Benton of the Royal Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

BENTON
OF THE
ROYAL MOUNTED

A TALE OF THE ROYAL
NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE

BY
RALPH S. KENDALL

“Let us now praise famous men”—

Men of little showing—

For their work continueth,

And their work continueth,

Broad and deep continueth,

Greater than their knowing!

—Kipling

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS—NEW YORK

Copyright 1918 by John Lane Company

FOREWORD

The scenes of this story belong to bygone days. As the passer-by views the ugly half-constructed railway terminus which now sprawls itself over the original site of that historic group of Police buildings, known as the “Post,” little does he appreciate the pangs of real regret which stir the hearts of old members of the Force, as they recall associations of earlier years.

Scattered now beyond the writer’s ken are those good fellows with whom he served in years gone by. They were men of a type fast disappearing, with whom any one would have been proud to associate and call “comrades.” No longer do those once orderly grounds resound with the clear notes of the trumpet-call, the neighing of troop-horses, or the harsh-barked word of command. Gone is the old Guardroom at the gates of the main entrance. The spot where the O.C.’s house lay half hidden amidst its clustering shrubbery and trim, well-kept lawn and kitchen garden, is now but a drab area of railway tracks. Missing is the towering flag staff, from whose top-gaff, visible for miles around, there flew from “Reveille” to “Retreat” the brave emblem of our Empire.

But today, while these lines are being penned, many members and ex-members of the old Force are still sternly serving that flag; gaining well-deserved military honors, shedding their blood, and laying down their lives in the great and terrible struggle for supremacy between Human Liberty, and Iron Oppression that overshadows the world.

Aye! ... small wonder that the sight of the old spot awakens strange memories in those of us who were stationed there in our youth. Members of a force of comparatively small numbers, it is true, but with a reputation for efficiency, discipline, and stern adherence to duty which has rarely been equaled, and is too widely known to need any further eulogy in this story.

—R. S. K.

PART I

CHAPTER I

“We’ve some of us prospered, and some of us failed.

But we all of us heave a sigh

When we think of the times that we used to have

In those happy days gone by.

When we used to whistle, and work, and sing,

Make love, drink, gamble, and have our fling;

Caring little for what the morrow might bring—

In those good old days gone by.”

—Memories

With the outlines of its shadowy white walls and dark roof silhouetted in sharp relief against a glorious full moon, the big main building of the old Mounted Police Post of L Division stood forth—like a lone monument to the majesty of British Law. A turfed “square,” framed within a border of whitewashed stones, lay at its front like a black carpet. Clustered about the central structure were the long, low-lying guardroom, stables, quartermaster’s store, and several smaller adjacent buildings comprising “the Barracks.” Stray patches of silvery light illuminated the dark recesses between them. It was a perfect night following an unparalleled June day in sunny South Alberta.

The “Post,” with its shadowy outlines, presented a striking contrast to its activity by day. In the daytime gangs of prisoners in their checkered jail garb were to be seen tramping sedately here and there, engaged on various jobs about the carefully kept grounds. An armed “escort” followed grimly behind each gang. Police teams, hitched to buck-boards and heavy, high-seated transport wagons, arrived and departed with a clatter. Mounted men, on big upstanding horses, came and went continually, each rider intent upon his own particular mission. At the guardroom, the quartermaster’s store, and the orderly-room the same ordered action and busy preoccupation were noticeable.

The only sounds that disturbed the peaceful serenity of the moonlit scene proceeded from a lighted open window in the center of the main building, where the men’s quarters and the regimental canteen were located. An uproarious hilarity resounded through the stillness; the shrill yaps of a pup and the tinkling of a piano rising above the tumult of song and laughter.

These jovial evidences of good fellowship floated across the square, not unwelcomely, to the ears of a solitary rider, whose weary horse was bearing him slowly along the hard graveled driveway which led from the main gateway to the stables. Dismounting somewhat stiffly, the man stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of revelry. He gazed silently toward the beacon of good cheer which seemed to beckon him. Then suddenly turning on his heel, he trudged wearily on to his destination, leading his mount.

After spending half an hour or more in off-saddling, rubbing down, and attending scrupulously, if mechanically, to his animal’s wants, the horseman emerged from the stable, locked the door, and walked slowly across the square to the Canteen.

Duly arriving at his cheerful haven, the newcomer opened the canteen door and for a moment or two silently contemplated the all-familiar scene of a large, well-lighted room with a bar at one end, behind which, on rows of shelves, were stacked various kinds of dry provisions, tobacco in all its forms, and miscellaneous odds and ends of a mounted policeman’s requirements supplementary to his regular “kit.”

Seated around small tables, playing cards, or else perched upon high stools against the bar, he beheld a score or so of bronzed, soldierly-looking men of all ages, ranging from twenty to forty. They were dressed variously—some in the regulation uniform of the Force—i.e., scarlet serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding-breeches with the broad yellow stripe down the side, and high brown “Strathcona” boots with straight-shanked, “cavalry jack” spurs attached. Some again—with an eye to comfort alone—just in loose, easy, brown duck “fatigue slacks.” Many of the older members might have been remarked wearing the active-service ribbons of former campaigns in which they had served.

Their day’s duty over, careless and jovial they sat, amidst the tobacco-smoke-hazy atmosphere, smoking and drinking their beer and exchanging good-natured repartee which occasionally was of a nature that has caused a certain great writer to affirm, with well-grounded conviction, that “single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints.” Poor enough stuff it was for the most part, I fancy, but there! ... we were easily satisfied—we were not inclined to be over-fastidious in the Canteen, and anyhow ... it passed the time away.

At the piano was an ex-Dublin Fusileer, with a comical face and an accent suggestive of “Silver Street,” who acted as general accompanyist. His own vocal talent was being contributed just now, and a chorus of shouts, banging of beer tankards and stamping of feet greeted the final verse of his song, the burden of which was—

“An’ whin we gits to Donnybrook Fair, comes Thady, with his fiddle,

An’ all th’ bhoys an’ colleens there a-dancin’ down th’ middle;

Shpuds, shillaleghs, pigs an’ potheen—all as ye thrapsed along—

Hurroo! for a chune on th’ nob av ’um who’d intherrrupt me song!”.

A little fox terrier pup, clinging with ludicrous gravity to a somewhat precarious position behind a man who was perched all doubled up on one of the high stools aforesaid, growled and snapped with puppy viciousness at all teasing attempts to dislodge him, adding to the general uproar. His master, Constable Markham, who, from certain indisputably “simian” peculiarities of feature and habits, was not inaptly designated “the Monk,” had, as the result of his frequent libations, succeeded in cultivating—what, in canteen parlance was termed—“a singing jag.” Now, elbows on bar, he began to bellow out a lone doggerel ditty for his own exclusive benefit. Something where each bucolic verse wound up with—

“O be I I, or bain’t I I—

I tell ee I bain’t zuch a vule as I luke!”

The Orderly-room Sergeant, Dudley, a tall, good-looking fair man about thirty, who, leaning on the bar alongside was endeavoring amidst the din to carry on a conversation with a corporal named Harrison, turned somewhat wearily to the maudlin vocalist.

“Oh, now, for the love of Mike! ... try an’ forget it, Monk, do!” he drawled. “Charity begins at home! ... as if there wasn’t enough racket in here without you adding your little pipe! ... sitting there all humped up an’ hawkin’ away like a—old crow on his native muck-heap! ... Be I I, or bain’t I I?” he exploded, with a snort of derision at the other’s uncouth Somersetshire dialect, and after a long pause: “By gum! there’s no mistake about you ... you’re well named! You’d be quite at home in the jungle!”

He faced round again to the grinning corporal. “Say, Harrison,” he resumed, “don’t know if Benton’s come in yet, do you?” He lowered his voice confidentially. “‘Father’s’ called him in about something and I want to see him directly he lands in—first crack out of the box.”

His eyes, wandering vaguely over the noisy crowd as he spoke, suddenly dilated with surprised recognition as they lighted upon the newcomer, whose unobtrusive entrance amidst the general revelry had somehow escaped his notice.

“Talk of the devil!” he ejaculated with easy incivility; “why here the —— is! Why, hello, Ben! How’s things goin’ in Elbow Vale?”

The object of this familiarity, walking silently forward to the bar with a whimsical smile on his bronzed, dusty countenance, merely opened his mouth to which he pointed in dumb show.

“Dear me!” remarked the Orderly-room Sergeant sympathetically, “as bad as all that? Here, Bob! set ’em up! ... give Sergeant Benton a ‘long ’un’!”

The “long ’un” tendered by the canteen orderly arrived and disappeared, another following speedily on top of it; their recipient then, his thirst temporarily appeased, turned to the two non-coms.

There remains engraven indelibly upon the memory of the writer, as he recalls the striking personal appearance and quietly forceful character of Ellis Benton, a slightly saturnine, still face, with high, bold, regular features, suggestive rather of the ancient Roman type; coldly handsome in its clean-cut patrician mold but marred somewhat by a peculiar thin old scar, like a whip-lash, which extended from an angle of the grim-lipped yet tender mouth up to the left cheek bone. This facial disfigurement contrived to give him an expression of faint perpetual cynicism, as it were, which was accentuated by a pair of tired-looking pale gray eyes, deeply set under thick, dark, level brows—eyes which seemed to glow at times with a somber light like smoldering fire in their depths—eyes that were vaguely disturbing, bidding you beware of the man’s ruthless anger when aroused.

Altogether it was a remarkable face with its indefinable stamp of iron-willed, quietly reckless courage, indicative of a strenuous past and open with the possibilities for good or evil alike, as caprice should happen to sway its possessor’s varying moods.

And yet, strange to say, in spite of his hard-bitten, cynical exterior and characteristics that verged sometimes on actual brutality, deep, deep down in his complex soul Ellis Benton hid an almost womanish tenderness, coupled with a sensitive artistic temperament that few were aware of or would have credited. In figure he was splendidly proportioned. Not overly tall, but with the lean, wiry flanks, broad, square shoulders, and slim waist of the trained athlete that denoted great activity, and the possession of immense concentrated strength whenever he chose to use it. The “Stetson” hat, tipped back, exposed slightly graying, closely cropped brown hair. But the young-looking face dispelled at once the first impression of age, for Ellis was only thirty-eight.

His well-fitting uniform, consisting of a “stable jacket” of the regulation brown duck, on which were noticeable the “Distinguished Conduct,” and the “King’s” and “Queen’s” South African campaign ribbons, riding-breeches, boots and spurs, was thickly covered with dust, for he had ridden into the Post from his detachment which lay many weary miles to the south.

“Well,” he remarked to the Orderly-room Sergeant and, with significant emphasis, “what’s doin’ now?”

For the most part he spoke lazily in the slipshod, drawling vernacular acquired from long residence in the West, though when occasion arose he could revert naturally and easily to the educated speech of his early upbringing.

Dudley did not reply at first but shot a warning, almost imperceptible, sidelong glance towards the crowd, enjoining silence. Obeying the other’s gesture, the detachment sergeant held his peace awhile, and presently the two men, moving away from the bar, seated themselves at one of the small tables and began to talk together earnestly in low tones.

The clamor around them increased. Out broke the old barrack-room chorus “Johnny Green,” which, to the tune of the “Sailor’s Hornpipe” goes, as all Service men are aware:

“Oh, say, Johnny Green! did you ever see the Queen?

Did you ever catch a Blue-jacket lovin’ a Marine?

May the Rock of Gibraltar take a runnin’ jump at Malta

If I ever see a nigger with a white—rum-tum.”

“So that,” concluded the Orderly-room Sergeant, “is what the old man’s got you in for. Did you make a good job of it?”

Benton’s pale, deeply set eyes began to glow with their peculiar baleful light.

“Did I?” he echoed mirthlessly. “Well, I should smile!... An’ I’ll make a better one still when I go back. I’ll bash that —— till he spits blood!”

He uttered the threat in an even, passionless, unraised voice, as if it were just the merest commonplace remark. A canteen-chant held its own with steady insistence:

Three—men—in-a-boat, inaboat,

Three—men—all-very-dry,

Three—men—ridin’-a-Nannygoat,

Go it you—! you’ve only one eye.

Dudley summarized briefly, in a tense undertone, the thing that Benton need not be, regarding him closely meanwhile with slightly anxious eyes. The bronzed, reckless face—naturally somber when in repose—wore a terribly ruthless expression just then.

“Oh, now, forget it, Ben,” was his half joking admonition. “What the d—l’s the use of you runnin’ amuck again an’ makin’ bad worse?... That won’t help matters one little bit ... an’ you know it.”

Ever and anon—above the roar of the Canteen, not unlike the booming note of a bittern amid the croaking and chirping of all the other lesser denizens of some swamp—would rise the mighty brogue of the genial Constable O’Hara, in a general exhortation to:

“Come on! Fwet yure whustles an’ sing-g, ye scutts, with ‘gr-reat gusto.’ For ut was:

Down, down, in swate Counthy Down,

An’ th’ pore ol’ night-watchman was jus’ passin’ roun;

Puts his hand to his nob to feel where he was hit—

Sez he “Holy Shmoke! but Oi’m—”

The stentorian voice broke off short as the vocalist glanced suspiciously at the empty glass at his elbow which a minute before had been full.

“Here,” quoth he with some heat; “who was ut dhrunk my beer?... Was ut you, Tabuteau?... Eyah, now! but thot’s a Galway man’s thrick ivry toime!... Fill ut up agin, an’ kape ut filled contihnuous, tu, ye Fenian rapparees, d’ye hear?... else, begob! ye can get some other shtiff tu blow the ‘Pipes av Pan’ for ye!... Come on, now!... fwet yure whustles an’ opin yure thraps an’ sing-g, ye half-baked omadhauns! ... Now, thin! all together! For ut was:

Not las’ night, but th’ night behfure,

Tu tohm-cahts come a-knockin’ at th’ dhure”

Ellis remained very still for some time, staring at his companion with an absent, brooding face.

“Just think what it’d mean,” pursued Dudley. “As this matter stands just now you have got a reasonable show of getting away with it; but, I tell you flat, old man ... a second edition of it wouldn’t go.... You know what ‘Father’s’ like in Orderly-room. You never know which way he’s going to jump.... You’d be ‘broke’ for a certainty, anyway.... I don’t want to see your name in ‘G.O.’s’ that way.... Come, now! will you be a wise guy an’ listen to your Uncle Dud?”

Thus he pleaded with the man who was to him a comrade and a sincere friend.

“Oh, well,” responded Benton at last, wearily, with an oath. “I guess I’ll let up on that stiff this time. I handed him enough to last for a bit, anyway, so that’s some satisfaction.”

He bit off the end of a cigar which the other handed to him, continuing: “Oh, I’ll get away with it all hunkadory ... been up against it before ... lots of times.... Guess I can make the grade—that is, if ‘Father’ does come to Orderly-room in anything like a good temper tomorrow.”

Dudley, his point gained, got up and fetched two fresh tankards of beer.

“Were you ever at such a howling ‘gaff’ before in all your life?” he remarked irritably. “I’ll bet ‘Father’ can hear ’em right across the square there.” And, as a penetrating Cockney voice then uplifted itself, “how’s that for ‘Whitechapel’? ... listen to ‘Tork abaht Tompkins.’”

Too ’ard! too ’ard! An’ th’ ol’ duck said,

as she waddled dahn th’ yard

“Oh, I can ’atch a turkey or ’atch a chick

But I’m—if I can ’atch ’arf a brick!

It’s a—bit bit,—bit, bit—bit bit too ’ard!”

His audience, tickled beyond measure at the inimitable “coster” accent which, for many years has been so famously exploited by Mr. Albert Chevalier, egged this performer on to further efforts. Nothing loath, he complied, and presently the Canteen was shaking with:

Oh, nah I’m goin’ to be a reg’lar torff,

A-drivin’ in me kerridge an’ me pair,

Wiv a top-’at on me ’ead, an’ fevvers in me bed

An’ call meself th’ “Dook of Barney-fair.”

“As-stir-th’-can” rahnd th’ collar o’ me coat,

An’ a “Piccadilly winder” in me eye;

Goblimey! ’ear th’ costers a-shoutin’ in yer lug:

“Oh! leave us in yer will afore yer die!”

On went the singing, shouting pandemonium. Benton’s face began to clear a little. He had not been in the Post for a long time and the homely racket and the beer combined, gradually had the effect of making him forget his troubles for the time being.

An—d ... the elephant walked round,

And the band began to play,

So all you beggars that cannot sing!

You’d better get out of the way!

A dozen or so of unprintable “limericks” followed this announcement, contributed in rotation by various members of the community, the “elephant” chorus “walking around” solemnly at the conclusion of each one. A particularly ingenious composition just then drew a perfect storm of laughter from the genial crowd, Ellis (sad to relate) guffawing loudly with the rest.

“Sacred Billy!” he ejaculated, grinning at Dudley, “but you’re sure a tough bunch in this old Post.... Did you hear that one?... Well!... this is no place for a parson’s son!”

The Orderly-room Sergeant did not answer for a moment, then an expression, which was a mixture of amusement and disgust, slowly overspread his rather refined face, and a snorting, reluctant chuckle escaped him.

“Is that so?... ‘Many’s the true word spoken in jest’!” he retorted. “Porteous—the young devil who came across with that one, is a ‘parson’s son,’ as it happens, my boy.... His old man’s the Dean of some fat living or another in the South of England.... By George, though!... I’m getting just about fed up with that stuff, night after night.... Tip us a stave, Ben!... start in now and sing us something decent for a change.”

He got up suddenly from the table and, lifting his tankard high as if for a toast, bawled “Order!” A slight lull followed, taking advantage of which, he called out:

“Say, you fellows!... I propose we call on Sergeant Benton, here, for a song!”

A vociferous assent greeted his suggestion immediately, and all eyes were turned on Ellis, with encouraging shouts of: “You bet!... That’s the talk! Come, on, Sergeant! please!... Order, there!... Shut your traps for a bit!” For, they all knew that when in the mood he could sing.

Benton did not move for a minute, then: “Doggone you!” he remarked, with a resigned sigh to Dudley, “you’ve let me in for this!... An’ I just wanted to sit here quiet!”

He quaffed a long draught of beer and got up though presently and, sauntering over to the piano which O’Hara promptly vacated for him, seated himself. A comparative quiet ensued. Even “the Monk’s” maudlin ribaldry ceased, and that worthy becoming interested, he slewed around on his perch so as to hear the better, unceremoniously shoving off his faithful pup—“Kid”—in the movement, which sent that canine with a hasty “flop” to the floor.

With the hard lines of his face momentarily softened with an expression of genial bonhomie, the Sergeant toyed absently with the keys for a space, thinking of something appropriate for that hilarious company; then suddenly, a clear baritone voice of remarkable depth and richness, rang out in the old familiar song of “Mandalay”:

“Come you back to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay:

Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from

Rangoon to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin’-fishes play,

An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer

China ’crost the Bay!”

The last verse but one begins, as you know, with the sort of irritable abandon typical of a soldier’s “grouse”:

“Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,

Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be—

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea;”

He finished the rollicking old ballad amid thundering applause and loud shouts of “’Core! ’Core!” “Give us ‘In Cellar Cool’!” “Give us ‘Father O’Flynn’!” etc. But just then the clear, long-drawn-out, sweet notes of a trumpet-call sounded outside on the square. The Orderly-room Sergeant looked at his watch.

“Hello!... Didn’t know it was so late!” he ejaculated. “Come on, there! Turn out!... ‘First Post’s’ just gone!”

And the Canteen gradually emptied as the men departed noisily to their respective barrack-rooms.

CHAPTER II

A man severe he was, and stern to view;

I knew him well, and every truant knew:

Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace

The day’s disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, and many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper circling round,

Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d.

—Goldsmith

Captain Richard Bargrave, Superintendent of L Division—better known by the fond appellation of “Father”—sauntered slowly along the narrow sidewalk leading from his quarters to the orderly-room; the aged black-and-white setter “Bob,” his constant companion, keeping step behind.

How well many of us can recall that tall, spare, soldierly figure, and the walk with its faint suggestion of old-fashioned cavalry swagger, while the whispers of “Look out! here’s Father coming now!” sent us all scuttling about our duties. How we used to fume and curse (behind his back) at his numerous erratic bursts of temper and little eccentricities. How his polished sarcasm and fluent adjectives used to curl us up and, incidentally—excite our envy. And yet—how we learned to trust and respect that irascible but kindly old aristocratic face, with its sweeping fair mustache. Aye!—

He passed as a Man in our critical eyes,

Stern, yet kindly—simple, yet wise.

Who’d upheld his rank since his service began

As “An Officer, and ... a Gentleman.”

“Father’s a rum old beggar but, begad, he’s a gentleman and always gives you a square deal,” was our invariable retort to divers disparaging criticisms from members of other divisions, less fortunate, perhaps, in the stamp of their own particular “Officer Commanding.”

Benton, who, attired in a red serge tunic—borrowed from Dudley for the occasion—was looking through the billiard-room window, watched his approach with interest. When nearing the orderly-room the old dog, seeing “the Monk’s” pup in supreme possession of the step, jumped forward with a threatening growl to eject the usurper of his own customary lounge. In the scuffle that ensued they got between “Father’s” legs and nearly upset him.

“Damn the dogs! Damn the dogs!” he chuckled softly.

And, stepping over them carefully, with a fond, benevolent smile, he passed on through the open door, half humming, half whistling a hymn tune, which was not, however, prompted by especial piety. It was a habit of his. But to the observant sergeant it was an omen.

“He is in a good temper,” he muttered with relief, and quietly he awaited the summons that he knew must come.

It came presently. “Sergeant Major!... Oh, Sergeant Major!” came the thin, high, cultured voice. “Has Sergeant Benton reported in yet from Elbow Vale?”

The gruff official holding that rank and who was familiar to most members of the Division as “Mickey,” saluted and replied in the affirmative.

“Send him in!” came the order, and shortly Ellis found himself standing at “attention,” facing his seated superior.

“That will do, Sergeant Major!... Kindly close the door,” and they were alone.

There was silence for a moment or two, during which the O.C. rummaged amongst some letters on his desk. He found the one he wanted and scrutinized it carefully. “Sergeant Benton,” he began, with a sudden snap in his tones and a quick upward glance that strung that individual up to tense expectancy, “I have here a letter—an anonymous letter—accusing you-of-grossly and maliciously-assaulting a well known and respected citizen of Elbow Vale on the night of the twelfth instance.... Motive unknown—all names—with the exception of your own—omitted. Said assault of such severe character that its recipient is still confined to bed.

“Now, sir!... although I generally make a rule of treating anonymous correspondence with the contempt it deserves—there seems something vaguely familiar in this handwriting that inclines me on this occasion to revoke my usual practise, and make a few inquiries into this puzzle. I look to you for the key. You have the reputation of being a truthful man in this Division.... Is the statement in this letter correct?”

Benton hesitated. “As far as the assault goes, yes, sir,” he said finally.

“What led to this assault?”

The Sergeant hesitated again. “A dirty slander, sir, connecting me with a married woman in the town,” he said.

The Captain tapped with his pen and eyed Ellis keenly. “Was it a slander?” he queried quizzically—and then repented, for there was a look on that reckless but gentlemanly face that dispelled all doubt—even before the man’s answer came.

“Ah, well, then,” said the O.C., “that accounts for this letter being anonymous. Now give me all names and particulars of this affair.”

The Sergeant did so and the Captain’s face darkened as he listened. “So that’s who it is, eh?” he muttered thoughtfully. “Thought I knew that writing again.... I remember the man—well—but I don’t think I’ve ever met the lady.” And the fair mustache was twirled gallantly.

The recital finished by the Sergeant remarking: “I couldn’t very well—under the circumstances, sir—lay a charge, or act otherwise than I did—without dragging the lady’s name into this miserable affair.”

“You’ve no business going about assaulting people, anyway,” retorted the old gentleman irascibly, with one of his characteristic changes of front. “And though it is not my intention to take any further notice of this unsigned epistle, as I am fully convinced you have told me the absolute truth—I do not think it would be good policy to send a man with your pugilistic tendencies back to this locality again. Let’s see,” he mused aloud, “you’re a good range man. I think I’ll transfer you to Cherry Creek, where you will be, I hope, beyond all temptation of getting involved again in any more of these—ah—social misunderstandings (Ellis groaned inwardly). Arrange for your kit to be sent in from Elbow Vale and proceed to Cherry Creek. I will give you a written order for Corporal Williamson to hand over the detachment to you and to come in to the Post. He seems to have been getting slack, for there are a lot of stock-rustling complaints coming in from his district lately. See if you cannot effect a change in present conditions there.

“Well!” he grunted impatiently, as the Sergeant halted irresolutely at the door, “what is it?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Benton, “but can I keep the same horse?”

“Oh, I suppose—I suppose,” said the O.C. testily. “Damme, sir!... You’ve had that cursed horse transferred from every detachment you’ve been stationed at!” He fussed with some papers. “You’d better tell Williamson then, to ride in, and the next man who goes to Elbow Vale can take his horse. That is all, Sergeant.... Report to the Sergeant-Major of your transfer.”

In the passage Ellis encountered the Sergeant-Major and Dudley. “Banishment—physically, socially, and morally—right back to the ‘bald-headed’ again!” he plainted dismally to their inquiring grins. “Father intimating in his own happy fashion that I wasn’t quite civilized enough to hold down a Line detachment.... Cherry Creek!... O Lord!”

Inside the orderly-room the Captain, meanwhile, was slowly pacing backwards and forwards, hands clasped behind back. Through his teeth he softly hissed one of his eternal hymn tunes, which he suddenly broke off short to ejaculate with a low-toned, jerky abruptness to himself—“D—n the man!—d—n the man! Don’t blame him! Couldn’t tell him so, though! Thought I knew that writing! D—d cad, that fellow Cooper!... Knew him years ago! D—d rascal! Glad Benton thrashed him! Done the same myself!—younger days!”

He resumed his interrupted hymn.

CHAPTER III

Therefore, Christian men be sure,

Wealth or rank possessing,

Ye who now will bless the poor,

Shall yourselves find blessing.

—Good King Wenceslas. (Old Carol)

Three weeks elapsed and Benton again showed up in the Post with the first fruits of his new scene of operations—two prisoners committed for trial on a charge of cattle stealing.

His had been a weary watch for many nights, but he had caught his men at last, slaughtering stolen beef cattle in an old deserted corral at three o’clock in the morning. He looked worn out and had a black eye, received in the rough-and-tumble arrest that had followed.

The Captain was secretly pleased, but to Ellis he evinced little sign of his satisfaction. “Praise men up—spoil ’em! Let ’em think it’s their ordinary course of duty,” was his customary maxim.

“Good man, that Benton,” he muttered to himself during one of his office pacings. “He’ll straighten that Cherry Creek district out before long.”

He gave the Sergeant three days’ rest, though, and spoke about transferring him a man if required, which offer Ellis declined, however. With his taciturn and secretive nature he preferred to follow alone, and in various disguises, the tortuous windings of stock cases, calmly relying on his own great strength, cunning, and ability with gun and fist, to effect any arrest.

The four-fifteen West-bound carried him as a passenger back to Sabbano, his nearest railway depot, the detachment being on the prairies forty miles away from the line. It was raining, and Ellis felt miserable as he gazed through the window and contemplated the wet, cheerless ride he would have in the morning.

He vaguely thought of “Johnny” waiting for him in Sergeant Churchill’s stable at Sabbano. Was he being properly looked after? Churchill was a “booze artist,” d—n him, and like as not he’d neglect him, like he did his own horse.

He was aroused from his gloomy abstraction by something tugging at his riding-crop and, turning his eyes he beheld a little curly-headed tot leaning over the back of the seat ahead of him. She was perhaps about three years old, and her blue eyes were sparkling with determination as she pulled at the leather thong with all her baby strength, in a desperate effort to possess herself of the desired treasure.

Benton’s moody face immediately softened with a friendly grin. He loved children and they instinctively came to him without fear.

“Hello, Sis,” he said. “You want it?” and he surrendered the coveted plaything, which she immediately started to flourish with great glee. The mother, a thin, shabbily dressed, careworn-looking young woman about thirty, looked on with a loving smile that glorified her poor, pinched face.

“Oh, Nellie, Nellie,” she said reprovingly; “you mustn’t—you’ll hit somebody” and she turned to Benton, saying, “I hope my little girl isn’t worrying you?”

“Not a bit—not a bit,” he returned cheerily. “Kids are welcome to tease me any old time.”

Scrambling down from her perch, the little one gazed at his uniform with lively interest and tentatively tapped his boots and the rowels of his spurs with the crop. “Toldier,” she lisped, and without more ado she climbed up beside him on the seat and, putting her little arms around his neck, gave him a genuine loving hug and kiss which fairly took him by storm and caused broad laughs of amusement to come from those sitting near.

The touch of those baby lips awoke a strange longing in the heart of the lonely man, and a dreamy, far-away look momentarily softened his hard face. To have a comfortable home to come back to every night, and not to be chased around here, there, and everywhere at the whims of the powers that be. To be happily married to a loving girl-wife, and have kiddies that would climb all over you, and run after you, and where you could lie on the sands, in the sun, by the sea, somewhere, and watch ’em playing—

A sudden exclamation from the mother awoke him sharply from his reverie.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. She seemed terribly agitated. “Oh!” she said; “I’ve lost my hand-bag, and my ticket was in it and some money!”

“Were you sitting here all the time since you got on the train?” he inquired.

“No,” she answered; “I was on that seat at the far end when I first came in this coach.”

He got up and, walking down the aisle, made a thorough search of the place that she indicated, but his efforts were fruitless. It was a little brown Morocco-leather bag, she informed him, with her name, “Elizabeth Wilson,” on it, under a celluloid panel.

“Who was sitting by you?” he asked. “D’you think you could recognize the person again?”

She shook her head despondently. “Oh, I don’t remember,” she wailed. “My girlie was crying, and in trying to quiet her I guess I didn’t notice anybody in particular.”

“How much money was in your bag?” he asked.

“Twenty-five dollars,” she said brokenly. “I am going to Vancouver to look for a position, and it’s all I have in the world. Oh, what shall we do, my baby and I?”

Ellis eyed the forlorn face a moment or two in silent commiseration; then, seeking out the conductor, whom he knew well, explained the situation.

“Yes, I mind ’em getting on at Calgary,” said that official; “and she had a ticket through to Vancouver, all right.”

“Say, Bob,” the Sergeant persuaded, “that bag’s been pinched off her without a doubt; but as she’s no suspicion of anybody I can’t very well search every one on the bloomin’ train, and I’m getting off in a minute at Sabbano—be a good fellow and pass her on to Vancouver.... She’s dead up against it.”

The kind-hearted conductor agreed, and with an easier mind Ellis went back to the woman and told her.

The train began to slow down—“Sabbano—Sabbano!” called out the brakeman, passing through the coaches. The Sergeant reached into his pocket and, drawing out a roll of bills, pressed them into her hand.

“There,” he said gently. “That’ll keep you going in Vancouver for a time, and I hope you’ll soon strike something.”

Speechless with gratitude at the man’s impulsive generosity, she gazed at him dumbly, with dim eyes. Her mouth worked but somehow the words would not come. She choked, and hiding her face in her hands, sank down on the seat, the poor, thin shoulders under the cheap blouse shaking with her convulsive sobbing.

The child, still clutching the crop, which Ellis had not the heart to retrieve, set up a shrill wail in sympathy and clung to his leg. More moved than he cared to show, but utterly indifferent to the slightly ludicrous side of the situation, the policeman strove to quiet her.

“Oh, come now, Sis,” he pleaded coaxingly. “Mustn’t cry.... Let go of me for a minute.... I’m coming back!... Here,” and producing a pen-knife, he sliced off one of the lower buttons of his pea-jacket.... “There, give me a kiss.”

The whimpers slowly ceased, and her little face brightened as she clutched the shining treasure and, drawing his face down to hers, she pressed her little rosebud of a mouth to his.

Disengaging the tiny arms gently, with a whispered “Good-by,” he ran to the end of the coach and dropped off as the train moved out.

It was only characteristic of the man’s strange, impulsive, complex nature that he should have done this thing, but how much money was there in that roll of bills? Ellis himself, offhand, could hardly have told you.

As in the rain he wended his way along the wet platform, the station agent came up to him, “Here’s the key of the detachment, Sergeant,” he said; “Churchill’s gone West on that train to Parson’s Lake. He’s coming back on Number Two in the morning and he asked me to give it to you—didn’t you see him?”

“No,” said Ellis shortly. “I wasn’t able to get off till it was on the move.... Guess Churchill got on another coach.”

Not particularly sorry at the other’s absence, he walked on to the end of the little town where the detachment was situated. The place smelled musty and stale as he entered. Papers, old letters, and torn novels lay littered about the local sergeant’s desk. The bed was not made up and various items of kit were strewn around. Everything seemed covered with a thick accumulation of dust.

“Nasty, lazy, slovenly devil,” he growled. “Lord, what a pig-pen! Inspector Purvis’ll happen along down here, unexpected, one of these days. Then there’ll be something doing.”

He passed on through the back door to the stable, where a joyous whinny from “Johnny” greeted him. He led the horse out along with the Sergeant’s and watered them, their greedy thirst drawing a savage curse from him. “Takes d—d good care never to go dry himself,” he muttered.

After grooming Johnny down he went into the kitchen and rummaged around until he found two or three pieces of lump sugar, at the sight of which the horse began to nicker softly and raised its nigh forefoot, bending the limb back for a piece to be inserted into the fetlock-joint, where it was promptly licked out.

He was a superb, powerfully-built black, with white hind fetlocks, standing fully sixteen hands, well ribbed up, with the short back, strong, flat-boned legs, and good, sloping shoulders of the ideal saddle-horse. Benton had had him for over three years and was passionately attached to the animal.

He petted Johnny awhile then, fixing both horses up for the night, he went down to the only restaurant the little town boasted—a Chinese establishment—and got some supper. This despatched, he retraced his steps and mooned around the dirty detachment, where he tried to read; but his thoughts, ever and anon, kept reverting to the little cherubic face of the child on the train, with her hollow-cheeked mother, and he found himself vaguely wondering how far away they were by now.

He looked at his watch. It was about twenty minutes to ten and, feeling inclined for a drink, he strolled down town again and, entering the bar of the Golden West Hotel, ordered a glass of beer.

There were about half a dozen men in the bar who, after gazing awhile at his uniformed figure and seeing he was not the convivial Churchill, eyed him with sullen distrust. His gaze flickered over them casually, but knowing nobody there but the bartender, he kept aloof.

Suddenly, amid the babel of talk, a drunken, nasal voice made itself heard:

“Oh, you Harry! Say, wha’s dat dere wit de yaller laigs?”

Glancing sharply towards the end of the bar, he became aware of two flashily dressed, undesirable-looking individuals of the type that usually makes an easy living preying upon the unfortunate denizens of the underworld, sizing him up.

The one accosted as “Harry,” a big, heavily-built man about thirty, with a sneer on his evilly handsome, sinister face, answered slowly:

“Oh, him. I guess he must be one of them Mounted Police ginks you hear tell of over our side of the Line. Kind of ‘prairie cop,’” he added contemptuously, and spat.

The epithet of “cop” was one held in peculiar detestation by members of the Force and, coupled with the fellow’s offensive manner, became a gratuitous insult that was almost more than the Sergeant could stand, for a slight titter followed, and all the faces—with the exception of the bartender’s-wore a sardonic grin at the policeman’s discomfiture.

Choking with silent fury, he glowered warily with swift calculation around him.

“No, it wouldn’t do,” he reflected. There would be too many witnesses, like in that last business at Elbow Vale; and fearful of his own ungovernable temper, lest any ensuing altercation should precipitate the inevitable right then and there, he held his peace.

Lowering his voice, his elbows on the bar, he spoke quietly to the bartender:

“Who’s them two fellers at the end there, Pete—strangers?”

“Yes. I dunno who they are,” said that worthy in the same low tone, busy polishing glasses the while. “They blew in off’n the West-bound. Jest stiffs, I guess, Sergeant. They was laughin’ fit to split ’bout somethin’ when they first come in.”

Benton finished his beer and, turning, pushed through the swing door, a vindictive purpose seething in his mind. Crossing over to the dark side of the street, he patiently waited.

“I’ll ‘vag’ the two of them,” he muttered savagely.

The rain had ceased and a few stars began to appear. It was nearly closing time and his watch was of short duration.

At the appointed time, with much bad language and noisy argument, the bar slowly emptied, the last to leave being “Harry” and his companion; the latter quarrelsomely drunk, and expostulating with the bartender, who was escorting him to the door.

“Gimme another drink!” he demanded.

“No chance,” came the answer. “You’ve got enough below. Beat it!”

The speech was accompanied with a sudden shove, and the door banged to.

Still the Sergeant waited.

“Aw, come on, yer crazy mutt!” he heard the soberer voice of Harry say, and saw him walk slowly on down the street, his bibulous comrade unsteadily following.

Keeping in the shade, Ellis noiselessly paralleled their direction, until they were well beyond the last false-fronted store and amongst some vacant lots, not far from the isolated detachment. He stopped for a moment and listened intently. Except for the tipsy arguing of Harry’s companion, who was still in the rear, all was quiet.

“Well, you gimme half, anyway,” he heard him keep chanting.

Now was his chance. With two of them, he knew he must act quickly, and “acting quickly” was only a mild expression for some of the Sergeant’s little methods in his business which, though invariably attended with excellent results, did not, sad to relate, always strictly conform to the rules laid down in that worthy little Manual issued to all members of the Force for their regimental and legal guidance.

With fell intention, he crossed over swiftly to the drunk. It was no time for niceties in the manner of arrest, for the man might arouse the neighborhood, and the Sergeant had reasons for not being particularly desirous of an audience just then.

With the deadly calculation of an ex-pugilist, he carefully judged his distance in the dim light and swung a single terrific right uppercut to the point of the chin. The head snapped back and, with a choking gasp, the man fell heavily to the ground in an inert heap.

At the smack and the thud of the falling body, Harry halted in the dark ahead.

“What’s up?” he growled. “Are yer all in?”

Ellis shouldered roughly into him and, with an oath, the man reeled back.

“Why, what’s this?” he blustered and, as the shadowy outline of Benton’s Stetson hat in the uncertain light penetrated his vision, “why, it’s the ‘cop’!”

“Yes,” said the Sergeant through his set teeth and, with suppressed fury, “I’ve got you now where I want you! I’ll give you call me ‘cop,’ you G—d—d, dirty pimp!” and he smashed in a vicious left drive, flush on Harry’s nose.

It was a staggering blow, and the blood squirted, but somehow the man kept his feet and threw himself into a fighting posture, like one accustomed to using his hands.

He was by far the heavier of the two, but his movements were slow and muscle-bound and the tigerishly vicious attack of the Sergeant, with all its concentrated hate and science behind it, paralyzed him. He tried to cover up, but those terrible punches with the giver’s vindictive “Oof—oof,” accompanying each blow, seemed to reach his body and face at will.

It was all over inside of three minutes. Presently, ducking a savage swing from his weightier opponent, Ellis feinted for the jaw then, like lightning, drove two heavy, telling punches to that region termed in pugilistic parlance the “solar plexus.” The man, with a gasp, doubled up and sank down.

Breathing heavily after the exertion, Benton kneeled on him and, reaching to his hip pocket, dragged forth his handcuffs and snapped them on Harry’s wrists; then, slowly rising to his feet, he waited.

It was still quiet all round, and he felt a fierce exultation at accomplishing his purpose without undue disturbance. Stepping over to his first victim, he made a quick examination, and satisfied himself that the man was only knocked out. He would come to after a time, he decided, and was probably more drunk than hurt. Harry was the one who had incurred his animosity the most.

Presently that individual, with a groaning curse, sat up and was violently sick. Then for the first time he became conscious of his manacled wrists and began to raise his voice in filthy expressions at Ellis.

“Quit that talk,” said the Sergeant, in a tense, fierce undertone. “I don’t want any bother and have you waking everybody up at this time o’ night, I’m arresting both you fellers for vagrancy. Now, are you coming quiet or not?”

A torrent of blasphemy greeted the suggestion.

“Not you nor any other —— cop kin take me,” he foamed from the ground; then, suddenly kicking out, he caught Benton a nasty jar on the shin-bone.

The pain acted as the last straw to the exasperated Sergeant. With an oath, he drew from his pocket a small steel article known in police circles as a “come-along” and, clipping it on one of his prisoner’s wrists, he twisted viciously. The exquisite torture drew a shriek from the wretched man.

“Shut up,” whispered Ellis savagely. “If you start hollerin’ again and still refuse to walk I’ll”—and he gave another slight twist to the wrist—“I’ll break your arm! Now will you come, eh?”

“Oh, o-o-h. No, no; oh, don’t. Yes, yes, I’ll come,” came the agonized response.

“So,” said the Sergeant quietly, as he jerked the man to his feet. “I thought you would. Now don’t you start monkeyin’ no more. Step out!” And with his hand on the other’s collar, he guided him towards the detachment, which was only a short distance away.

On arriving there he unlocked the door and, ushering his captive into the office, at the back of which were two cells, he leisurely removed the handcuffs and proceeded to search him. What with blood, bruises, and dirt, the man’s face was a sight, and Benton, his anger now somewhat assuaged, felt slightly uneasy as he reflected on the prisoner’s appearance at the morrow’s court.

“Put your arms up!” he ordered, and mechanically dived into the coat pockets. His right hand encountered something square and soft, and he drew it out.

At the sight of the object his eyes dilated strangely. Well, well; it was only a woman’s little hand-bag with a name printed on it under a celluloid panel—

He read it at a quick glance and, ceasing his investigations, he grew curiously still. The prisoner, raising his head, met the Sergeant’s gaze. He shrank back, appalled, and a cry of fear burst from his mashed lips, for it seemed to him as if the devil himself were looking out of Benton’s ruthless eyes. With an indescribable bitterness of tone, the policeman suddenly spoke:

“You skunk,” he said; “you dirty, sneaking coyote. It was you, then, that robbed that poor thing with the little kiddie on the West-bound?”

He stopped and choked with his rage. Presently he burst out again: “Lord, Lord! but I’m glad I bashed you up like I did, and but for a probable charge of manslaughter I’d manhandle you properly. So that’s what you and your pal were laughin’ about when you went in to that bar? When you come to die—which event, may it please God to grant quickly—I hope that’ll be the very, very last thing in your memory—that you once robbed a helpless woman and her kid.”

He remained silent after this for a space, for a sudden disquieting thought had occurred to him.

“See here; look,” he began again. “If I put this charge of theft against you, it’ll mean having to locate and drag that woman back here all those weary miles, to identify her property and prove up the case against you.”

At his words a gleam of hope lit up the prisoner’s disfigured face.

“For God’s sake, policeman,” he mumbled out of his twisted mouth, “give us a chanct—just this once.”

The Sergeant pondered awhile. It was the easiest way out for himself, and for the woman, he reflected. Churchill was away and nobody would know anything about this business. He tipped the contents of the bag out. A bunch of keys, a woman’s handkerchief, some smelling-salts, a ticket to Vancouver, and various small odds and ends.

“Where’s that money?” he snapped out. “Here—let’s go through you!”

His search revealed a dollar’s worth of silver.

“Dig up the rest of that twenty-five dollars!” he demanded.

Slowly the other took off one of his boots, and from it produced two ten-dollar bills.

“We had some dough of our own when we come on the train,” he volunteered to Ellis’s silent look of interrogation, “but we got inter a poker game with some fellers and lost out, so we broke into the five-spot fer some supper and booze.”

Benton considered a bit longer, then suddenly made up his mind and opened the door.

“Voertsek, du verdomde schelm!”[¹] he said sharply, jerking his head towards the aperture.

The man stared at him stupidly for a moment. “I don’t savvy you,” he muttered.

“Beat it, you d—d crook! D’you savvy that?” came the policeman’s harsh response. “Out of town by the first train that comes in—East or West—and take your pal with you.”

“We ain’t got the price,” was the somewhat aggrieved answer.

“Then take a ’tie pass,’ d—n you,” said the Sergeant grimly. “And mind—if I catch either of you fellers around this burg tomorrow morning, I’ll shove you both in the calaboose and put the boots to you as well as this charge. Now beat it, and go and pick up your pal!”

Harry waited for no further invitation, but vanished into the night.

Wearily Ellis gathered up the contents of the bag and, putting in the money along, closed it. He felt very tired and, lighting a cigarette, he sat down and tried to think.

“Guess I can get it through to her,” he muttered. “I’ll send a wire now that’ll catch her on the train somewhere, and she can send me her address.”

And going to the telephone he rang up the night-operator at the depot.

CHAPTER IV

And if you’re wishful, O maiden kind,

To know concerning me;

A far-flung sentinel am I

Of the R. N. W. M. P.

Renouncing women, as though wearing a cowl—

I live for a monthly wage

’Way out on the bald, green-brown prairie,

That stretches as far as the eye can see;

Where the lone gray wolf and the coyote howl,

And the badger digs in the sage.

—The Prairie Detachment

The day broke fine and clear. The hot sun quickly drying up the little puddles and sticky mud resulting from the recent downpour. Benton, rising early, watered and fed the horses. These duties despatched, and his own breakfast at the hotel accounted for, he leisurely proceeded to ascertain if the two participants in his previous night’s adventure had left town.

A few guarded inquiries and a brief, but thorough, search satisfied him on this point; so saddling up Johnny, and tying on his slicker, he rode slowly down to the depot to await the in-coming East-bound train prior to his departure for his lonely detachment.

The train arrived, and on it, Churchill. The local sergeant was a man about Ellis’s own age, well set up and passable enough in appearance, but with the florid, blotchy complexion, weak mouth, and uncertain gaze of the habitual drinker. A few lucky arrests in which chance—more than pluck or ability had figured, coupled with a certain cleverness in avoiding trouble—had somehow enabled him to retain his stripes and the sleepy little Line detachment. That there was no love lost between them was very evident; Benton, on his side, making little effort to disguise the contempt he felt for the other.

It was a long-standing hostility, dating back many years when, as recruits together in the Post, a trivial quarrel originating first in the Canteen, had terminated finally in the corral at the back of the regimental stables—with disastrous results to Churchill—who, ever since this event, had not been man enough to forget, forgive, or attempt to get even.

A few cold civilities were exchanged, and Ellis remarking, “Here’s the key of your dive,” chucked him over that article; then with a careless “So long,” turned his horse and edged up nearer to the platform to speak to the station agent.

On account of a small wash-out that had happened to the track some few miles east, the train was held up for a short time, and the platform was crowded with passengers who were strolling up and down, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs after their long confinement.

Benton, less impatient than Johnny, who was pawing, eager to be off, was watching them absently, when he suddenly became aware of his being, apparently, an object of interest to somebody standing near and, turning his head slightly, he beheld a tall, magnificently-built, dark girl, eyeing him and Johnny with eager curiosity and admiration.

And in very truth, handsome, saturnine-faced Ellis Benton, and the big, black, pawing horse that he bestrode with the long-stirruped, loose-seated, easy, careless grace of an habitué of the range, were both fitting representatives of the great Force which they served.

Wistful and sweet, the girl stood there and gazed awhile at man and horse and presently she slowly came forward and, with a kind, impulsive friendliness that immediately thawed the Sergeant’s habitual reserve, said:

“I’m sure you must be thinking me awfully rude—staring at you so long; but I was looking at your beautiful horse and wondering whether you were a policeman or a soldier or what.”

And, smiling whimsically down into the girl’s eager upturned face, the Sergeant made answer:

“Young lady,” with a droll little vainglorious gesture which amused her intensely, “behold in me one of those important officials who hold the High Justice, the Middle and the Low in these parts ... a sergeant of the Mounted Police!” Then suddenly bitter remembrance set his pale, steady eyes agleam with their peculiar ruthless light and his strong white teeth gritted, as he added, “Otherwise, just a ‘prairie cop.’”

She stroked and patted Johnny who, scenting a new friend, nickered softly, tucked up his nigh fetlock in a beseeching manner, and nibbled at her for sugar.

“Isn’t he just a beauty!” she murmured. “My, but I’d be a proud girl if I had a horse like him to ride. Do you ever?— What is it, Auntie?” she said, breaking off short as a stout, elderly lady with a petulant frown on her forbidding face, came bustling up.

“Gracious, Mary!” snapped the aunt, very much out of breath, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” and angrily drawing the unwilling girl aside, Ellis heard her say, “You shouldn’t go talking to strange men in that way, child ... really, Mary, I’m surprised at you!”

“But, Auntie,” came that young lady’s slightly indignant answer, “I was only asking him about his horse, and he speaks quite like a gentleman.”

The elder woman’s response was partially inaudible to the Sergeant, but a fragment of it—“Only a policeman!” smote his ears unpleasantly with its pitiful snobbishness.

As they moved away, though, he was repaid for that lady’s uncharitable remark, as the girl, taking advantage of “Auntie’s” ample back being turned, faced round and bowed to him with a kindly smile, an unspoken “Good-by” manifested in the gesture which he at once returned with a courtly grace, saluting gravely.

Mechanically, his eyes followed the two ladies until they became lost in the crowd, and then, with a muttered oath, he wheeled Johnny around and rode slowly out of the town.

“What a fine-looking girl that was,” he reflected. “Some rich American’s daughter, no doubt, en route from Banff or elsewhere in the mountain summer resorts West, after having a good time.” Why shouldn’t she talk to him? And mixed with his brooding thoughts came the consciousness of his own joyless, danger-fraught life, with the bitter, hopeless, lonely feeling that the single man past thirty knows so well, whose occupation, and more especially—means—place him without the pale of matrimony.

With the exception of those holding responsible staff appointments, marriage was not particularly encouraged amongst the rank and file of the Force, for many reasons. Lack of suitable quarters was partially the cause of this policy; also (and not the least) the indisputable fact that in the majority of cases where men are engaged in hazardous pursuits the average single man is freer, and—as is only natural—willing to run far greater personal risk in the execution of his duty than a married man.

True, many of the non-coms, and even “straight-duty bucks,” were Benedicts, for various reasons best known to themselves. But Ellis, forever mindful of the old fable of “The fox who lost his tail in a trap,” only laughed aside cynically all their feeble, joking admonitions to him to join their ranks and, taking “Punch’s” advice instead, “didn’t.”

Why had that cursed old frump come butting in? “Only a policeman!” ... And with an angry Ellis unconsciously rammed the spurs into poor, unoffending Johnny, who immediately broke in his gait with a sidelong jump which, in its suddenness, nearly unseated him.

The spasmodic jerk of the horse brought Benton to himself again, and with a “There, there, Johnny—you old fool—I didn’t mean to rake you,” he patted and eased that startled animal down to his customary pace.

“She made a lot of you, didn’t she, Johnny? And you know you liked it!”

He rambled on, for latterly—in the utter loneliness of his long patrols—the Sergeant had contracted the strange habit of talking aloud to his horse, and Johnny’s sensitive ears would prick backwards and forwards as if he thoroughly comprehended what was being said to him.

Traveling easily, and in no particular hurry, Benton made “Marshall’s” for dinner, and towards evening drew in sight of Cherry Creek district, with its few scattered ranches and mixed farms.

When about half a mile from his detachment, some objects strewn on the trail ahead attracted his attention which, on drawing near, took the form of pieces of paper, some spilt chicken-feed and flour, bits of board, and the tail-board of a wagon; also, had he but noticed it, a lot of scattered nails.

With a grim chuckle he passed on. “Looks like somebody’s had a smash-up,” he muttered. Suddenly he pulled Johnny up sharply, for the latter had begun to limp perceptibly on the off-forefoot and, on examination, Ellis found a nail deeply embedded at the side of the frog. He tried to pry it out with his fingers and a knife, but it was in up to the head and his attempts were useless.

“No help for it, Johnny,” he said. “You’ll have to stick it till we get home,” and with a disgusted malediction at the ill-luck, he wended his way slowly ahead on foot, Johnny following on three legs like a lame dog.

On arrival at their destination the nail was eventually extracted with the aid of pincers, and after bathing and syringing the bleeding prod with hot water and peroxide of hydrogen, the horse moved easier; but Ellis was well aware that several days, perhaps a week, would elapse before it would be safe to use him. And with the knowledge of this fact oppressing him came also the realization that, should anything turn up in the meantime, he would be under the necessity of borrowing a horse from some one.

Stationed in a new district, he was naturally chary of placing himself under obligation to anybody; so, cogitating over his predicament, he watered, fed, and groomed Johnny and, after fixing up the wounded foot in a hot poultice for the night, he retired into his own domain to cook some supper.

The detachment, originally a ranch dwelling, was a square, solid-looking, log-built structure, with a commodious stable in the rear, and a corral and a fenced-in pasture. A huge, bleached buffalo skull, with its stubby black horns—a relic of bygone years—frowned down from over the main entrance, and a faded, weather-flapped Union Jack hung from a short flag-staff at one pinnacle of the roof. With whitewashed stones, the letters R.N.W.M.P. were formed in the earth banking on the front side of the dwelling. The interior bespoke its occupant’s tidiness and orderly habits.

One entered directly into a moderate-sized room that was severe in its sparsely furnished simplicity. A long, bench-like table, covered with a tartan police rug, on which were some neatly piled blank legal forms, and books, a Bible, and writing materials. A plain oak arm-chair for the said table, and several smaller ones, with a couple of form-seats, were ranged around the walls, and immediately facing the magisterial bench a strongly-built cell with a barred door and aperture was partitioned off. A few enlarged framed photographs of old-time police and legal celebrities and a green baize-covered board decorated with an assortment of brightly burnished leg-irons and handcuffs completed the adornment of the chamber. Nevertheless, in spite of the room’s simple aspect, one instinctively guessed that here, as occasion occurred, the solemnity of the Law was upheld with no less a dignity than in the highest court of justice.

A door at one side of the cell opened into a larger apartment, evidently used as a combined living and bedroom which, with its strange collection of interesting objects, was typically significant of its owner’s tastes and personality. A comfortable, bachelor-like abode this, yet slightly regimental withal too; for the blankets at the head of the cot were strapped into the regulation neat roll with the sheets in the center, whilst above, on a small shelf, were the folded spare uniform and Stetson hat, on either side of which stood a pair of high, brown Strathcona riding-boots with jack spurs attached. On pegs underneath hung the “Sam Browne” belt and holster containing the heavy “Colt’s .45” Service revolver, together with a bridle, a head-rope, and a slicker. Two or three easy chairs were scattered around and some tanned calf-skin mats covered the floor. A table stood in the center littered with periodicals and other reading matter, and a plain slung bookshelf held a well-worn selection of classical and modern works of fiction. The walls were relieved with varrious photographs, clever pen-and-ink sketches, and unframed copies of famous pictures, among which were several examples of Charles Russell’s and Frederick Remington’s works of art. A tent-pegging lance, standing in a corner, supported a gaudy, feathered Indian headdress on its point, while behind the door hung a set of boxing gloves.

Five years of Benton’s wandering life having been spent on the veldt—two of them passed in the Chartered Company’s service—accounted for the curious South African trophies that were noticeable here and there. A stuffed meerkat crouched half raised, like a gigantic gopher, and that ugly bald-headed vulture, known in the Taal as an aasvogel, looked down with unpitying eyes. Two magnificent leopard skin karosses were flung over the armchairs, and a Zulu oxhide war shield was suspended in an angle of the walls, flanked crosswise with its companion weapons—a heavy knob-kerrie and a short, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai, whilst above hung those one-time sinister symbols of authority north of the Vaal—a rhinoceros-hide sjambok, a Mauser rifle, and a captured “Vierkleur” flag. Adjoining this room were the kitchen and a small compartment used as a storehouse.

His supper finished, and the daily diary, mileage report, and “monthly returns” made out, the Sergeant lit a pipe and lay back in one of the armchairs, lazily scanning the various criminal photographs in the last copy of The Detective he had brought with him from the Post, until drowsiness overcoming him, the paper fluttered to the floor and his head sank back against the leopard skin. The rays of the lamp shone full on the strong, moody face, with the pipe still held clenched between the teeth, and the athletic frame which, even in repose, contrived somehow to convey in its posture an impression of instinctive, feline readiness for sudden action.

Indeed, the man’s whole appearance seemed to fittingly bear out the many strange stories that were current of his strenuous and eventful past.

CHAPTER V

The elder was quelled,

But the younger rebelled;

So he spread out his wings and fled over the sea.

Said the jackdaws and crows,

“He’ll be hanged I suppose,

But what in the deuce does that matter to we?”

—Henry Kingsley

The second son of an English cavalry officer holding a high rank, young Benton’s life up to the age of fifteen—with the exception of a few escapades at Shrewsbury—which were due more to an ingrained hardihood than viciousness, had passed very much the same as that of any other well-bred public school boy.

The death of his mother, however, and the later advent of a step-parent, wrought a disastrous change in the boy’s hitherto happy enough life. His stepmother’s intolerance with his high spirits led to many family quarrels and finally had the effect of provoking a naturally wayward temper to open rebellion and a definite course of action.

Her studied, unremitting hostility towards the boy succeeded in arousing in him a bitter, lasting hatred for her which, in its intensity and fixity of purpose, was positively awesome and well-nigh incredible in one of his years.

Scorning to follow his elder brother’s example in meekly submitting to the new regime he turned, in his misery and distress, to an old friend of his dead mother’s, one—Major Carlton—his ofttime confidant and mediator in many boyish troubles.

Borrowing fifty pounds from the latter, and taking little else save his mother’s photograph and a few clothes, with a farewell to none except his debtor, he turned his back on that beautiful old Devonshire home forever.

A youthful imagination inspired, perhaps, by prolific and intelligent reading, inexplicably directed his course to the United States; so, booking his passage at Liverpool, he found himself later, depleted in money—but not in pluck or resolution—a waif in that vast assemblage of mixed peoples. One letter—the last that he was ever to write home—he despatched to his father.

Sir John Benton’s fierce, lined face softened for an instant as he perused his son’s missive, but it grew darker and drearier than ever before he had read it through. The letter said no word of return, and he guessed rightly it was meant for an absolutely final farewell.

A strict disciplinarian in his own household, its contents he never divulged to the rest of the family; and if he felt the loss of the manly, headstrong boy, he never showed it hereafter by word or deed. The stern old soldier recognized in those lines—penned with a certain boyish courtesy—only too well the inflexible characteristics that matched, to the full, his own.

Various vicissitudes eventually landed young Benton in a great cattle-raising district of Montana, where he obtained a job as a chore boy on a big ranch, known as the “Circle H.” A fearless upbringing amongst horses stood him now in good stead, and this, combined with a willing capacity for work, ultimately won for him the approval of “Big Jim Parsons,” the silent, laconic ranch foreman, who befriended the lonely, and now taciturn, youngster.

It is not to be supposed that he gained this patronage any too easily. Although babbling little concerning his history, his English speech and apparent breeding were sufficient at the start to make him the butt of many doubtful pleasantries from the devil-may-care cow-punchers whose bunkhouse victim he was. No sulker, he could assimilate the most of it in good part; but there were limitations to such “joshing,” as many of his tormentors found out when the savage, uncontrollable Benton temper blazed forth with such appalling venom of fist and tongue that, immature youth though he was, caused the bleeding and cursing authors of the disturbance to retreat aghast at the devil they had raised. The old Mosaic law—“An eye for an eye”—with its grim suggestion of unforgiving finality, always found in Ellis an ardent and exacting adherent.

At such scenes Big Jim would generally appear on the field of hostilities, a threatening, nasal sneer twisting his morose face.

“Quit monkey’n with that kid, now,” he would snarl; and with rising wrath: “I tell yu’, fer guts, that same dude maverick has yu’ all skinned! What was it he called yu’, Windy?... Will yore mother stand fer that?... What’s happened to yore face, Ike?... Fell down an’ trod on it?”

The foreman’s rough championing, and his own ability to take care of himself, in course of time discouraged this systematic baiting, and ere long he received the degree of comradeship. Possessing an inborn love for music, which from childhood up his mother had always sedulously encouraged, Ellis was a pianist of no mean ability. This, coupled with a sweet, boyish voice—which in later years was to develop into a magnificent baritone—caused him to be in constant request as a performer on the battered old piano which the ranch-owner’s dwelling boasted. Nothing loath, he played and sang to them the simple old melodies and songs that they knew; and soon from being the ranch butt he became one of its especial favorites.

With characteristic honor, although the loan had been but a mere trifle to the wealthy giver, his first laudable ambition had been to pay back to Major Carlton the sum he had borrowed from that kind-hearted bachelor on emigrating; and this, with much self-denial, he found himself able to do during the next two years, thereafter keeping up a desultory correspondence with his old friend which lasted until the latter’s death.

Time went on, and Ellis, after drifting here and there through Montana and Wyoming punching for various cattle outfits, finally returned to the “Circle H,” where at the early age of twenty-five he became its competent young foreman—vice “Big Jim Parsons,” deceased.

By this time, his character, like his frame, was set; to the vehement ambition and ardor of youth had succeeded the cool, matured resolution of manhood—powerful to will, prompt to execute, and patient to endure; he was proof against idle hopes, no less than against groundless fears, and the common chagrins of life took no more hold of his soul than toil or privation of his body. Yet under all this case-hardness, like a virgin pearl lying dormant within its flinty habitation, there still remained deep in him a certain softness of heart that he inherited from the gentle lady whose picture and loving memory he had cherished throughout his wanderings.

It is not to be supposed that during all this time the rough associations and surroundings compatible with the calling he followed had not left their mark upon him. But hot-blooded, violent and impulsive though he was by nature, a certain quaint cynicism and command of will and feature enabled him to suppress outwardly these visible signs of his temperament. His life was probably not much more immune from vice than the majority of his fellows who bore themselves more jovially and noisily; but oh the sin of violated love, or cruel desertion—too often associated with the sowing of youth’s wild oats—he could not accuse himself. The dark eyes of more than one ranch beauty had looked approvingly—perhaps lovingly—on the somber, handsome face and slimly-powerful frame of the reckless young bronco-buster, wondering, half-pityingly, what should make so youthful a countenance so stern. And more than once the inviting loneliness of many whom ties bound had been made only too apparent for his benefit. But the remnants of a nearly forgotten family pride, rather than shyness or coldness, kept Ellis’s feet clear of the snares. He was not specially cold, or continent, or tender of conscience, but he chose to take his pleasure in places where he troubled no man’s peace, and where there could be no ignominious aftermath to torture him with its useless, heart-aching remorse.

Every wayfarer through this world must needs encounter certain points in his journey where the main trail divides. For awhile the two tracks may run so near to each other that they may seem still almost one, but they will diverge more and more till, ere they end, their issues lie as widely apart as those of good and evil, light and darkness, life and death. So it was now with Ellis Benton, for a chance episode occurred in that young man’s life which was fated to bring about a material change in his fortunes and surroundings.

A born fighter, and possessing unusual cleverness with his hands, he was one night unavoidably forced into an encounter with a professional prize-fighter on a public street, in Butte. A young girl, whom the latter was persecuting with his unwelcome attentions, appealed to the young cow-puncher for protection, and not in vain. Despite the terrible punishment he received, the deadly fury and ability with which he finally put his formidable antagonist away made a visible impression on a well known fight promoter who happened to witness the affray. That worthy, an ex-pugilist himself of considerable renown, with his glib tongue, apparent sincerity, and cleverly framed appeals to the younger man’s vanity, succeeded at last in inducing him to enter the ring in earnest. Ellis, in that unsettled period that comes in most strong men’s lives, was perhaps, too, subconsciously getting a little weary of the range life that up to now had entirely satisfied his full-blooded energies, but there is little doubt that had he remained with the soberer calling that he had followed so long, it would have been more advantageous to both his profit and honor. But the reckless hardihood, ingrained in his nature, stifled the suggestions of prudence and ambition; when he cut himself adrift from family and friends he severed himself, in intent, no less decisively from the class in which he was born and bred than if, as an heir to a throne, he had relinquished his birthright, and become but a humble subject. With a characteristic indifference to possible consequences, he was not the least ashamed, as yet, of the doubtful profession that he had adopted. His subsequent spectacular fighting speedily demonstrated his ability to become a future middleweight champion, and for a while the bouts in which he participated drew eager crowds, curious to see the coming young pugilist who gave them such a good run for their money, invariably drawing with, or putting away his opponent each time, with a sensational class of fighting that was highly gratifying to their taste. Becoming gradually disgusted with the crooked practises and propositions which, somehow, seemed to be inseparable from the game, and more or less incumbent on those who were dependent on the ring for a living, he made up his mind to forsake the profession which demanded of him the sacrifice of his common honesty. His commendable decision, however, certainly did not carry with it the solace of much pecuniary acquisition; for although fighting with great frequency, and winning, or splitting many big purses during his brilliant, if brief, career, the fast life and heavy expenses compatible with such a profession soon dissipated them along with a considerable portion of his previously accumulated savings, limiting the sum total of his worldly wealth to less than a thousand dollars.

Becoming, by now, thoroughly restless and inclined to wander afresh, his fancy next took him to South Africa, where he obtained a position in the Chartered Company’s service, at which occupation he remained until the outbreak of the South African War two years later. Enlisting then as a private in a well known, and afterwards famous, Irregular Horse, in the later engagements at Elandslaagte, Waggon Hill, and Wepener, he showed to the full the soldierly instincts only natural in one come of his fighting race and breeding, at the latter action, particularly, when in the storming of a strong Boer position, he exhibited a characteristic courage of such an utterly reckless, desperate nature, that subsequently gained for him the Distinguished Conduct Medal and a Sergeant-Major’s promotion.

During the terrible Mauser fire, however, which well nigh decimated his squadron, he received a bullet through the body, the same passing the base of the right lung, luckily without permanently injuring that vital organ. On recovery, he served throughout the succeeding guerilla warfare until peace was proclaimed at Veereneging, on May 31, 1902. Wearying, then, of South Africa and its war-ravaged desolation, he returned to the country and scenes of his former life, resuming his avocation, riding for a newly-formed cattle company, whose headquarters were near the Canadian border.