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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Ralph S. Kendall's 'Benton of the Royal Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police' is a riveting adventure novel set in the rugged terrain of the Canadian wilderness, providing readers with a thrilling glimpse into the early days of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. The book is written in a descriptive and engaging style, immersing readers into the exciting world of law enforcement and adventure in the untamed wilderness. Kendall expertly weaves together elements of suspense, action, and historical detail to create a compelling narrative that will keep readers on the edge of their seats. This novel is a testament to Kendall's skill as a storyteller, with vivid imagery and dynamic characters that bring the story to life. Ralph S. Kendall, a versatile writer with a passion for history and adventure, drew inspiration from the rich history of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police to craft this captivating tale. His deep knowledge of the subject matter shines through in the meticulous attention to detail and historical accuracy present in the book. Kendall's dedication to bringing this pivotal period in Canadian history to life is evident in the depth and breadth of his research, making 'Benton of the Royal Mounted' a must-read for history buffs and adventure enthusiasts alike. For readers seeking an immersive and action-packed historical adventure, 'Benton of the Royal Mounted' is a compelling choice. Kendall's masterful storytelling and expertly crafted narrative make this book a thrilling and enjoyable read that will appeal to fans of historical fiction, mystery, and adventure genres.
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Benton of the Royal Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police
Table of Contents
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
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—
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—
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:
“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:
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:
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:
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.’”
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:
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.
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”:
The last verse but one begins, as you know, with the sort of irritable abandon typical of a soldier’s “grouse”:
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
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!—
“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
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.
