I
guess."

"Good.  And?"

"Well, sir, he's been following the usual line o' battle, murder an'
sudden death.  'T'other night, sir, he an' his pardners was havin' a
drink in a private room.  Greasy had a drop on board.  He was layin'
on hot about the Police, 'cause he said you'd arrested an' put in jug
one o' his main pushes--No-nose Joe."

"That's true.  He didn't like the idea?"

"He didn't, sir.  'Pears he's scart Joe will let out some plan or
other Greasy's got in his head."

"I see.  Well, Perkins, No-nose hasn't had a word to say.  I've tried
everything, bar torture, and he won't open his mouth.  I want to
learn how he got through the pass and what he's doing here and in
disguise--he's grown a beard, you know.  But he won't talk."

"Would you like me to try an' find out from Greasy, sir?"

"Yes, if you can.  But I don't want you shot.  Last spring one of my
best men was shot dead by Greasy's gang a few days after reporting
here to me.  It may have been accidental.  Yet he hadn't learned
much.  He gave me useful information about Greasy but I doubt if it
was worth his life."

"I'll be all right, sir.  I'll be thick as thieves with Greasy soon.
There's another thing you oughta know, sir.  There's a lot o' feelin'
runnin' against the Force.  Shouldn't be surprised if they tries to
rush the pass, or somethin'.  It's not safe for even six policemen to
be seen on the streets in Prospect now, sir--take it from me."

"I know that, Perkins.  Any more meetings?"

"No, sir, but the guys at the theatres spout long spiels, all sayin'
there oughta be a change in Black Elk Territory an' the yallah-legs
should be swept away."

"They haven't counseled violence or said anything more about a change
actually at hand?"

"Not since Greasy shot that actor 'bout three weeks ago, sir.
Strange thing, that!"

"Very.  Well, keep your eyes and ears open, Perkins.  And stick to
Greasy--tight.  I may tell you, things are looking very serious here.
We've had meetings demanding the Lieutenant-Governor's resignation
and a clean sweep of everyone in power.  They haven't threatened--but
the Territory is rising to a turmoil.  The other day, though, a
miners' meeting at Nugget advised lynching the recorder.  Mr.
Cranbrook talked them into reason--a fine piece of diplomacy; but it
all points to unrest.  You report similar troubles from Prospect.
Then again, I learn, recently, of several attempts to smuggle in
large quantities of arms--started with a big nigger in the late
summer--I'm speaking confidentially--and has continued intermittently
ever since.  It may mean nothing--or a great deal.  Now, do all these
things connect?  And is Greasy in the game?  That's what you must
find out, Perkins."

"I'll stick to Greasy day an' night, sir."

"Good.  And keep me posted.  Mum's the word.

"Yes, sir.  Good night."


III

Hopeful Pass lay gripped in the first big cold of the northern
winter.  Every lake, creek and river in Black Elk was frozen over.
The miners had deserted their claims for town or retired into their
shacks till spring.  Travellers in the pass might be counted on one
hand.  The human tide, like the watery tide, had succumbed to the
wintry clutch.

And yet the Mounted Police post was as active as in the days of the
rush.  Half the men were tramping up and down in the snow.  Outside
their big fur coats they wore their bandoliers, belts and revolvers,
and each man carried his carbine, while young Inspector Gemmell,
similarly equipped, was sitting on an open box of ammunition.

They were going to fight?  They were--if necessary.

Gemmell, who had relieved Cranbrook at Nugget a short time before,
had been advised by headquarters that an attempt might soon be made
by the thugs of Prospect to rush the post on Hopeful Pass and gain
admittance to the gold-fields.  He was to avert this attempt by
'taking such steps as he deemed advisable'--(Let the boy run his own
show!) and Gemmell, who included Hopeful Pass in his jurisdiction,
had instantly taken long steps--in Hopeful Pass direction, since it
was better that he should be on the scene of action himself.

To resist the advance, Gemmell had erected a barrier covering the
approach to the post and had maintained a perpetual look-out in the
pass a mile or two ahead.  This lookout was on duty now.

From Prospect that morning had come word of an advance.  Gemmell had
thereupon turned out half his men, leaving the rest in comfort in the
tent.  Gemmell had also a Maxim in the tent but, as it was
water-cooled, it was liable to freeze up if left for too long in the
open.

If the thugs came up, Gemmell planned to emulate the Spartans of
Thermopylae.

The pass must be held to the last.

He meant to hold it.

Meanwhile, he wished the thugs would 'get it over,' as he was sure
his nose was freezing.

Gemmell's scouts suddenly appeared over the skyline a hundred yards
away.

"Gang of two hundred, heavily armed, just come into sight, sir," the
scouts reported on arrival.

"All right," said Gemmell.  Then, to the men in the tent, "Turn out,
you fellows!"

The fellows turned out.  Gemmell mounted the Maxim in a conspicuous
position, pointing down the pass.  He stationed his reserve behind
the barrier.  The remainder of the men, six all told, he drew up in a
line, across the pass.

Then, in a mist of descending flakes, they waited.

"If you'll pardon me, sir,"--Sergeant Kellett tactfully placed his
superior knowledge and experience at his C.O.'s disposal--"I'd parley
with them first."

"Yes, Sergeant," said Gemmell.

He wished his moustache was bigger.

An hour passed.

"Are you sure they're coming?" Gemmell asked the scouts.

A sudden roar, borne on the wind, supplied the answer and a crowd of
men surged over the crest below.

All alone, Gemmell advanced to meet the crowd on the boundary-line, a
stone's throw in front.

Two hundred?--a low estimate.  There were at least three hundred in
the crowd--ruffians all, and well armed, the dregs of Prospect, the
toughest town on earth.  Gemmell looked for Greasy Jones or his gang
but saw none of them.

The crowd yelled with mingled passion and triumph when it saw
Gemmell.  He slung his carbine easily over his shoulder and
unbuttoned the holster of his revolver.  On the boundary-line he met
the mob, face to face.

"Out o' the way!" roared the crowd--and halted.

"Sorry, but this is the boundary," replied Gemmell coolly.  He was
forced to raise his voice.  "Behind me is Canadian territory.  You
can't pass!"

These remarks produced a storm of hoots, laughs and jeers.  The crowd
began to advance again, intending to sweep Gemmell aside.

On the very edge of Canadian territory the crowd halted again,
checked by their leader, a desperate-looking villain, who waved
significantly toward the line of Police.

"Well, what you got to say?"

Turning, when the mob had halted and had fallen into silence, the
leader challenged Gemmell.

"My orders," shouted Gemmell, in return, "are to halt you at the
boundary.  I have a big force of men, and a Maxim gun, that could
clean up this pass in half a minute.  Now, I don't want trouble.  I
want you fellows to have some sense and go home."

The leader of the mob placed himself in front of Gemmell, feet wide
apart, hands on hips, and looked him up and down.  "Say, kid," he
demanded, "who th' hell d'you think you are?  Who told you to stop us
law-abidin' citizens?"

"Her Majesty the Queen!" said Gemmell.

"Whoop!" shouted the man; and the crowd jeered.

"What th' hell right has Her Majesty got in Black Elk, anyhow?" went
on the leader.  "The Black Elk miners is the boys to run that
country.  An' they want us in.  An' we're gain' in!  See?"

He thrust his lowering face to within an inch of the Inspector's.

"Get your men an' your pop-gun out o' th' way!" the thug continued.
"An' no one'll be hurt!  Out o' th' way, you----!"

And he put out his hand to thrust Gemmell aside.

"Hard words!" smiled the Inspector.

Then he flicked the man across the mouth.

A shriek of anger rose from the crowd.  The leader, his face crimson,
whipped out a revolver and pointed it at Gemmell.

"Out o' th' way!" he roared.

"We're on Canadian soil.  You've broken the law!"

With that, the Inspector dashed the thug's weapon aside and closed
with him.

Sergeant Kellett, waiting with the line behind, saw the youngster
struggling furiously, in a turmoil of snow, and the mob closing.
Instantly, he doubled his men forward.  A row of levelled carbines
came suddenly to Gemmell's rescue.

"Stand back, you!" ordered Kellett hotly.  "Or I'll open fire!"  A
roaring mass, the toughs swayed to and fro before that slender
barrier.  Between them, as on common ground, Gemmell and his
antagonist rolled and struggled.

Sergeant Kellett whipped out his handcuffs, watching his chance to
plunge into the fight.

But out of the scurry of snow came Gemmell, at that instant--smiling
and on top!  His face was lacerated, the tough kicking and clawing
like a mad dog.  Gemmell had pitched the revolver out of reach in the
first struggle.

"Leave him, Sergeant!" he implored.  "He's my meat!"

Then--click!--pulling a pair of hand-cuffs from his own pocket--the
arrest was a fact accomplished.

To get back with their prisoner to the post was the work of a moment.
The crowd, now lacking determined leadership, wavered.  The arrest
left them dazed.

"All ready?"

The machine-gun crew and the men at the barrier nodded.

The Inspector hailed the crowd.

"Get out!" he shouted.  "Do you hear?  The first man moving this way
will mean the end of the lot of you!  Remember my Maxim!"

Then both sides waited, facing each other, in intense silence.

This was the crisis.  Which was it to be--a fight or a retreat?

"Don't fire, sir, till they're right on us!" whispered Kellett.
"Never do, sir, never do!"

The mob gathered itself together, yelling.  The Police maintained
their ominous silence.  Motionless, they faced the mob--twelve men
against three hundred.  The flag above them blew out gloriously in
the breeze.

Suddenly the toughs charged.

Gemmell's face was marble, under dried streaks of blood.  This,
surely, was the end.  Bullets whistled round them, the crowd opening
fire as it advanced.

"Machine-gun, ready there!"

"Ready!"

The mob had forgotten the machine-gun.  Every man heard that firm
cry, "Machine-gun, ready there!" and the answer, "Ready!"  Now they
remembered.  Quick as lightning, a mental picture flashed through
them ... a picture of the pass, blocked with their bodies, dominated
by a devil of brass and steel.

And the rush--melted away.  Melted away!

The Police were left with their prisoner.  The crowd went sullenly
pouring back to Prospect in defeat.

Gemmell drew a deep breath.  The tense line relaxed.

It was hard to believe the mob had given way, not on account of the
carbines but simply and solely on account of the mere threat of the
Maxim.

For the Maxim had been frozen up for the past twenty minutes.

"Bluffed 'em, by the Lord Harry!" said Gemmell.


IV

Greasy Jones and Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., sat opposite each other
in the little room wherein they had held their first conversation,
months before.

On the stairs outside, Greasy Jones' spy, whom Northcote knew as
Charlie, kept watch.  Charlie had fulfilled his duty faithfully.
Greasy was well aware that Welland had not 'squealed.'

"Look here," said Welland forcibly.  "What are you kicking at?
Haven't you been paid regularly?  Isn't everything O.K.?"

The gangster started moodily at the candle flame.

"Don't misunderstand me, Molyneux," he said.  "I ain't kickin'.  But
I do think things ain't goin' as good as they oughta have gone."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Welland impatiently.  "What's the matter with
them?  Isn't Black Elk in a turmoil?  Aren't the miners demanding the
resignation of the Lieutenant-Governor and half the administration?
Hasn't a petition as long as Hopeful Pass gone round calling for the
transference of governing powers to the miners?  Haven't we got more
than enough arms in the country to overthrow the Police?  Isn't every
man in Black Elk ready to follow you as soon as you appear?  Haven't
you slipped in half your gang?  And your talkers?  Aren't the Police
asleep?  What more do you want?"

"Just listen to me a minute.  When we first thought o' this thing,
the idea was we was to make the first-comers sore about the others
who came in later an' struck it rich first.  Wasn't that so?"

"Yes," said Welland.

"Well, now we've got the _whole country_ stirred up, not only the
first-comers.  An' that's dangerous.  I mean, the yallah-legs is all
the more liable to get on to what we're really tryin' to do."

"Now, don't be a fool, Greasy.  The idea certainly was to stir up the
first-comers; and we've done it, too.  But I promised to help from my
side.  Well, I have.  I got men all through the country to bribe the
recorders and different government officials until the whole thing's
just rotten with corruption.  I got 'em to try to bribe the Police,
too, but no luck so far.  Never mind; the Territory's rotten.  And
the result?  Why, everyone but the old prospectors and a few fools is
on our side, instead of just the first-comers!"

"Where do the first-comers get in, then?"

"Why, I'll show you," said Welland.  "We keep what we intend to do
_after_ the turn-over quiet.  The Police think the whole country's
against 'em.  Then, when that's over, the first-comers and us--that
is, you and your gang--we tell the rest, 'We're running this show
now!'  See?  Then we put them in their places--quick!"

"That's what you once said me an' my gang 'ud do to the
first-comers," said Greasy.  "We was to get _them_ stirred up only.
Then we was to throw _them_ down only.  Now what do we do with 'em?
Are _they_ to be thrown down, too?"

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Welland.  "They throw the others down.  Then we
throw _them_ down.  Is that clear?"

"A hell of a lot o' throwin' down!" muttered the mollified gangster.
"But I guess I see.  Has all that been kept hidden, though?"

"Certainly!  None but your gang and a few men in with us know that
we're going to smash the Government by force, if force is necessary.
We've been preaching peace the whole time.  Nor do they know that
we're going to throw down the others when we're ready.  See?"

"I guess I see," said Greasy again.  "'Stead o' just a small crowd to
scare the yallah-legs, we get everyone.  And afterwards we gets our
fling.  That right?"

"Got it!"

"You're even slicker than I thought," the gangster remarked
admiringly.  "Say, I don't like the way the yallah-legs got No-nose.
Suppose he squeals?"

"I know for a fact he hasn't squealed."

"You do?" asked the gangster quickly.

"Yes.  He daren't.  He knows what's coming.  And he knows you'd kill
him if you got at him and the scheme failed."

"That's so.  Well, about these here arms.  The yallah-legs has got
most o' 'em.  Don't they suspect nothin'?"

"Nobody knows what you're sending them through for, do they?  Nor
who's sending them?  Nor where they go to?"

"No.  They don't even know it's me sendin' 'em.  They're told to
leave 'em at a certain place in Nugget.  Then O'Brien calls an' gets
'em an' stows 'em away.  An' they stays stowed till wanted.  An'
O'Brien daren't squeal, 'cause I got him watched.  An' he knows it."

"Well, what are you afraid of?"

"Just that the yallah-legs has smelt trouble."

"They haven't.  And, anyway, they'd never connect these arms with you
or with any big plan."

Greasy was satisfied--till he raised another point.

"I ain't got half my men I wants through the pass; not more'n twenty.
An' it's gettin' harder all the time to get 'em through.  An' we
tried to rush the pass--that is, some o' the boys did, an' 'bout
thirty o' my men behind, so's the yallah-legs wouldn't see 'em.  An'
what happened?  Why that li'l squirt of an officer an' his twelve men
wouldn't let 'em through--kep' 'em off with a bloody Maxim!"

Welland felt tempted to tell the gangster that the crowd had been
bluffed.  But he refrained.

"Why did you try it?" he demanded.

"Well, you remember you said we could try it if we weren't gettin'
men through quick enough."

"Pah!  None of the crowd had the guts to make a real charge."

"At a Maxim?  They ain't crazy."

The gangster spat scornfully on the floor.

"Oh, never mind.  We'll smuggle a few more through before we shoot."

The gangster grunted.

"Are you sure the yallah-legs is asleep?" he asked.

"Certain.  But I'll find out again before you slip across the line.
Anything else?"

"You bet!"  Greasy sat up and looked fiercely at his companion.  "How
do I know you won't double-cross me yet?  You--a Canadian M.P.?"

"My dear Greasy," said Welland, with an air of infinite patience.
"Suppose I did?  Couldn't you give away my part of the show--and ruin
me?"

"I s'pose so," the gangster admitted.  "But I ain't let on about it
to anyone."

"Why not?" the politician enquired derisively.

"An' have you get to know it?  Then you'd squeal on me sure!"

"That's right.  So we understand each other!"  Welland smiled.

This delightful pair most certainly possessed an amazing mutual
understanding!

Followed a pause, while they lit cigars.

"Like to know what I've done?" the gangster asked.  "Well, I've got
all the Prospect toughs behind me--ready to rush in as soon as we let
'em from inside.  My men are just hintin' to 'em quiet that the li'l
old U.S. is goin' to back us later.  Also, the same thing among the
guys in Black Elk.  That's bolsterin' 'em up.  An' later, we'll tell
it that it's so, for sure."  Welland nodded.  "Then--look here!"

From a corner the gangster produced a large bag.  Emptying it, he
revealed notepaper, stamps, rubber stamps, and a flag.  He spread the
smaller articles out on the table and held up the flag by the corners.

"Look!" he repeated.

Welland, eyebrows raised, complied.

The paper bore the device of a black elk's head, with the slogan,
'Liberty or Death' above it, below it the words, 'The Black Elk
Republic,' and at one side, 'F.D. Jones, President.'  The rubber
stamps bore similar legends, with such captions as 'Board of Health'
and 'Department of Justice.'  The stamps were white, with the black
elk's head and motto.  The flag was also white, with the same device
and the initials, 'B.E.R.'

"Splendid!" said Welland.  "Splendid!"

He seemed struck with the assurance and determination which had
caused these things to be prepared.

"Notice I'm president?"  Greasy grinned.

"You bet!  Why, this is fine!  Real revolution--and no mistake about
it!"

"Sure thing!  Pretty fine, eh?"

"I--er--hope you were careful in having these things made, though,"
said Welland slowly, as an afterthought.

"Careful!"  Greasy was scornful.  "The flag was made by my woman.
She's under my heel!  She's made six.  Everything else was made by
men that I've got where I want, don't worry."

The gangster stowed his treasures away.

"When do you think we'd better spring it?" he enquired.

"Soon as the country's thoroughly tied up," said Welland.  "Less than
a month now, I guess--first heavy snow.  Eh?"

The gangster nodded.

"You'll send me word?"

"Either that or come down and see you.  It's getting hard for me to
get away now.  But trust me.  Now, is there anything else?"

Greasy pondered.

"Oh, I was forgettin' to tell you I been tappin' the telegraph lines
from Discovery to Prospect for the past week.  An' I'll keep it up
till we're ready."

"Why, you're a genius!" Welland cried.  "I never thought of that.
Anything important come through?  You know, all the messages for
Canada have to come down by that line."

"Yep, I know.  Guess that's why I'm doin' it.  I am a genius, I
guess.  No, nothin' much's come through yet.  But, if there does,
I'll know it."

"Fine.  Well, that's all, eh?  All right.  Say, this is going to be
great, Greasy!  Shake!"

The two friends shook, mightily satisfied.


V

Hector, coming into his quarters one night, found awaiting him the
first of his usual visitors--Welland.

"Cold night," said Hector cordially.  "Glad to see you've stoked up
the stove."

"Yes," said Welland.  "Look at this."

He held up Hector's ink-bottle, placed on a table outside the
immediate circle of the warmth.  The ink was curdling into ice.

"I told Blythe to put the bottle on the stove," Hector said.  "He's
forgetful.  Had a good trip?"

"Fine.  Went to Prospect.  I'm writing home my impressions, you
know--have done for some time--and I thought I'd get acquainted with
that hell-hole.  Hadn't really time when I last visited it.  I wanted
to contrast it with Discovery City, thinking it would throw the
wonderful order and quiet of Black Elk into strong relief."

"And?"

"Why, it's the finest contrast I ever clapped eyes on.  Fact!  This
place is Paradise.  But no wonder.  Look at your men!  Why, the way
that kid Gemmell held the pass--it's marvellous!"

"I'd have flayed him if he'd let 'em through," said Hector grimly.
"Still, it was a good piece of work."

"Things might be worse than they are here if a few of those swine got
in."

"Yes.  But there are none of that type here."

"None?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," Welland smiled.  "If those Prospect
toughs had a hand in the present unrest, for instance----"

"We'd be up against a big thing."

"Yes."

"But, as it is, there's a difference."

"Aren't you alarmed?"

"By the present situation?  No."

"There's a lot of discontent," Welland reminded him.  "And many tough
characters.  And they're armed."

"Yes.  But they're sensible.  They won't try violence."

Welland fingered his beard reflectively.

"Why are you so sure?" he asked.

"Well, I know positively they're not preaching violence.  And I know
their opinion of the Mounted Police."

"I see," said Welland slowly.  "I see."

Just then Blythe put his head in.

"Dr. Quick's waitin' outside, sir.'

"Oh!" exclaimed Hector.  "Tell him I'm coming.  I go round the
hospital every night with Quick, you know, Molyneux.  Who's that with
you in the next room, Blythe?"

"Charlie, sir--Mr. Northcote's man."

"Oh, yes.  Well, excuse me, won't you, Molyneux?"

And Hector, smiling pleasantly, departed.

"The fool!"  Welland's lip curled sardonically.  "We've got him
buffaloed, by God!  The poor--blind--fool!"


VI

Late that night Antoine, best and fastest dog-driver in North
America, was summoned to Police headquarters with an intimation that
he was required for a long and arduous journey.  Antoine was not
surprised.  Surprise was beneath his principles.  Besides, he was
often employed on special missions by the Police, who knew his
inflexible fidelity.

A French-Canadian half-breed was Antoine, a man in his prime, built
on the slim lines of a runner, deep-chested, broad-shouldered.  Born
in a Hudson's Bay post, there was no trail of the North unknown to
Antoine, no team he could not handle.  To him, a run of one hundred
miles a day was next to nothing; and he was as punctual as the sun
itself.

Dressed for the trail, parka hood thrown back, dogs and sled outside,
Antoine waited patiently in the outer office, smoking his short pipe
and spitting reflectively at the stove while the Superintendent,
Manitou-pewabic, prepared a despatch in the next room.

Presently he was summoned into the Presence.

Behind the lamp sat the Superintendent, quiet, gigantic--in Antoine's
eyes, a god and hero.

"Cold night, Antoine."

Antoine nodded.

Hector held out a large official envelope, carefully sealed.

"For our representative in Prospect," he said.  "You will hand it
over to him, Antoine, and wait there for an answer.  You may have to
wait several days.  The Sergeant there will give you the answer and
you will bring it back to me here."

Antoine nodded again.

"Guard both despatch and answer with your life.  No-one must see the
despatch but the Sergeant.  No-one must see the answer till you give
it to me.  Tell no-one your business either way.  You must travel
fast, Antoine, very fast--both going and coming; faster than ever
before."

Antoine's eyes gleamed with the light of battle.

"All right.  Now, this"--the Superintendent handed him a small,
unsealed envelope--"is a letter which you will show to any Mounted
Policeman or Mounted Police post, if necessary.  It authorizes you to
claim any assistance you wish.  Understand?"

Antoine nodded.

"Dogs in good shape?  That's fine.  Start at once, Antoine.  Good
luck and goodbye.  Remember--the fastest trip you've ever made----"

Antoine carefully stowed the two envelopes away and, drawing himself
to his full height, saluted the Superintendent gravely.

A moment later, whirling his whip, he swept off behind his dogs,
fleeing like a shadow, under the mysterious sheen of the northern
lights--swept off into the vast silence, down the Prospect trail.

Welland, roused from sleep by the jingle of bells, gave a thought to
the 'poor blind fool,' turned over in bed and slept again.




Chapter V


I

In Hector's view, the biggest man, mentally or spiritually, in Black
Elk Territory, was Northcote--by this time one of his closest friends.

With the approach of the long winter night and the slowing down of
the wheels of Black Elk activity, Hector saw more of Northcote than
ever.  The clergyman liked to talk to the Superintendent, whom he
ardently admired.  Hector liked to talk to the clergyman, because
Northcote knew Life as few men know it, was charitable and merciful,
friend of the fallen, rarely criticising, never condemning--no
pink-tea preacher, shivering at the sight of sin, but a great knight
wielding a mighty lance in the heart of the dark fight.  So Hector
liked him.

From Northcote--though the clergyman did not know it--Hector learned
much.

Northcote had several favourite themes.  And, reclining in his chair,
pipe in mouth, feet on the stove, he would ramble on in his deep,
quiet voice, from one theme to another, as the spirit moved him,
while Hector sat content to listen.

Men open their hearts to each other in that way.

"Came across a queer case today--" Northcote would begin; he always
ruminated on these occasions; never preached--"a boy here who struck
it fairly rich this summer; and he wants to buy a claim to work next
year--a big claim, that will make his pile for life.  But his mother,
in Nova Scotia, is dying.  Her only chance is to get to Florida or
some mild climate.  To send her there will cost the boy most of his
summer's takings.  And that means--no claim next year.  He's got to
choose between his claim and his mother--a nasty situation for an
ambitious lad--a nasty situation.

"Well, I converted him to the right way of thinking.  Gave him a
little sermon on Sacrifice, gilding the pill.  This boy is the type
which hates anything churchy.  So I left out the biggest sacrifice of
all.  But I told him about Nelson, going back to sea, maimed and
dog-tired of it as he was, to blockade Cadiz in his uncomfortable
little ships and, eventually, to win Trafalgar.  I tried to show him
how there's not a really successful business man who hasn't had to
make great sacrifices to achieve success.  He was interested in
learning what our early explorers endured to open up the country.  In
the end, he realized, I think, that all big things, everything worth
while, is won by sacrifice.  'And usually,' I said, 'there comes a
time, at least once in every man's life, when he must make one big
concrete sacrifice.  Sydney made it,' I said, 'when he gave that cup
of water to the dying soldier.  He wanted that water so badly
himself.  But he gave it up.  Once in every man's life,' I said, 'the
time of his great sacrifice comes.  Your time has come to you now.'"

"And the boy--?" asked Hector.

"Is sending off the money by tomorrow's mail."

The words stuck in Hector's memory: 'Everything worth while is won by
sacrifice.'  'Once in every man's life, the time of his great
sacrifice comes.'

Of one thing he was certain: everything he had achieved, thus far,
had been won by grim, fierce sacrifice--the sacrifice of self to
state.  But had the time of his great sacrifice come--or was it still
upon the way?

He could not answer that question--yet.


II

In the crisis rapidly approaching, Hector, on whom so much depended,
was conscious of great moral support.

First, he saw that the level-headed old-timers were with him.  They
were not numerous and their influence was small.  But individually
each man of them was worth any two of the clamourous adventurers
among whom discontent was flourishing.

Then there was the great moral support of the Commissioner.  In those
anxious days when the temper of the crowd was sweeping towards its
climax, he often recalled the Commissioner's encouraging farewell on
his transference to the gold area: 'It's the last bit of true
pioneering this country will see, Adair....  It will be a big
job--one of the biggest we've ever done, ... but it will be a
splendid thing in the way of a crowning achievement to all you've
done already.  Make it a credit to yourself and Canada.'  These words
were to him a tremendous driving force, a great source of
inspiration.  Remembering them, he could feel that, though thousands
of miles lay between him and headquarters, though Black Elk Territory
was cut off from the rest of Canada, there was still at headquarters
a keen, strong personality, watching his every move intently, pouring
bright rays of faith and power and confidence in his direction.

Greater than all this, however, was the moral support lent him by the
people of Canada--the real Canada, beyond the mountains.  He knew
that its weight was behind him.  With each mail he received letters
and papers telling him that this was so.  Politicians--Welland's
political tools and henchmen--might be against him.  But the people,
the great, long-suffering, oft-deluded and victimised people, whose
hearts could not betray them--from coast to coast they knew that in
Superintendent Adair they had a man.  They recognised his strength
and integrity, and they trusted him to see that the dignity of Canada
was maintained, the law of Canada enforced, in Black Elk Territory.
With such support, Hector felt that he would gladly stand against the
world.

One item in particular, clipped by Hugh from a powerful Eastern
paper, voiced the general feeling well.  Hector had read it, wavering
between amazement and humility.  It was high-flown nonsense, of
course; but, with the storm fast closing upon him, he found much
comfort in the memory of its sentiment.

'In Superintendent Adair'--it ran--'the Canadian people have a worthy
representative.  He is a fighter, born and bred, son of a veteran of
the Peninsula and Waterloo.  So he is a living link with the Empire's
great traditions, with the blood of British heroes in his veins.
Adair was brought up for an officer; and to those who know him he is
the personification of the best type of British officer, whose soul
is in his corps, who thinks only of the steep and narrow path of
Duty.  But he is more than that.  Fate killed his prospects of an
early Commission.  Nevertheless, being determined to serve, he joined
the original North-West Mounted Police and fought his way up through
ten strenuous years to commissioned rank.  And he has continued to
advance ever since.  Today he is looked upon in the West as the
embodiment, in one individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted
Police.  And the comparison is apt, for we find in Adair all those
high qualities of devotion, ability, firmness, strength and
determination which we have learned to expect of the Mounted Police.
Some even speak of him as the embodiment of Western Canada.  And this
too, is apt, for he has grown up with the country, kept up with and
done much to aid its advance.  And the qualities we attribute to
Western Canada, once more, are Adair's.  Out there, they call him by
the name the Indians gave him--Manitou-pewabic--a tribute to his
personality, for the phrase means 'Spirit-of-Iron.'  Surely this is
the spirit which has made not only the man, but the Force to which he
belongs and the country which is its environment--Spirit-of-Iron!

'This is the man today responsible for maintaining the Queen's
authority in Black Elk.  He has a desperate job on hand.  We have
heard of the unrest sweeping the Territory from end to end--unrest
which may end in serious trouble.  Cut off from the rest of Canada
and with only a handful of men, Adair is sitting on a powder-barrel.
That the disgruntled cut-throats returning from the country are so
loud in their abuse of the Superintendent, however, is the greatest
possible tribute.  Adair has handled many such in his time and none
has ever beaten him....  Whatever may yet happen in Black Elk, Adair
may rest confident that Canada looks to him.  And, on their part, the
Canadian people may rest confident that the country's honour is
absolutely safe in the care of this modern Lion of the North.'

'The personification of the British officer ... and of the Mounted
Police ... and of Western Canada ... this modern Lion of the North'!
Rubbish!  Nonsense!  But there was more truth in this article than
Hector would recognize.  At any rate, with the words before him, he
was resolved humbly to do his best to serve these people, resolved
firmly to see that, while life remained to him, whatever lay ahead,
he would not fail them.


III

The exodus of miners from the creeks to the towns was now reaching
alarming proportions.  It was known to all men that the unrest and
discontent was risen almost to high-water mark.  No violence had been
preached.  The law-abiding element, from the Lieutenant-Governor
down, had no idea that there was organisation in it all and still
less that the real purpose of those secretly behind the movement was
swift--perhaps bloody--revolution.  But they sensed a menace
vaguely--like horses in a field, restlessly switching tails and ears
when a tempest is in the air.

From the Lieutenant-Governor down, they placed their confidence in
one man--Spirit-of-Iron.  The Lieutenant-Governor, among many others,
had, in fact, told him so.

"They're going to spring something, Adair," he had said.  "Nothing
extreme.  But they're going to ask for my resignation.  They don't
trust me.  But you can handle them.  Adair, I'm afraid it will be up
to you."

Then, with stunning suddenness, came the news--terrible news to the
law-abiding element, glorious news to the rest--that Spirit-of-Iron
was ill, perhaps upon his death-bed!  The Lieutenant-Governor felt
that the solid rock on which he stood had melted away.

Blythe, stammering, white-faced, brought the news to Dr. Quick, who
hurried over.  All the twinkle went out of the doctor's eyes when he
saw Hector.

"He would go round the infectious wards with me!" the doctor groaned,
cursing himself.  "It's typhus!"

It was easy to isolate the patient.  But to keep the news from the
lawless crowd was impossible.  Within twenty-four hours the whole
Territory knew that the one man the malcontents really feared was
_hors de combat_.

There was a waitress in Discovery, known to every soul in town as
Seattle Sue.  Her face was painted, her hair dyed, her language unfit
for drawing-rooms, but she had that rare physical phenomenon, a heart
of pure gold.  In the early days of the rush, when the temporary
hospitals were full, this girl had volunteered to nurse in her spare
time--no small sacrifice, since her duties as a waitress occupied
twelve hours daily.  Today, Seattle Sue was the best nurse in
Discovery.

"We'll get Seattle Sue!" said Dr. Quick.  "We must save him!"

Here it was, too, that Nita Oswald showed the mettle of her pastures.
Appreciating what it all meant, she was at Hector's door, offering
her services, before the doctor had finished his preliminary
examination.

With Blythe and the doctor, the two women made a powerful quadruple
alliance.  But the stake was tremendous.  It would tax them all to
the utmost to pull Hector through.

Outside, day after day, the crowd clamoured for bulletins.  The men
of the Force threatened mutiny if they, at least, were not kept
informed.  But Lancaster would allow no bulletins.  It was better
that the malcontents should not know that the great chief was dying.

The delirium, the worst feature of the case, came on in a few days.
At times the Superintendent was quite calm, whispering, muttering,
sighing, smiling; then they guessed, from phrases here and there,
that he thought himself a boy again or at home.  At others he talked
violently, shouted, gave orders, laughed; then they knew that he was
living through his daily life in the Force, as he had lived it twenty
years, or fighting over many of his desperate battles.  At other
times--most frequent--he became a raving lunatic, at grips with some
awful menace, struggling against terrific odds, crying bitterly over
his physical helplessness, making desperate efforts to get up and
rush outside.  They did not know that at these times he was dealing
with the local crisis.

In sane moments, as he insisted, they kept him informed of the
situation.

To Hector, his illness was a mad jumble of mental pictures, sometimes
awful, sometimes pleasant; interspersed with lapses of clear sanity,
when the agony of his position reached its height.  And it went like
this:

He saw himself a small, brown-headed boy, on the lakes and in the
woods of his old Ontario home.  He saw himself fighting his first
fight in the cause of chivalry, for Nora; and suddenly his opponent
became Welland, whom he fought furiously, though why he could not
say.  Then Sergeant Pierce, long and tanned and solemn, came and
stood before him, as vividly as if he were alive and in the room.
But they were not in the room.  They were in the stable-yard, at
home.  The Sergeant was giving him advice--the old slogan: 'Fight,
little master, till the last shot's fired!'

'Till the last shot's fired!'  Yes, he must fight till ... but
against what?  And why?  Suddenly he remembered and, remembering,
wept, cursing his great weakness and the Fate that held him helpless
at the crisis of his life.

Then his father came to talk to him--out of the air.  He saw the fine
old gentleman in the library at Silvercrest with a small boy at his
knee.  He was telling stories--stories of days long past, of Adairs
who had been mighty fighters, nobly serving King and Country, each in
his time.  As he talked, he took the small boy up to the coat-of-arms
on the mantelpiece and made him touch it and the motto beneath:

'Strong.  Steadfast.'--'Strong.  Steadfast.'

He heard his father's voice: 'The Adair motto for centuries, Hector.
An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.'

'An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.'  And surely strong
and steadfast now--now--when the crisis was upon him.  'Strong.
Steadfast.'  And here he was, helpless in bed, while the trumpets
sounded for battle and he was not there!

Sometimes his mother came--sweet-faced,
white-haired--smiling--touching his face with gentle fingers.  He
took her in his arms and kissed her.  As their lips touched, she
became suddenly young and beautiful--became, not herself, in the days
of her youth--but Frances.  He was in Arcady with Frances.  He heard
himself making his humble confession--thrilled to her reply--gave a
glad, wild cry of joy and swung her off her feet, kissing her madly.
A hand came out then, from nowhere, tearing her away--her father's
hand.  No, not her father's--Welland's.  Why Welland's?  Why?  She
was gone--his arms were empty.  And he knew himself back in
Discovery, weeping for her whom he had lost fifteen dreary years ago.

Nita Oswald and Seattle Sue heard that name, 'Frances!  Frances!'
many, many times.  Afterwards, while they wondered what it meant,
they swore never to betray the secret the Big Chief had unwittingly
revealed.

Sometimes he fancied himself making his first arrest--the arrest of
Red-hot Dan.  He saw the whiskey-trader at his door--but the face was
Welland's.  Welland came out, shot at him, missed.  Hector ran to his
horse--galloped away--with Welland after him.  His enemy required no
horse but pursued on foot, travelling like the wind.  Hector rode at
a furious pace, over hill and dale, for hundreds--thousands--of
miles, until it seemed he had been riding months and years--but still
Welland followed him, tirelessly.  Then he found himself on the
ground, half-stunned, his horse beside him, Welland bending over him,
pointing a rifle, grinning hideously.  And Moon came out of thin air
to thrust herself before the murderer.  Hector struggled to his feet
and called her.  She stretched out her arms.  He stepped to meet
her--and found--Mrs. MacFarlane.  For some unfathomable reason, he
hated her.  Thrusting her aside, he fronted Welland once more.  And
yet it was not Welland--but Whitewash Bill.  He advanced, without a
weapon, to meet him--advanced--and the outlaw became a trumpeter,
sounding the Reveille.

Gone, instantly, were all Hector's hates and fears.  Enwrapt, he
heard the clear call soaring to the stars--soar and die, quivering,
to merge into the 'Fall in.'  Before the call finished, the trumpeter
had vanished.  But the magic notes went on and drifted into other
calls, till he had heard them all, the calls that were the very voice
of the Service he loved.  Then came wonderful sights--long dear to
him--the far-crying trumpet playing perpetual accompaniment.  He saw
the old Force riding westward--westward--on the first march to the
Rockies; saw the sentry at Broncho, smart as a Russian prince in fur
coat, cap, gauntlets, burnished bandolier; saw his old division
drilling--glorious 'J'--a mounted parade--saw the long scarlet line
circle and wheel, heard the tremendous thunder of innumerable hoofs;
and still the trumpet sounded.  The thunder of hoofs swelled to roars
of applause.  The packed hall at Broncho rose before him and the
Marquis, appearing from the dead, bowed and began to sing, over and
over again, the chorus of a song about himself, sung by the men of
the Force everywhere for their love of, and pride in, him:

  _Hi, you bad young Nitchie, there is someone goin' to git ye;
    Hi, you bad old outlaw!--An' he's never known to fail.
  He's the soul of Law and Order, so you'd better cross the border,
  When Manitou-pewabic's on the trail!_


His heart went out passionately towards these men.  Suddenly, there
was a change.  Darkness came over the hall.  The trumpet, which,
somehow, had all the while been sounding, changed its tune to some
ominous, terrible call--the 'Last Post'--symbolical of the end--and
of Death--the funeral call!  A Union Jack at the end of the room,
growing suddenly to gigantic proportions, was torn to shreds.
Lightning and thunder stormed around it.  The trumpet call died,
shuddering.  There came a noise like a mighty whirlwind and through
the shreds a two-headed monster thrust itself--its faces the faces of
Welland and Molyneux--one and yet not the same.  Hector awoke, in an
agony.

Then, in moments of lucid thinking, he realised his weakness to the
full and saw the situation in all its horror.  He saw the great
crisis, not definitely, but as a vague, impenetrable menace, coming
upon him--Welland, somehow, mixed up in it--and could do nothing to
divert it.  Lancaster had told him, at one time, that the miners,
seeking to take advantage of his illness, were planning a great
meeting at which they proposed to present their demands.  Knowing
this, he strove to overcome his weakness, strove piteously and
failed.  No other officer in Black Elk could deal with the
approaching menace.  He felt that; but could not fathom it, while he
felt it.  Again, since his illness, a terrific blizzard had come
up--one of the worst ever known.  The telegraph lines were down,
Hopeful Pass was blocked and all communication with the outside world
was cut off.  Antoine had not returned.  Even _he_ could not return
in the blizzard.  Suppose he did not return before the meeting--what
then?  What then?  Again and again, Hector asked for Antoine and
received from Lancaster the hopeless answer, 'He has not come back.'
This drove him, time without number, to try to reach the window, to
see if Antoine had returned or the blizzard moderated and, that
effort thwarted, kept him tossing in despair upon his bed.

In his agony, he saw a crash, himself utterly disgraced, all his
twenty-odd years of service gone for nothing, the trust of his men
and of his country turned into a mockery.  This was the end of his
dreams.

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.

He felt like that other of the Bible, helpless in his cot, while Fate
shrieked in his ear: 'The Philistines are upon thee, Samson!'

The spark of his great courage, which had won for him his tribal
name, 'Spirit-of-Iron,' struggled fiercely in those terrible
hours--struggled, but flickered and burned low----

"I'm afraid we're going to lose him," said Dr. Quick, blinking behind
his big round glasses.

Outside, consternation held the law-abiding element.

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.


IV

Through Blythe, Hector eventually turned the corner.  He awoke one
night to find himself suddenly calm, self-possessed and comfortable,
though as weak as ever.  At first, having no idea of what had
happened to him, he stared childishly 'round the room, struggling for
light.  Then gradually he made out a man, wrapped in a blanket and
lying at the foot of the bed.

"Who's that?" he asked.  "Who's that?"

He thought he spoke loudly.  Actually, his voice was little better
than a whisper.

But the man in the blanket sat up, discovering the wan, intensely
woe-begone face of Blythe.

"Did you call, sir?"

"Who's that?  Is that----"

Try as he would, he could not remember the name of his own servant!

"Blythe, sir."

"Oh, yes, Blythe.  Why aren't you in bed, Blythe?"

"Bed, sir?  Why--why, sir--the fact is"--a suspicious huskiness crept
into Blythe's voice and his dismal face quivered--"they said as you
was dyin', sir----"

"_Dying?_"

"Yes, sir.  The doctor gave you up tonight, sir.  An' Miss
Oswald--an' that Seattle Sue--they was dog-tired.  So--I wanted to be
near, sir--when you--pegged out--an' I told 'em to take a rest,
an'--an'----"

Here words failed the faithful and tender-hearted Blythe and he began
to blubber miserably.

"Why, Blythe!  You idiot--you fool, I'm all right!  Stop it at
once--and turn up the lamp."

Hector was actually laughing at Blythe, with a touch of his old
humour.  The sight of that doleful face, combined with the assertion
that he was dying, had brought back the Big Chief from the edge of
the Great Divide.

Blythe, delighted, jumped up, turned up the lamp and hastened out,
returning in a moment with Dr. Quick.

"What's this?  What's this?" said the doctor, twinkling.  "Blythe
told me to come quick, because you're coming 'round.  I'm Quick,
Major, at all times, but never quicker than I've been now."

The familiar pun brought another smile to the wasted face.

"Thank God," said the doctor, solemnly, after investigation, "you'll
do."

Then he gave Hector a sleeping draught.

When Hector awoke again, it was to find Lancaster at his bedside.
Never had he seen a man in a state of greater thankfulness.  And
behind him were the doctor, Nita and Seattle Sue.

"We've decided," said Lancaster, "that it will be best for Discovery
City generally to remain ignorant of your recovery--for the present.
Meanwhile, Major, you must keep quiet and get well."

"I agree as to the first remark and also as to getting well.  But I
can't keep quiet," said Hector.

"You _must_," the doctor insisted.

"I _can't_," Hector asserted.  "If you want me to get well quickly,
you'll relieve my mind.  Mr. Lancaster, I must see you alone--now."

The Lieutenant-Governor reluctantly signed to the others to leave the
room.

"What time is it?" asked Hector.

"Three o'clock in the afternoon."

"And the date?"

Lancaster told him.

"How long have I been ill?"

"Twelve days."

"Good God!  Twelve days!  My God, what time I've lost!"

"There's a chance for you to play your part yet.  The blizzard has
postponed the big meeting for a week.  The miners from the outlying
camps couldn't travel."

"Thank God for that!  I've a week in which to recover--and prepare.
We must keep the change secret, as you said just now.  Surprise is
the first element of success."

"It is.  No-one will know you've turned the corner."

"Has Antoine returned?"

The Lieutenant-Governor's face grew serious.

"No.  He must have been held up.  I doubt, now, if he can get here in
time."

"He must!"  Hector struggled to sit up in bed.  "So much depends on
it.  He must get through.  He cannot fail us, surely----"

The Lieutenant-Governor put out a hand.

"Don't excite yourself, Adair.  Take it quietly, man; take it
quietly."

The Superintendent fell back exhausted.

"Has the blizzard died down?"

"Yes.  There's still a chance."

"Well, we must get ready."

"But you're really not fit."

"Nonsense.  You told me once you were looking to me."

"God knows that's true--but----"

"Well, I'm better now."

Lancaster stared at the emaciated face, set in its iron-hard lines,
and gained a deeper sense of the man's indomitable will.

"You must rest now.  Promise me," he said.

"On one condition: that you send Forshaw to me tonight."

"You're really not fit----"

"My God, Lancaster," Hector groaned in an agony; "how can I rest with
this thing before me?  You _must_ do as I ask."

The Lieutenant-Governor silently pressed the sick man's hand, trying
to express in that simple action all he felt.

"I'll send him, Major," he said.

When Lancaster left him, Hector lay gasping.  The effort of the
interview, short as it had been, had completely played him out.  The
realization wounded him bitterly.  The man whose physical strength
was proverbial was, he had discovered, at this crisis, as incapable
of action as a baby.  He revolted madly against it, but the fact
remained.  As with his body, so with his brain.  Fiercely as he
tried, now, to form some plan, he found himself utterly unable to do
it.  His penetration, his self-control and powers of concentration
were all gone.  He could not get Antoine out of his mind.  The man's
absence tortured him, shut out everything else.  Through the coming
days, this was to dominate his thoughts, jeering, like a fiend, at
his helplessness.

Exhaustion brought him rest at last.

Blythe awakened him some hours later, with a collation prepared from
eggs.  Hector took the glass, astonished.  Eggs were as rare as women
in Black Elk.

"You bin havin' 'em ever since you got sick, sir," said Blythe
proudly.

"I have, eh?  A dollar apiece!  This will ruin me financially, I see
that."

"No 't'won't, sir," exclaimed Blythe quickly.

He watched his chief drink the mixture with intense satisfaction.

"How's that?"

"Well, sir--" Blythe became hesitant.  "Fact is--Sergeant Savage, he
said he'd break my neck if I told you--the boys passed 'round the
hat, sir--seein' you were ill, it was all they could do----"

"You mean--" said Hector slowly, "that the men bought these eggs for
me, out of their pay?"

"Yessir," said Blythe, now shamefaced, feeling himself a traitor.
"You've had six or seven dozen, sir."

Hector put down the glass.  Tears welled up in his eyes.  Blythe
looked desperate.

"I'm not ashamed of them, Blythe," said Hector thickly.  "God bless
the boys--God bless 'em."

Finishing the drink, he felt better.  And, somehow, Blythe's
confession had helped him wonderfully.  The collective strength of
the men seemed to pass into him.

"What's the time, Blythe?"

"'Bout seven, sir."

"Right.  Finish your job and clear out.  Inspector Forshaw will be
here soon."

With Blythe's departure, Hector gathered himself together for the
great effort facing him.  His brain was working more freely, but his
physical weakness filled him with panic.

"God, but this illness must have pulled me down," he thought, and
with the thought resolved to see if it was so.

Against all orders, he got out of bed and put his slippers on.  The
effort was stupendous.  The room swam before his eyes and he thought
himself about to faint.  But he set his teeth, calling all his
tremendous will-power to his aid, feeling that inestimable things
depended on his success or failure now.  Then, clutching at the bed,
the chair, the table, for support, he made a tragic and
heart-breaking pilgrimage on his trembling legs across the narrow
space to the shaving mirror by the lamp.  Sweat streaming down his
face, his heart pounding furiously, he looked into the
mirror--received a stunning shock----

His face had shrunk to livid whiteness and was as thin as a knife.
Two black hollows showed 'round his eyes, two in his wasted cheeks.
His bloodless lips were set tight and his hair--almost in a
night--had become streaked with grey.

That grey hair was the price of the mental torment he had endured.
That face was the face of the man on whom depended everything in
Black Elk, that raw skeleton actually all that stood between
Lancaster and his enemies.  Then God help Lancaster!

Exhausted, he turned back to bed.  How he reached it he never knew.

Presently came Forshaw's knock.

He braced himself to fight his great fight.

"Come in!"

A moment later he found himself haltingly dictating orders to the
little Adjutant.




Chapter VI


I

In a small room in a low-down house in Discovery, Welland and Greasy
Jones met secretly.

Greasy had successfully made his way through Hopeful Pass in disguise
and was now in hiding in this low-down house, awaiting the hour of
the miners' rally, when the long and carefully planned coup was to be
made and Black Elk Territory declared a republic.

The rally was planned for eight o'clock that night.  It was now six
a.m.

The two conspirators had met to arrange the final details.  Welland
had not seen the gangster since their last meeting in Prospect.  The
risks were too great.  And one meeting--this meeting--in Discovery
was all he dared venture.  Even now he was very nervous.

"You're sure everyone's asleep?" he asked.  "And that no-one can
overhear us?"

"Sure," replied Greasy impatiently.  "There's only two people in the
house.  One's the owner, a man the yallah-legs don't suspect, the
other's my woman--an' she don't count."

"Your--why did you bring _her_ along?  We don't want women here."

"You forget I was a respectable trader goin' to open store in
Discovery," the gangster grinned.  "An' t' have a wife along helped
the effect."

"All right," said Welland apologetically.  "Don't think me a
fuss-cat, Greasy.  But you understand--a man in my position----"

"What about a man in _mine_?  If the yallah-legs knew I was here, I'd
be behind the bars in two snorts----"

"Well, they don't," said Welland, "and won't--till too late.  Now, do
all hands know about the meeting?"

"Yes," smiled Greasy.  "It's a meetin' to present a petition to his
Nibs the Lieut. Gov.  The first-comers, though, an' my men, has been
tipped off to what's goin' to happen.  They're all armed an' ready to
fight, if necess'ry.  Arms concealed, o' course.  Are you sure the
yallah-legs knows nothin'?"

"Of our intentions?  Nothing!  They think it's a tea party.  Of
course, they're scared--a little."

"Sure to be," Greasy agreed.

"How many of your men got through the pass?"

"'Bout thirty.  Enough, I guess.  That includes Philibert, Kelly, an'
Pete--the best o' 'em.  The Spaniard was spotted an', o' course,
No-nose, early in the game."

"Good.  And they're to take charge, if it comes to violence?"

"Yep.  They'll be in the crowd, same as me."

"I've promised the Lieutenant-Governor to go on the platform with
him.  As an M.P., it's my place.  You'll have to arrest me--for
appearance' sake.  You can let me out afterwards, but I must be
arrested, with the rest of them."

"Yep.  I understand.  Now what about a programme?"

"Well, Lancaster proposes to speak first, pleading his case.  Then
the men with the petition plan to present it and answer him.  I
understand Adair may speak, too."

"Hell, yes," said Greasy fiercely.  "I thought he was dyin'.
Yesterday, when the news come 'round that he was better--why, it was
a real surprise packet, that was!"

"It certainly was.  Even I knew nothing about his recovery till it
was announced."

"Damn the swine!  It 'ud have served us perfectly if he'd died.  Our
biggest enemy out o' the way----!"

"That's true."  Welland's voice was suddenly very sinister.  "But
I've a plan for settling him.  Best we could have--puts him out at
the start."

"What is it?"

"This: The time for us to throw down our cards is just after
Lancaster and himself have spoken.  Adair's had a flag hoisted above
the platform.  On a given signal, picked men'll rush forward, led by
yourself and your lieutenants, capture everyone on the platform,
you'll say your say for the Republic, tear down the flag--run up your
own--and tell Lancaster to order the Police to surrender.  He'll do
it, you bet, when he sees the odds--every man in Black Elk will be
there.  And--the Territory's ours!"

"That's O.K.  But what about Adair?"

"We'll want a signal, won't we?  And Adair out of the way?  We all
recognize him as the backbone of resistance, don't we?  Well, you get
a man you can trust--a dead shot; station him somewhere overlooking
the platform; as soon as Adair finishes speaking, let him be shot
down--kill him!  That blows up your resistance--bang!  And there's
your signal!"

"By George, you're a slick 'un!"

"Do you agree?"

"You bet I do.  I know just the man.  It's settled, then.  We shoot
Adair!"


II

At six o'clock in the evening, Hector sat in his room, awaiting the
hour of the meeting.

Though the week intervening since his recovery had done much for him,
he was still pitifully thin and weak.  His clothes sagged on him and
his face was deathly.  Only the determination to see the matter
through personally kept him up.  The Lieutenant-Governor and all his
friends marvelled at his resolution.

He was quite calm.

Blythe came in.

"Please, sir," he said gloomily, "there's a woman wants to see you,
sir.  All in a hurry, she is--out o' breath.  Matter o' life an'
death, she says.  Queer lookin', sir, queer."

"Never mind.  Show her in."

The woman was queer.  She was in the late forties.  Her once
beautiful hair had been dyed to hide the grey.  She had been very
pretty in her time, but was now flabby, unhealthy and inclined to
fatness.  And she was hopelessly painted and pencilled.  She wore a
heavy fur coat.  Hector had seen many of her kind--women of the
streets.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

Horror crept into her eyes at sight of his emaciated face.  Her
nerves on the raw, she twisted her hands restlessly, looked here,
there, everywhere.

"You needn't be afraid of me.  What is it?" he said, very quietly.

She burst into a confession, the wildest, maddest thing he had ever
heard.  At the end, she was sobbing at his feet.

He listened and his face never changed in the slightest, but to
become a little more set, a little sterner.  Nor did he move a
muscle--just sat motionless.

"You overheard this fellow talking to the man you live with?" he
asked at last.

She nodded, crying.

"And he is to shoot me when I go up on the platform tonight?"

She nodded again.

"You don't know the man?"

"No.  I was in the room upstairs.  I heard them through the floor."

"I see.  You wouldn't know his voice?  You didn't hear his name?

"No."

"I see."  Still that calm, thoughtful tone.  "They didn't mention
where the shot was to come from?"

"No.  Just from the crowd."

"So I'm to be shot by an unknown assassin from somewhere in the
crowd--a crowd of at least ten thousand, from every part of Black
Elk," he said bitterly.

"That's it," she said.

He knew that to discover the assassin in the crowd would be
impossible.

There came a painful silence.  Hector broke it.

"You won't tell me your man's name?  Is it useless to ask?"

She nodded.

"I love him," she whispered.

"So I can't get at him.  You won't even point out the house?"

"No."

"Won't anything I say drag the information from you?"

"Nothing will."

He considered a while, facing this terrible and unexpected menace.

"Suppose I arrest you?"

She started to her knees.

"Oh, for God's sake, no!" she gasped.  "Don't do that!  Sooner or
later he--my man--he'd get at me, knowing I'd betrayed his plan.  And
he'd kill me.  He'd kill me when you let me out, if not before."

"But I could jail him too.  Suppose I keep you.  I can get someone to
identify you.  Then I can arrest your man--and discover this assassin
from him."

"You can't," she declared.  "Not before the meeting.  There isn't
time.  And anyway, I swear, before God, no-one knows me in Discovery."

"There's isn't time," he thought.  "That's true."

"Well," he asked her, "what do you propose to do, when you leave
here?"

"I'm going to clear out--to Prospect--leave this damn country--go
home--right now."

"Right now, eh?" he repeated.

'I'll have you followed when you leave here and trace you to that
precious man of yours,' had been his thought.  But if she fled at
once from Discovery, to follow her would be futile.

"Your man will follow and kill you just the same.  He'll easily trace
you and catch you up."

"I must chance that," she said desperately.

He saw that she was really resolved on immediate flight.

"Why don't you go back to your man?" he asked.

"After betraying his plans?  And after he'd forbidden me to leave the
house today?  You don't know him!"

"Well, evidently, if I go, I'm certain to be shot," he smiled "Isn't
that so?"

"Yes," she muttered.

"Then--why did you come to warn me?"

"I can't--" she choked--"I can't stand by and see you shot!"

"Not even by your man's assassin?"

"Not even that."

"For Christ's sake, Major Adair," she burst out suddenly, "don't go!"

"That's for me to decide," he said grimly.  "If you'd tell me where
to find that assassin--I don't ask you to betray your man--I
understand that side of it--you might save my life.  Or if you'd come
earlier----"

"I came as soon as I could," she protested.  "Before God, that's
true."

"All right.  I believe you."

By this time, recovering a little, she had risen.  He was thinking
hard.

"Promise you won't go," she begged.

He looked at her--a piteous object, her powder trailed by tears.

"I promise--nothing," he said firmly.

"Oh, if you go, all this will be wasted--you know the risks I've
run--I've been through hell today."

Her voice rang with agony and despair.

"I appreciate that," he answered quietly, "and thank you.  Now--to
get you away safely."

"Eh?"

She stared.

"You must be escorted," he went on, his coolness bewildering her, "or
that man of yours will get you.  A mail leaves here in half an
hour--dog-train; the fastest run to Prospect going.  I'll send you
out with it.  It's under Police escort.  You'll be safe."

"I--I don't know--what to say----"

"Don't say anything," he answered.  "I owe you this for your warning.
And--before you go--won't you tell me really why you came?  I
recognise--forgive my saying so--that you're not illiterate.  What
induced you----"

She hung her head--then, swiftly, threw it back--great courage in the
way she faced the scorn she felt impending.

"Hector," she exclaimed, "don't you remember--Georgina Harris--in
Toronto?"

He puckered his brows, struggling with his memory.  Slowly it all
came back.  He saw the girl standing with him, under the lamp--many
years, many years ago.

Georgina Harris--the hideous truth confronted him.  The girl had
followed the path that might have been expected, then.  This painted,
wornout woman, mistress to a criminal, was Georgina Harris.  Life
suddenly seemed a terrible thing, youth dead with them both----

"I loved you once, Hector," she said wanly.  "That's why I couldn't
see you shot in cold blood--now.  Don't condemn me, Hector.  Please!"

He could not speak a word.


As soon as the woman had gone, under Blythe's escort, to join the
mail, Hector thought the matter over.

To discover the assassin now was impossible.  Two alternatives faced
him if he was to save his life: One, to order the meeting cancelled;
two, to stay away.

To cancel the meeting at this stage would be useless.  The crowd
would insist on holding it, defying the law.  The fat would then be
in the fire.  To stay away would be a confession of weakness, after
the declaration that he would attend.  Moreover, Lancaster could not
handle the crowd alone.

He must either betray his trust, let down the country when he was
needed most, or--face practically certain death.

He had a very short time in which to make his decision--a decision
that was so momentous.

Now he must be truly 'Spirit-of-Iron'!  To face death in cold blood,
not in battle, but at the hands of an unknown assassin--to sacrifice
life on the gory altar of Duty--that was what he was required to do.

Blow on blow--trial on trial--racking him--scourging him----

The night was dark--very, very dark.


III

At seven o'clock the Rev. Mr. Northcote, strangely excited, came over
to Hector, demanding his immediate attendance at the parson's
quarters.

"I'm very busy," said Hector.  "What is it?"

"A most urgent and important matter."

"This is very mysterious," Hector smiled.  "Well, just for a minute,
then.  Go ahead.  But not too fast.  I'm tottery still."

They walked slowly over to Northcote's.  The world was ominously
still, frozen in deathly silence.  From the town came the occasional
howl of a husky and a murmur, as of a great crowd gathering.  The
night was pregnant with possibilities.

They entered the shack.  Northcote pushed open the sitting-room door.

"In there," he whispered, smiling--gave Hector a gentle push--he went
in.

The room was brightly lighted.  By the stove stood a woman, in
breeches, heavy stockings, moccasins and mackinaw coat--a woman with
ruddy-gold hair--strangely familiar----

"Hector!" she said.

He heard his own voice, on a strained, unnatural note:

"Frances!"

Then everything went black before his eyes.

The shock passed, leaving behind an ecstasy.  He felt that he was
dreaming and would awake to a world of cold, deadly fact at any
moment.  He saw her hanging back, irresolute, as if she doubted his
feelings after all these years.  And, a second later, he knew himself
holding her hands, tumbling out broken, incoherent words, leaving no
time for her breathless, half-crying, half-laughing answers, and at
last, taking her in his arms, kissing her desperately, saying over
and over again:

"Frances! ... Frances!"

While she answered, as he allowed her, with: "Hector!  Oh, Hector!
My dear, darling....  Hector----?"

Then--everything else forgotten--except the marvellous, wonderful
fact that she was with him--he began, turning her face to the light,
holding her hands in a fevered clutch:

"But Frances....  Why are you here?  When did you get here?  Frances,
I don't understand....  This is too miraculous----"

"Didn't you get my letter?"

"Your letter--when?"

"Hector, I wrote you not long ago, telling you I was on my way up
here, and to write and tell me not to if you--if you'd forgotten.
And, as you didn't answer----"

"I never had it.  Our mails are uncertain.  Several have been
lost--shipwreck and so on.  Frances, this is a surprise....  I can't
speak...."

"I was terribly afraid--before you came in--that you'd--you might
have--forgotten, Hector.  I didn't know whether you'd think me
mad--but I had faith in you.  I've never forgotten what you
said--that night at home--when you said you'd never--well, love
anyone else--and I promised to be true to you.  So I thought, 'He'll
keep his word.'  Then, when I met Mr. Northcote--he's such a
dear--and found he knew you so well--I just told him, Hector.  And he
said he was sure--I needn't be afraid----"

"Afraid?"  She was in his arms again.  "Afraid?  Frances, if you only
knew--how I've thought of you--how your face has always been before
me--day and night--in these fifteen long, long years--what hell I
went through when I lost you--and how hope left me long ago--so I
just went on alone.  I'm not the sort that loves more than once,
Frances.  I've loved you always--you don't know what you've been to
me--I'm no orator, Frances, but----"

"I can guess--" she whispered.

Presently, he asked her, overwhelmed once more with wonder:

"But Frances--how did you get here--where did you meet Northcote?
Surely you didn't come into this wild part of the world--alone?"

"Not exactly alone.  I chummed up with some men on the boat--and your
fellows--how magnificent they are, Hector!--helped me along.  I met
Mr. Northcote by chance, at Lucky.  The blizzard caught him there,
like the rest of us--he'd come down on business, he said.  He offered
to escort me to Discovery.  And that explains, doesn't it?"

"But then--you really came alone--all this way?  Why?"

"Must I tell you?" she asked, eyes very misty.

"Frances--not----?"

"Because you were here?  Yes, Hector."

"But--why, it's the pluckiest----"

"Love makes heroes of us all, Hector."

He kissed her again, passionately.

"Still I'm in the dark, Frances.  Your long silence--where have you
been?  What have you been doing?  I wrote when I got my Commission,
you know--to the address you gave Mrs. Tweedy--you remember her?
Well, it came back--a 'dead letter'--and after that it was useless,
of course, to write again.  Why didn't you get that letter?"

"We moved away from that address in a day or so.  Then father started
us off on a wild pilgrimage--everywhere, in the States, to cover our
trail--afterwards to England--France----"

"I see.  But why didn't you write--you had my address--a word--a
line?"

"Don't reproach me, Hector.  Father had me spied on shamelessly.  I
couldn't get a letter out of the house--or write one.  It was
terrible.  But I stood it, for mother's sake."

"But surely--in fifteen years?"

"Wait.  When we got to France, father made a marriage of convenience
for me--a wealthy young Frenchman--Deschamps----"

"Then--why are you here?"

She saw the light dying in his eyes.

"Goose," she laughed.  "Let me finish.  I had to marry him.  Oh,
Hector, I can't tell you the agony, the shame, I went through--the
fight I made.  But it was no good.  I married him at last--because I
had to, Hector.  I gave you up then, forever--because I had to.
Jules was terribly jealous--he really did love me, Hector.  When once
his wife, I had to play the game, even though it--broke my heart.
You _must_ understand, Hector."

"I do," he answered.

"But--afterwards--I couldn't put you out of my mind.  God knows, I
tried.  I couldn't love Jules.  We drifted apart.  But I played the
game.  All the same, I couldn't forget you.  I followed your career,
Hector, as well as I could.  You don't know how proud and happy I was
to see you climbing up--up--up--all the time."  She smiled
delightfully.  "I watched for--a wife, Hector.  But none appeared.
Can you guess my thoughts, then?  I can't express them.  They're a
secret between God and me.  But I was happier than ever."

"Frances!" he said.

"A year ago, Jules died.  As soon as his affairs were settled, I
travelled extensively.  I was restless--didn't know what to do.
Father and mother are both dead, so I couldn't go back to them.
Gradually it came to me, Hector, that, I should seek you
out--wherever you were.  I felt sure of you still, Hector, dear, you
see--and perhaps you needed me.  But what's the use of saying more?
I returned to Canada.  It was easy to find out where you were.  Then
I wrote--and followed the letter.  That's all."

"Frances!  After all these years----"

So, for a moment, they gave themselves up to their great happiness.
It seemed to Hector that all his dreary, toilsome life was
compensated for, then and there; that once again he was back in
Paradise.

"We can still begin, Frances," he told her.  "It's not too late.  But
if only you'd come before....  Frances, I'm in the forties--think of
it--with you, it doesn't matter--"  He took her face in his hands and
looked at her with a tenderness that pierced her heart.  "Frances,
dear, you're just the same!  You've hardly changed a bit--and
I--I!----"

"Hector, don't talk like that."  Tears blinded her.  "You've been
ill--my poor boy!  Mr. Northcote didn't know, till we got here this
afternoon, or we'd have hurried even more.  Hector--Hector----"

For the first time she realised to the full his ghastly thinness, the
age in his hair, and contrasted it, agonizingly, with the proud
strength and youth she had known long ago.

"Don't cry, little girl," he soothed her.  "I'm all right.  It's not
too late.  I----"

Then he remembered----

Remembered the situation in Black Elk--that in a few minutes he must
join issue single-handed with a hostile crowd--and, worse than that,
face certain death.

Slowly, the awful cruelty of the position sank into his breast; that,
just when, after fifteen dreary years, Frances had been given back to
him, he was required by circumstances to give her up again.

The iron hand of Duty had him in its grip, was crushing him--robbing
him of everything.

Why had Frances been given to him, at this, of all times, when he
must give her up so soon?  Better if she had not come at all.  It was
not fair--it was hideous--that he should be faced with such a choice
as this----

The choice between his duty and his great love.

Yet that choice he had to make.  To the meeting he must go--after a
little half-hour of ecstasy--half an hour in fifteen years!--he must
say 'Goodbye.'

The Human Parson's words came back to him now, in all their awful
truth:

'Everything worth while is won by sacrifice.'  'There comes a time,
at least once in every man's life, when he must make one big concrete
sacrifice.'

This was the time for him.  It had him now!

She read the agony in his face.

"Hector," she begged, terrified.  "What is it?  What is it?"

He told her--not of the assassin--what was the use?--but of what was
before him.  And she guessed the rest.

"Is there danger?" she said.  Then, "Oh, I know there's danger!
Hector, Hector--don't go--my dear--it's too much--after all these
years of loneliness--I don't want----"

He took her hands, holding them strongly.

"Frances," he told her, "this is--terrible--to me.  Don't make it any
harder than it already is."

She clung to him.  He took her in his arms.  So these two held to
each other, the wreckage of their hopes around them, in their great
agony....

Northcote knocked softly at the door.

"Major," they heard his voice, "it's time to go."

"Frances--" said Hector.

She made a tremendous effort--triumphed--smiled bravely into his
face----

"Go then, dear," she whispered.  "God bless you."

This was a woman of the type which makes the old poet's words so very
true:

"Sweet and seemly is it to die for one's country."


IV

Throughout the afternoon, Welland had been in joyful mood.

His plans were completed and about to bring forth fruit.

Wandering through crowded Discovery, he sensed the temper of the
people and felt that he could not fail.

The revolution which the politician had induced Greasy Jones to
foster had, for Welland, two purposes: first, the ruin of
Superintendent Adair; second, his own political advancement.

On coming to Black Elk, Welland had aimed to secure a share of its
riches and to look for an opportunity of smashing the Superintendent.
His effort to break Hector openly having failed--as witness the
Whitewash Bill affair--he had recognized that the only method likely
to succeed was one of secrecy.  A short stay in Prospect, a few weeks
in Discovery, had shown him that he had admirable material at hand.
Hundreds of desperate men, requiring only judicious bribery or subtle
encouragement, were there to do his bidding.  Meanwhile, he had
acquired his share of Black Elk riches by purchase and partnership.

In time he realised that the civil administration was not
incorruptible, though Lancaster, at its head, was above suspicion.
He had already discovered much discontent.  The idea struck him: Why
not secure the services of a desperado--Greasy Jones was the lucky
man--to foster this discontent and bring about revolution?  A few
hundred men, if the plan were kept secret, could overthrow the
Government.  Adair would be held responsible, as having failed to
detect the plot or crush the rising.  The result would be his ruin.
But, when the wheels were started, Welland realised that, without a
just grievance, the movement would be supported only by the
discontented minority.  Then he remembered the weaknesses of the
administration; offered it bribes, through other men; found that it
could be tempted; and at once undermined the public confidence in its
honesty by systematically corrupting it.  This enabled him to enrich
himself and to stir the people to a sense of wrong.

In a short time nearly everyone in the Territory was clamouring for a
change, or at least a general clean-up.  They were ripe for
revolution.

And Welland wanted revolution; and wanted Greasy Jones and his crowd
to dominate.  For revolution would mean Hector's ruin.  In that
respect, he had been honest with the gangster.  But he was far too
wise to imagine that the Dominion would permit the Territory to
remain under the revolutionary flag.  He knew perfectly well that the
Government, in the end, would crush the revolt and reestablish the
Queen's authority.  Therefore, it behooved him to look to the future.
And, in looking to the future, he saw his chance to climb out of the
wreckage of the revolution to higher things.

Frankly, he intended to do nothing, either for or against the
revolution, after the Queen's authority was overthrown.  He intended
to remain quiet until the troops from Canada arrived.  Then his
scheme was to help the Government to 'tidy up' in every way.  He
would tell them that he had foreseen the trouble all along, had
written home hinting of its coming--as he actually had--but had felt
confident of Lancaster's ability to hold his place.  He would tell a
long tale of how Greasy Jones, after the revolution, had held him
captive.  He would make his special knowledge of the Territory
invaluable.  And, with one thing or another, he would finally appear
in the eyes of the Government and of Canada generally as the one
capable man in Black Elk, a statesman and a hero.  The result would
be at least a place in the Cabinet.  He might even rival the Prime
Minister.

The only man from whom he had anything to fear was Greasy, who alone
knew his part in fostering the revolution.  Greasy would certainly
betray him to the re-established authority--if he waited for it,
which Welland was certain he would not.  But no one would believe
Greasy.  His assertions would be thought preposterous.  How could his
word--or that of any of his confreres--count against that of Mr.
Steven Molyneux, M.P.?

Thus would the revolution achieve Welland's two aims: Hector's ruin;
and his own climb to great power.

For the first alone, he would never have run such risks; but for
both, he had done so.  And all was well.

Hector's death, at the hands of an unknown assassin, had come to him
in the later stages, as an inspiration.  The Superintendent's illness
had shown Welland how anxious he really was to see his enemy dead.
But, at the same time, he wished him to taste humiliation before he
died.  His recovery gave Welland a chance to achieve that wish.  To
find himself shot, at the very moment when the country needed him
most, to die with the triumphant shouts of the revolutionists in his
ears, shouts telling his degradation--what could be more terrible to
Hector?  Welland's plan allowed for this.

The politician was very, very happy.  He saw the enemy of a lifetime
dead at his feet, the revolution a success and the name of
Superintendent Adair smirched and blotted, as representing one who
had slept at his post and betrayed the people.  And then he saw the
revolution crushed and himself risen to heights as yet untouched.

At ten to eight he walked over to join the Lieutenant-Governor, so
that he might sit on the platform and witness Hector's downfall.

Altogether, with his treachery to the Black Elk authorities and his
treachery to Greasy Jones, Welland was not unqualified for the
stigma, 'traitor.'


V

In the main square of Discovery City a vast crowd, representing most
of the inhabitants of Black Elk, was assembled--a wild, undisciplined
crowd, a heaping shovelful from the rubbish-heap of the whole wide
world.  For days it had been gathering together, its outward purpose
to force Lancaster's resignation, the real purpose of its leaders to
launch revolution.  They did not contemplate bloodshed.  But they
were ready for it.

From a platform at one end of the square the Lieutenant-Governor and
the officer commanding the Mounted Police--the one man they really
feared--were to speak.  Torches and lanterns around it threw it into
a fierce light and illuminated the Union Jack which flapped idly from
a pole above.  The light fell also on the faces of the nearest men
and was at last lost in the great heart of the crowd.  Overhead the
aurora surged and quivered, advanced and retired, staging marvellous
pageantry in the intense darkness and seeming to rustle and to
whisper.  There was an awful atmosphere in the scene, as though
something tremendous were about to happen.

It was eight o'clock.

A thunderous roar burst suddenly from the crowd, burst and rolled
back and forth, like the roar of a fitful wind over the sea.
Acclamation, surprise, above all, hostility, were in that strange cry.

The Lieutenant-Governor's party had appeared on the platform.

Lancaster brought no escort with him.  None of the Mounted Police
fringed the outskirts of the crowd.  But with Lancaster was Major
Adair.

Welland seated himself at the edge of the platform.  He had no wish
to be near Adair when the assassin fired his shot.

The crowd grew impatient, shouting and whistling, jeeringly for the
Lieutenant-Governor.  Suddenly a man arose, walked forward and held
up his hand for silence.

A hush full of surprise--surprise affecting none more than
Welland--fell on the crowd.  The man was not Lancaster.  It was
Spirit-of-Iron.

This was an unanticipated change in the programme.  In a corner below
the platform Nita Oswald, seeking the 'scoop' of her life, made her
pencil fly over her notebook.

To the crowd, this man seemed to have arisen from the grave.  They
knew how close to death he had recently been.  And his face was
ghastly, while his clothes hung on him.  It was evident that he was
making a tremendous effort in attending the meeting at all.  Grudging
admiration seized them.  They loved courage.  Moreover, the man's
personality was already gripping them, making them his.

To Hector, this was the supreme moment of his life, to which he had
looked forward for months.  He felt that everything depended on him
in this crisis.  If ever he had swayed men, cowed men, he must sway
and cow them now, though he drooped with fatigue.

He had not forgotten the assassin.  That unknown devil lurked always
at the back of his mind.  But he had passed the stage when he really
cared whether the shot was fired or not, so long as he could master
this immense mob--so immense that it seemed illimitable.
Fortunately, he did not feel as if he faced this immensity, this
monster stretching away and away into the darkness, alone.  He
felt--a wonderful feeling--that the strength of all Canada, for whom
he was enduring this thing, was behind him, helping him to dominate,
trusting him, looking to him--and behind Canada, the Empire----

So in the silence, he began.  He had a strange sensation that someone
else, far mightier than he, was speaking.

"Men, you are here tonight, believing yourselves victims of a corrupt
administration, to present a petition to the Lieutenant-Governor,
which, among other things, calls for a general clean-up, for Mr.
Lancaster's resignation and for a transference of the power held by
the Dominion Government to yourselves.  This is the programme.  I
want to tell you that most of you have been deceived."

Welland felt a sudden chill.  The crowd stirred, muttering, with an
occasional shout of angry dissent--stirred and was still again.

"Now, it is not my purpose tonight to dispute the arguments of those
among you who are sincere.  I will show you in a moment, however,
that even your petition will prove unnecessary.  What I do want to
remind you of is that my duty here is to maintain the authority of
the Dominion Government.  And I am going to do it!"

The crowd waited sullenly.  The determined ring in that last sentence
stirred them.

"Many of you are foreigners, born under tyrannous governments, hating
all constituted authority.  The Canadian Government is a government
of the people.  It is not tyrannous.  The Government of the British
Empire, as a whole, is the same.  Yet, when you come under the
British Flag, instead of appreciating all this, you will listen to
anyone who asks you to tear it down.  Such an act is an act against
yourselves--not against a tyrant, as you believe.  The people, of
whom the Queen is Sovereign, put me here to keep that Flag flying.
And I'm going to keep it there!"

Jeers swept up to him.  But the great mass of the crowd still waited.

"This isn't a defiance.  I'm merely warning you not to do anything
you regret.  I want you to act like sensible men.

"Now, let me tell you the truth.  A big element among you is out, not
for constitutional change, but revolution!"

A weird sigh, a long-drawn intaking of breath, ran over the great
throng, expressive of stunned surprise and a sense of being trapped.
As for Welland, his feelings beggar description.  Hector was speaking
very rapidly now, driving home his facts, beating down all opposition.

"It's the truth.  I have all the proofs.  That element is out for
revolution--possibly bloody revolution.  They want to establish a
republic--the Black Elk Republic!"

The bomb was thrown--with extraordinary effect.

"Listen!  You've been absolutely fooled!  Your leaders have led you
into a trap.  There's an inner ring in this conspiracy.  As soon as
the revolution had taken place and the present authorities were
overthrown, that ring--a ring of the worst desperadoes on earth, many
the sweepings of Prospect--was to establish a dictatorship.  Those of
you who don't know this would have known it very soon.  Those who do,
even these leaders themselves, would have found themselves one day
with heads in a noose.  You want the proofs?  You don't.  You know
it's true."

Welland had grown cold.

"Those of you in the know thought I was asleep.  A certain individual
who ran the whole thing"--Welland half arose, a mad impulse to run
away upon him; but Hector did not betray him--"he thought so, too.
What are the facts?  I have secret agents everywhere, known only to
myself.  One of them, in Prospect, brought me the first inkling of
the plot.  Unfortunately, he was shot before he could get more
information.  But others worked for me.  What they couldn't discover,
I guessed.  I knew that gangsters were smuggling themselves through
the pass; and that arms were being smuggled in, too.  In fact, I let
many of them through, so that those at the bottom of the plot
wouldn't smell a rat.  You've been told, by special speakers, a pack
of lies.  Mr. Lancaster and I, over a month ago, took steps to show
you that they were lies.  We knew that the telegraph lines were being
tapped, but we kept on sending ordinary messages through, so that
your leaders wouldn't know that.  We knew that even the mails weren't
safe.  So we sent a special runner to our office in Prospect, with
two messages to be forwarded and he brought the answers back.  The
first message was to the Dominion Government, the second to the
Government of the United States, through the Dominion Government.
They dealt with the situation and they secured answers which show how
you've been duped.  In this one, the Dominion Government pledges
itself to a clean-up, through Mr. Lancaster, and to grant you wider
powers than you have had hitherto.  In that one, the American
Government assures us that, contrary to what you've been told, it
will on no account support any attempt to wrest Black Elk from
Canada!"

There was absolute silence.  Hector held the letters up.

"Look at them.  If you think they're forgeries, let your
representatives examine them!  But wait--there is something else in
this letter from Ottawa.  The Government is sending ten thousand
troops up here to crush any revolt.  We asked for them.  They're on
their way.  That's what you've been led into!

"And the situation--now?  I've stripped all my posts and detachments.
Nearly all my officers and men arrived here secretly last night.
They are now standing to arms with four machine-guns, at the
barracks.  There are also there a thousand loyal citizens of this
Territory, all armed and under my orders.  Half an hour ago, raids
were made on the places where the would-be leaders of the
revolt--Greasy Jones and his cut-throats--were hiding.  Greasy Jones
was shot dead by Inspector Cranbrook, after the gangster had wounded
him.  The rest are behind the bars.  We also captured documents,
stamps, flags and so on, giving conclusive evidence of what was
coming.  And we know that many of you are armed.

"That's all I have to say.  This thing can't succeed.  The Americans
will not support it.  Troops are on the way to back us up.  The men
who planned it are in our hands.  Your grievances have been adjusted.
We are fully armed and prepared to stand by the Flag to the last.
What I say goes.  Now, boys, take my advice and go home."

There he ended.

The effect of this dramatic and totally unexpected exposure of the
whole plot and of Adair's preparations was indescribable.  Even
Lancaster was speechless--Hector had confided in him only what was
absolutely necessary.  Welland, unable to grasp the situation, was
stunned.  As for the crowd, it was paralysed.  Hector had impressed
them from the first.  His final disclosures completed their
stupefaction.  Suddenly they saw the revolution with the bottom
knocked out and remembered that this man was called 'Spirit-of-Iron.'

Hector sensed the change immediately and knew that he had triumphed.
All his past life, his early training, his development, had been
leading up to this crisis--this crisis which involved not only
himself and his own welfare, as other crises had done, but also a
great national issue, the defeat, not only of his own enemy, but the
enemy of his country.  In a moment he saw that Destiny had given him
victory in this last grim battle.  His part was done.

But the assassin had not yet played his part.  He had been instructed
to fire as soon as the Superintendent ceased speaking.  To him the
change in the state of affairs involved no change.  Through the
strange silence came the crash of a rifle fired from somewhere on the
outskirts of the great crowd--fired while Hector was still at the
edge of the platform.  Then Nita Oswald's voice, shrieking, clear and
high:

"They've killed him!  They've killed him!"


VI

  Nugget City,
    B.E.T.,
    Today's Date.

  To The Officer Commanding,
    N.W.M.P.
      Black Elk Territory.

Sir:

I have the honour to enclose a report just received from Sergeant
Kellett, in charge of the post on Hopeful Pass.  I have the honour to
be, sir,

  Your obedient servant,
      J. G. Gemmell, Inspector, N.W.M.P.

_Enclosure._


  Hopeful Pass Detachment,
    B. E, T.
    Today's Date.

  Officer Commanding,
    N.W.M.P.
      Nugget City,
        B.E.T.

Sir:

With reference to the attempt to establish a revolutionary Government
in this Territory, I have the honour to report as follows:


The nine-day blizzard following the night of the meeting at Discovery
City tied up all traffic through this pass.  Nevertheless, patrols
were constantly maintained.  Three snow-bound men were rescued, one
man destitute taken in and one man, found snowed up, with dogs dead,
was brought into the post dying from exhaustion and exposure.

On being revived, the latter individual made a confession bearing on
the shooting at Discovery, copy of which is enclosed.  However
unreliable it may seem, this man was apparently of sound mind when he
made this confession.

He stated that for the past eight months he had been employed on
secret service work for the Officer Commanding this Territory, whose
agents are known only to himself.  In the course of his duties, he
discovered that Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., was hand-in-glove with the
gangster, the late Greasy Jones, planning the overthrow of the
Government.  In Prospect, he gained Jones' confidence and entered
Black Elk Territory at about the same time.  At noon on the day of
the meeting, Greasy Jones informed him that he wished him to assume a
post covering the platform and shoot Superintendent Adair.  From
previous information, he had already deducted that Mr. Molyneux's
motive in plotting revolution was to harm Superintendent Adair; and
certain statements made by Jones at this time convinced him that Mr.
Molyneux had suggested the assassination to Jones.  He agreed to do
the shooting, but, knowing that Mr. Molyneux would be on the
platform, resolved to shoot Mr. Molyneux instead.  He therefore
occupied a window commanding the platform, having dogs and sled ready
for flight, and fired the shot at the time arranged, but at Mr.
Molyneux instead of Superintendent Adair, with, as you know, deadly
effect.  In the confusion, he escaped, his intention being to get
through the pass to Prospect and so away.

He stated that his motive in killing Mr. Molyneux was to repay
Superintendent Adair, who had given him a chance years ago, when
everyone was against him.  He considered that a man who would plot
such an underhand blow as Molyneux's was not fit to live anyway, and
thanked God that he had killed him.

The man expired a short time after making his confession.

He gave the name of Augustus J. Perkins.

I would repeat that, incredible as his accusation against Mr.
Molyneux may seem, he was of apparently sound mind when he made it.

The corpse is in a temporary morgue, awaiting burial in the spring.

I have the honour to be, sir,

  Your obedient servant,
      R. S. Kellett, Sergeant, N.W.M.P.


Hector was at work on his account of the attempted revolution, for
despatch to the Commissioner.  For the last time, before enclosing
it, he read Sergeant Kellett's report, carefully and deliberately.
Then he thought deeply over Welland's part in the affair and
especially of the last words of his enemy, gasped into Hector's ear
as he lay dying on the platform, shot through the lungs:

"Adair--if you remember who I really am--for God's sake don't betray
me!"

Here, in writing his report, he had a glorious opportunity of paying
the dead man back in his own coin--of telling the world that Steven
Molyneux was really Joseph Welland, ex-criminal; and that the man to
whom the people had entrusted great power had misused it in an
attempt to bring about revolution within the Dominion.  No good
purpose would be served--but revenge is sweet.  In his hands alone
rested the dead man's honour.  He alone possessed the facts.

He turned back to the report--to the paragraph which the Prime
Minister himself was to read in Parliament a few months later, in
moving a vote of thanks to Superintendent Adair:

'Referring to the attached report from Sergeant Kellett, although the
man Perkins actually had acted as one of my agents, there is no
evidence to support the statement that he did the shooting, nor to
show that the late Mr. Molyneux was concerned in the revolutionary
plot.  I think this should be sufficient to clear Mr. Molyneux's
reputation.  Despite Sergeant Kellett's view, I am of the opinion
that Perkins was not of sound mind when he made his statement.'

So might Molyneux's reputation be preserved, at no expense to Perkins.

A few words more completed the report.  The door opened softly.
Frances came in.

"Dare I intrude----" she whispered, "now?"

He was up in a moment, with much of his old vigour and a swiftness
that showed him rapidly recovering from his illness of a fortnight
before.

"Yes," he answered her, smiling.  "Duty first,--but I've finished at
last.  What is it?"

"I thought I'd come and tell you something, Hector--a splendid
surprise.  Dr.  Quick told it me in confidence and really, though
it's a shame to give it away, I'm so proud that I just can't keep it
to myself any longer."

"Oh?"  He was holding her hands now, towering over her and smiling
down quietly upon her with his steel-grey eyes.  "What is the
surprise?"

"Hector, dear--when Mr. Northcote's tied the knot--tomorrow--there's
going to be a huge reception.  Everyone will be there--almost all the
would-be revolutionists--blind fools, they understand you now--Oh,
and lots of others!  And they're to present you with an address and a
wonderful gift--there'll be thousands of them--Hector!  Isn't it
glorious?"

"I don't want their presents, Frances--when I have you.  I just
did--what it was my duty to do.  It's _you_ I want!"

He lifted her lips to his.  She ran a hand tenderly over the grey
hair.

"'Your duty--that's all!'--'You only want me!'  Hector, that's so
like you," she whispered.  "That is you--my splendid Spirit-of-Iron!"



THE END











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