The Luck of the Mounted by Ralph S. Kendall

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THE LUCK OF THE MOUNTED

A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

by

SERGEANT RALPH S. KENDALL

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

Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York

1920

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

TO

MY OLD COMRADES

PRESENT, AND EX-MEMBERS OF THE

R.N.W.M. POLICE

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED WITH EVERY KIND THOUGHT

CHAPTER I

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

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

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

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

Flanking him on either side, in welcome contrast to the bitter world
outside, he beheld the all-familiar sight of two inviting portals, each
radiating light, warmth, and good fellowship--the one on his right hand
particularly. A moment he halted irresolutely between regimental canteen
and library; then, for some reason best known to himself, he steadily
ignored both, for the time being, and passing on began slowly to mount a
short flight of stairs at the end of the passage.

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

_Beer, beer! was glorious beer, etc_.

Reaching the landing he paused for a space in an intent listening
attitude outside the closed door of a room marked No. 3. From within
came the sounds of men's voices raised in a high-pitched, gabbling
altercation.

Turning swiftly to an imaginary audience, his expressive young
countenance contorted into a grimace of unholy glee, the listener flung
aloft his arms and blithely executed a few noiseless steps of an
impromptu war-dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Handsome his countenance could not have been termed--the features were
too strongly-marked and roughly-hewn. But it was an undeniably open,
attractive and honest one--the sort of face that instinctively invited
one's "Hail, fellow, well met!" trust at first sight. His hair was dark
auburn in colour, short and wavy, with a sort of golden tinge in it; his
forehead was broad and open, and below it were two uncommonly waggish
blue eyes. His habitual expression was a mixture of nonchalant good
humour and gay insouciance, but the slightly aquiline, prominent nose and
the set of the square aggressive jaw belied in a measure the humourous
curl of the lips.

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

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

Wriggling out of his tightly-fitting red serge he carelessly flung that
article onto the next cot; then, filling and lighting a pipe, he
stretched out comfortably upon his own. With hands clasped behind his
head he lazily watched the two previously-mentioned men at their cleaning
operations, his expressive face registering indolent but mischievous
interest, as he listened to their wrangling.

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

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

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

Artfully to start some trivial but decidedly inflammable barrack-room
argument was one of Corporal Dave McCullough's pet diversions. At this
somewhat doubtful pastime he would exhibit a knowledge of human nature
and an infinite patience worthy of a better object. From some occult
reasoning of his Celtic soul the psychological moment he generally chose
as being likely the most fruitful of results was either a few minutes
before, or after "Lights Out."

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

--_begod, I wonder why_?

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

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

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

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

"Ah!" quoth McCullough blithely, "Yu' know th' sayin'--'Old soldier--old
stiff?' . . ."

His adversary burnished a spur viciously. "Old pleeceman--old son of
a--" he retorted with a spiteful grin. "W'y, my old Kissiwasti here
knows more abaht drill'n wot you do." He indicated a rather
disreputable-looking gray parrot, preening itself in a cage which stood
upon a cot nearby.

At the all-familiar sound of its name the bird suddenly ceased its
monotonous beak and claw gymnastics for a space, becoming on the instant
alertly attentive. There came a preliminary craning of neck and winking
of white-parchment-lidded eyes, and then, in shockingly human fashion it
proceeded to give voluble utterance to some startling samples of
barrack-room profanity. Its shrill invective would have awakened the
dead. The whistling, regular snores of the sleeper suddenly wound up
with a gasping gurgle; he opened his eyes and, in a strong cereal accent
gave vent to a somnolent peevish protest.

"Losh! . . . whot wi' you fellers bickerin' an' yon damn birrd currsin' I
canna sleep! . . . gie th'--"

But Hardy silenced him with a warning finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say what?" demanded George incautiously.

Hardy chuckled again, "'Ere comes one o' them Mounted Pleecemen, me
dear,--orl comb an' spurs,--mark time in front there. . . !" And he
emitted an imitation of a barnyard cackle.

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

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

"_Old soweljers never die, never die, never die,
Old soweljers never--_"

With infinite mockery Redmond's boyish voice struck in--

"_Young soldiers wish they would, wish they--_"

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

"_Isch ga bibble_! I don't care!" bawled the abandoned George; "can't be
much worse than doing 'straight duty' round Barracks, here!--same thing,
day in, day out--go and look at the 'duty detail' board--Regimental
Number--Constable Redmond, 'prisoner's escort'--punching gangs of
prisoners around all day long, on little rotten jobs about Barracks--and
'night guard' catching you every third night and--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kind of High Priest?" ventured George.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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