The Luck of the Mounted by Ralph S. Kendall
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Ralph S. Kendall >> The Luck of the Mounted
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Thereupon, McCullough, still holding the eyes of the Cockney, gasped out
one magical word--"Yorkey!"
The spell was broken. "W'y, gorblimey!" said Hardy, "Ain't that
queer?--that's jes' wot I wos a-thinkin' . . . Well, Gawd 'elp Sorjint
Slavin now!" With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternal
polishing.
"Amen!" responded the farrier piously, "Reddy, here, an' Yorkey on th'
same detachment. . . . What th' one don't know t'other'll teach
him. . . . You'd better let 'em have th' parrot, too."
McSporran, back on his cot with hands clasped behind his head, gobbled an
owlish "Hoot, mon! th' twa o' them thegither! . . . Losh! but that beats
a' . . . but, hoo lang, O Lard? hoo lang?"
From various sources George had picked up the broken ends of many strange
rumours relating to the personality and escapades of one Constable Yorke,
of the Davidsburg detachment, whom he had never seen as yet. A hint
here, a whisper there, a shrug and a low-voiced jest between the
sergeant-major and the quartermaster, overheard one day in the Matter's
store. To Redmond it seemed as if a veil of mystery had always enveloped
the person and doings of this man, Yorke. The glamour of it now aroused
all his latent curiosity.
"Why, what sort of a chap is this Yorke?" he inquired casually.
McCullough, busily burnishing a bit, shrugged deprecatingly and laughed.
Hardy, putting the last touches to his revolver-holster, made answer,
George thought, with peculiar reticence.
"Wot, Yorkey? . . . oh, 'e's a 'oly terror 'e is. . . . You arst
Crampton," he mumbled--"arst Taylor--they wos at Davidsburg wiv 'im.
Slavin's orl right but Yorkey!". . . He looked unutterable things.
"Proper broken down Old Country torff 'e is, too. 'E's right there wiv
th' goods at police work, they s'y, but 'e's sure a bad un to 'ave to
live wiv. Free weeks on'y, Crampton stuck it afore 'e applied for a
transfer--Taylor, 'e on'y stuck it free d'ys."
Redmond made a gesture of exasperation. "Ah-h! come off the perch!" he
snarled pettishly, "what sort of old 'batman's' gaff are you trying to
'get my goat' with?"
His display of irritation drew an explosive, misthievous cachinnation
from the trio.
"Old 'batman's' gaff?" echoed the Cockney grinning, "orl right, my fresh
cove--this time next week you'll be tellin' us wevver it's old 'batman's'
gaff, or not."
Outside, the blizzard still moaned and beat upon the windows, packing the
wind-driven snow in huge drifts about the big main building. Inside, the
canteen roared--
"_Then--I--say, boys! who's for a drink with me?
Rum, tum! tiddledy-um! we'll have a fair old spree!_"
McSporran slid off his cot with surprising alacrity. "Here's ane!" he
announced blithely. Hardy, carefully hanging up his spotless, glossy
equipment at the head of his cot, turned to the farrier who was likewise
engaged in arranging a bridle and a pipe-clayed headrope.
"Wot abaht it, Mac?" he queried briskly.
McCullough, in turn looked at Redmond. "All right!" responded that young
gentleman with a boyish shrug and grin, "come on then, you bloomin' old
sponges! let's wet my transfer. I'll have time to pack my kit to-morrow,
before the West-bound pulls out."
Upon their departing ears, grown wearily familiar to its
monotonous repetition, fell the parrot's customary adieu, as that
disreputable-looking bird swung rhythmically to and fro on its perch.
"Goo' bye!" it gabbled, "A soldier's farewell' to yeh! goo' bye! goo'
bye!"
CHAPTER II
_Homeless, ragged and tanned,
Under the changeful sky;
Who so free in the land?
Who so contented as I?_.
THE VAGABOND
The long-drawn-out, sweet notes of "Reveille" rang out in the frosty
dawn. Reg. No. ---- Const George Redmond, engaged at that moment in
pulling on his "fatigue-slacks" hummed the trumpet-call's time-honoured
vocal parody--
"_I sold a cow, I sold a cow, an' bought a donk-ee--'
Oh--what--a silly old sot you were_!"
The room buzzed like a drowsy hive with hastily dressing men. Breathing
hotly on the frosted window-pane next his cot, George rubbed a clear
patch and glued his eye to it. The blizzard had died out during the
night leaving the snow-drifted landscape frosty, still and clear. A
rapidly widening strip of blended rose and pale turquoise on the eastern
horizon gave promise of a fine day.
He turned away with a contented sigh and, descending the stairs, fell in
with the rest of the fur-coated, moccasined men on "Morning Stable
Parade."
Three hours later, breakfast despatched, blankets rolled and kit and
dunnage bags packed, he received a curt summons from the sergeant-major
to attend the Orderly-room. To the brisk word of command he was
"quick-_marched_" "left-_wheeled_," and "halted" at "attention" before
the desk of the Officer Commanding L. Division.
"Constable Redmond, Sir!" announced the deep-throated, rumbling bass of
the sergeant-major; and for some seconds George gazed at the silvery hair
and wide bowed shoulders of the seated figure in front of him, who
continued his perusal of some type-written sheets of foolscap, as if
unaware of any interruption. Elsewhere have the kindly personality and
eccentricities of Captain Richard Bargrave been described; "but that," as
Kipling says, "is another story."
Presently the papers were cast aside, the bowed shoulders in the
splendidly-cut blue-serge uniform squared back in the chair, and Redmond
found himself being scrutinized intently by the all-familiar bronzed old
aristocratic countenance, with its sweeping fair moustache.
Involuntarily he stiffened, though his eyes, momentarily overpowered by
the intensity of that keen gaze, strayed to the level of his superior's
breast and focussed themselves upon two campaign ribbons there,
"North-West Rebellion" and "Ashantee" decorations.
Suddenly the thin, high, cultured voice addressed
him--whimsically--sarcastic but not altogether unkindly:
"The Sergeant-Major"--the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to an
elevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirled
pensively--"the Sergeant-Major reports that--er--for the past six months
you have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair average"--the
suave tones hardened--"that you have wisely refrained from indulging your
youthful fancies in any more such--er--dam-fool antics, Sir, as
characterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen detachment,
so--er--I have decided to give you another chance. I have here"--he
fumbled through some papers--"a request from Sergeant Slavin for another
man at Davidsburg. I am transferring you there. Slavin--er--damn the
man! damn the man! what's wrong with him, Sergeant-Major? . . . Two men
have I sent him in as many months, and both of 'em, after a few days
there, on some flimsy pretext or another, applied for transfers to other
detachments. Good men, too. If this occurs again--damme!"--he glared at
his subordinate--"I'll--er--bring that Irish 'ginthleman' into the Post
for a summary explanation. Wire him of this man's transfer! . . . All
right, Sergeant-Major!"
"About-turrn!--quick-march!" growled again the bass voice of the senior
non-com; and he kept step behind George into the passage. "Here's your
transport requisition, Redmond. Now--take a tumble to yourself, my
lad--on this detachment. You're getting what 'Father' don't give to
many--a second chance. Good-bye!"
George gripped the proffered hand and looked full into the kindly,
meaning eyes. "Good-bye, S.M.!" he said huskily, "Thanks!"
Westward, the train puffed its way slowly along a slight, but continual
up-grade through the foothills, following more or less the winding course
of the Bow River. Despite the cold, clear brilliance of the day, seen
under winter conditions the landscape on either side of the track
presented a rather forlorn, dreary picture. So it appeared to George,
anyway, as he gazed out of the window at the vast, spreading,
white-carpeted valley, the monotonous aspect of which was only
occasionally relieved by sparsely-dotted ranches, small wayside stations,
or when they thundered across high trestle bridges over the
partly-frozen, black, steaming river.
Two summers earlier he had travelled the same road, on a luxurious trip
to the Coast. The memory of its scenic splendor then, the easy-going
stages from one sumptuous mountain resort to another, now made him feel
slightly dismal and discontented with his present lot. Eye-restful
solace came however with the sight of the ever-nearing glorious
sun-crowned peaks of the mighty "Rockies," sharply silhouetted against
the dazzling blue of the sky.
Children's voices behind him suddenly broke in upon his reverie.
"That man!" said a small squeaking treble, "was a hobo. He was sitting
in that car in front with the hard seats an' I went up to him an' I said,
'Hullo, Mister! why don't you wash your face an' shave it? we've all
washed our faces this morning' . . . . We did, didn't we, Alice?--an'
washed Porkey's too, an' he said 'Hullo, Bo! wash my face?--I don't have
to--I might catch cold.'"
"But Jerry!" said another child's voice, "I don't think he could have
been a real hobo, or he'd have had an empty tomato-can hanging around his
neck on a string, like the pictures of 'Weary Willie' an' 'Tired Tim' in
the funny papers."
Then ensued the sounds as of a juvenile scuffle and squawk. Master Jerry
apparently resented having his pet convictions treated in this "Doubting
Thomas" fashion, for the next thing George heard him say, was:
"Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy! . . . No! he hadn't got a tomato-can,
silly! but he'd got a big, fat bottle in his pocket an' he pulled the
cork out of it an' sucked an' I said 'What have you got in your bottle?'
an' he said 'Cold tea' but it didn't smell a bit like cold tea. There's
a Mounted Policeman sitting in that seat in front of us. Let's ask him.
Policemen always lock hoboes up in gaol an' kick them in the stomach,
like you see them in the pictures."
The next instant there came a pattering of little feet and two small
figures scrambled into the vacant seat in front of Redmond. His gaze
fell on a diminutive, red-headed, inquisitive-faced urchin of some eight
years, and a small, gray-eyed, wistful-looking maiden, perhaps about a
year younger, with hair that matched the boy's in colour. Under one
dimpled arm she clutched tightly to her--upside-down--a fat, squirming
fox-terrier puppy. Hand-in-hand, in an attitude of breathless,
speculative awe, they sat there bolt upright, like two small gophers;
watching intently the face of the uniformed representative of the Law, as
if seeking some reassuring sign.
It came presently--a kind, boyish, friendly smile that gained the
confidence of their little hearts at once.
"Hullo, nippers!" he said cheerily.
"Hullo!" the two small trebles responded.
"What's your name, son?"
"Jerry!"
"Jerry what?"
An uneasy wriggle and a moment's hesitation then--"Jeremiah!" came a
small--rather sulky--voice.
Breathing audibly in her intense eagerness the little girl now came to
the rescue.
"Please, policeman?" she stopped and gulped excitedly--"please,
policeman?--he doesn't like to be called that. . . . It isn't _his_
fault. He always throws stones at the bad boys when they call him that.
Call him just 'Jerry.'"
That gamin, turning from a minute examination of Redmond's spurred
moccasins, began to swing his chubby legs and bounce up and down upon the
cushioned seat.
"Her name's Alice," he volunteered, with a sidelong fling of his
carrot-tinted head. "Yes! she's my sister"--he made a snatch at the pup
whose speedy demise was threatened, from blood to the head--"don't hold
Porkey that way, Alice! his eyes'll drop out."
But his juvenile confrere shrugged away from his clutch. "Stupid!" she
retorted, with fine scorn, "no they won't . . . . it's on'y guinea pigs
that do that!--when you hold them up by their tails." Nevertheless she
promptly reversed that long-suffering canine, which immediately
demonstrated its gratitude by licking her face effusively.
The all-important question of the hobo was next commended to his
attention, with a tremendous amount of chattering rivalry, and, with
intense gravity he was cogitating how to render a satisfactory finding to
both factions when steps, and the unmistakable rustle of skirts, sounded
in his immediate rear. Then a lady's voice said, "Oh, there you are,
children! . . . I was wondering where you'd got to."
The two heads bobbed up simultaneously, with a joyful "Here's Mother!"
and George, turning, glanced with innate, well-bred curiosity at a stout,
pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman who stood beside them.
"I hope these young imps haven't been bothering you?" she said. "We were
in that car behind, but I was reading and they've been having a great
time romping all over the place. Oh, well! I suppose it's too much to
expect children to keep still on a train."
With a fond motherly caress she patted the two small flaming heads that
now snuggled boisterously against her on either side.
"Come now! Messrs. Bubble and Squeak!" she urged teasingly,
"march!--back to our car again!"
"Bubble and Squeak" seemed appropriate enough just then, to judge by the
many fractious objections immediately voiced by those two small
mutineers. They were loth to part with their latest acquaintance and
weren't above advertising that fact with unnecessary vehemence. Even the
puppy raised a snuffling whine.
"Boo-hoo!" wailed Jerry, "don't want to go in the other car--me an' Alice
want to stay here--the policeman's goin' to tell us all about
hoboes--he--"
"Oh, dear!" came a despairing little sigh, "whatever--"
Their eyes met and, at the droll perplexity he read in hers, George
laughed outright. An explosive frank boyish laugh. He rose with a
courteous gesture. "I'm afraid it's a case of 'if the mountain won't
come to Mahomet,'" he began, with gay sententiousness. "Won't you sit
down?"
The matron's kindly eyes appraised the bold, manly young face a moment,
then, with a certain leisurely grace, she stepped in between the seats
and, seating herself, lugged her two small charges down beside her.
"I suppose, under the circumstances, an old woman like me can discard the
conventionalities?" she remarked smilingly.
Jerry and Alice leered triumphantly at their victim. "Now!" Jerry
shrilled exactingly "tell us all about hoboes!"
"They do carry empty tomato-cans, don't they?" pleaded Alice.
It was now their guardian's turn to laugh at his dismay. "You see what
you've let yourself in for now?" she remarked.
"Seems I am up against it," he admitted, with a rueful grin, "well! must
make good somehow, I suppose?"
With an infinitely boyish gesture he tipped his fur cap to the back of
his head and leaned forward with finger-tips compressed in approved
story-telling fashion.
"Once upon a time!--" a breathless "Yes-s"--those two small faces
reminded him much of terriers watching a rat-hole--"there was a hobo."
He thought hard. "He was a very dirty old hobo--he never used to wash
his face. He was walking along the road one day when he heard a little
wee voice call out 'Hey!'. He looked down and he saw an empty tomato-can
on a rubbish heap. Tomato-cans used to be able to talk in those days and
the hoboes were very good to them--always used to drink out of them and
carry them to save them from walking. This can had a picture of its big
red face on the outside. 'Give us a lift?' said the can. 'Where to?'
said the old hobo. 'Back to California, where I came from,' said the
can. 'All right!' said the old hobo, 'I'm goin' there, too.' And he
picked the can up and hung it round his neck and kept on walking till
they came to a house. The window of the house was open and they could
see a big fat bottle on a little table. 'Ah!' said the old hobo 'here's
an old friend of mine!--he's comin' with us, too,' And he shoved his arm
through the window and put the bottle in his pocket. By and by they came
to a river--'Hey!' said the can, again--'What's up?' said the old
hobo--'I'm dry,' said the can--'So am I,' said the hobo; and he dipped
the can in the water and gave it a very little drink. 'Hey!' said the
can, 'give us a drop more!'--'Wait a bit!' said the old hobo, and he
pulled the cork out of the bottle. 'Don't you pour any of that feller
into me!' said the can, 'he'll burn my inside out--an' yours--if you pour
him into me I'll open my mouth where I'm soldered and let him run out,
and you won't be able to drink out of me any more. Chuck him into the
river!--he's no good.'
"'You shut your mouth!' said the old hobo, 'or I'll chuck you into the
river!' And he poured some of the stuff out of the bottle into the can--"
At this exciting point poor George halted for breath and mopped his
forehead. He felt fully as thirsty as the tomato-can. But the children
were upon him, clutching his scarlet tunic:
"What did he do then?" howled Jerry.
"Eh?" gasped the young policeman,--"oh, he opened his mouth where he was
soldered and let the stuff run out. So the old hobo threw him into the
river. That's why hoboes always pack a bottle with them now instead of a
tomato-can."
He leaned back with a sigh and, thrusting his hands deep into his
pockets, smiled wanly at his vis-a-vis.
"There!" he said, with feeble triumph, "I've carried out the sentence."
And it did him good to drink in her mirthful, waggish laugh.
"Yes!" she conceded gaily, "you certainly did great execution, though you
look more like a prisoner just reprieved."
Jerry, screwing up his small snub nose leered triumphantly across her lap
at Alice. "Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy!" he squeaked, "that man was a
real hobo."
His grimace was returned with interest. Alice hugged her puppy awhile
contentedly, murmuring in that canine's ear, "What a silly old thing that
tomato-can must have been. If I'd been him I'd have kept my mouth shut."
"Cow Run!" intoned the brakeman monotonously, passing through the
coaches, "Cow Run next stop!" His eye fell on Redmond. "Wish I'd seen
you before, Officer!" he remarked, "I'd have had a hobo for you. Beggar
stole a ride on us from Glenbow, back there. The con's goin' to chuck
him off here--do you want him?"
"No!" said Redmond shortly, "let the stiff go--I'm going on to
Davidsburg--haven't got time to get messing around with 'vags' now."
The train began to slow down and presently stopped at a small station.
Mechanically the quartette gazed through the window at the few shivering
platform loungers, and beyond them to the irregular, low-lying facade of
snow-plastered buildings that comprised the dreary main street of the
little town.
Suddenly the children uttered a shrill yelp.
"There he is!" cried Alice, darting a small finger at the window-pane.
"I saw him first!" bawled Jerry.
And, slouching past along the platform, all huddled-up with hands in
pockets, George beheld a ragged nondescript of a man whose appearance
confirmed Master Jerry's previous assertion beyond doubt.
The children drummed on the window excitedly. Glancing up at the two
small peering faces the human derelict's red-nosed, stubble-coated visage
contorted itself into a friendly grimace of recognition; at the same
time, with an indescribably droll, swashbuckling swagger he doffed a
shocking dunghill of a hat.
Suddenly though his jaw dropped and, replacing his battered headpiece,
with double-handed indecent haste the knight of the road executed an
incredibly nimble "right-about turn" and vanished behind the
station-house. Just then came the engine's toot! toot!, the conductor's
warning "All aboar-rd!" and the train started once more on its journey
westward.
Smiling grimly to himself, the policeman settled back in his seat again
and glanced across at the lady. She was shaking with convulsive laughter.
"Oh!" she giggled hysterically "he--he must have seen your red coat!"
another spasm of merriment, "it was as good as a pantomime," she murmured.
Evincing a keen interest in his soldierly vocation, for awhile she
subjected him to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties and
life of a Mounted Policeman. In this agreeable fashion the time passed
rapidly and it was with a feeling of regret that he heard the brakeman
announce his destination and rose to take leave of his pleasant
companion. The children insisted on bidding their late chum a cuddling,
osculatory farewell--Alice tearfully holding up the snuffling Porkey for
his share. The train drew up at the Davidsburg platform, there came a
chorus of "Good-byes" and a few minutes later George was left alone with
his kit-bags on the deserted platform.
CHAPTER III
_St. Agnes' Eve. Ah! bitter chill it was.
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped, trembling, through the frozen grass;
And drowsy was the flock in woolly fold_.
ST. AGNES' EVE
Edmond did not have to wait long. Sounding faint and far off came the
silvery ring of sleigh-bells, gradually swelling in volume until, with a
measured crunch! crunch! of hoofs on packed snow, a smart Police cutter,
drawn by a splendid bay team, swung around a bend of the trail and pulled
up at the platform. Redmond regarded with a little awe the huge,
bear-like, uniformed figure of the teamster, whom he identified at once
from barrack gossip.
"Sergeant Slavin?" he enquired respectfully, eyeing the bronzed,
clean-shaven face, half hidden by fur cap and turned-up collar.
"Meself, lad!" came a rich soft brogue, "I was afther gettin' a wire from
th' O.C., tellin' me he was thransfering me another man. Yer name's
Ridmond, ain't it?---Whoa, now! T an' B!--lively wid thim kit-bags,
son!--team's pretty fresh an' will not shtand."
They swung off at a spanking trot. George surveyed the white-washed
cattle-corrals and few scattered shacks which seemed to comprise the
hamlet of Davidsburg.
"Not a very big place, Sergeant?" he remarked, "how far's the detachment
from here?"
"On'y 'bout a mile" grunted the individual, squirting a stream of
tobacco-juice to leeward, "up on the high ground beyant. Nay! 'tis just
a jumpin' off place an' shippin' point for th' ranches hereabouts.
Business is mostly done at Cow Run--East. Ye passed ut, comin'. Great
doin's there--whin th' cowpunchers blow in. Some burg!"
"Sure looked it!" Redmond agreed absently, thinking of the casual glimpse
he had got of the dreary main street.
They were climbing a slight grade. The sun-glare on the snow was
intense; the cutter's steel runners no longer screeched, and the team's
hoofs began to clog up with soft snow.
"They're 'balling-up' pretty bad, Sergeant!" remarked Redmond. And, as
he spoke the "off" horse suddenly slipped and fell, and, plunging to its
feet again, a leg slid over the cutter's tongue.
"Whoa, now! whoa!" barked Slavin, with an oath, as the mettled,
high-strung animal began to kick affrightedly. Slipping again it sank
down in the snow and remained still for some tense moments.
Like a flash Redmond sprang from the cutter, and rapidly and warily he
unhooked the team's traces. This done he crept to their heads and
slipped the end of the tongue out of the neck-yoke ring. Slavin by this
time was also on his feet in the snow, with the situation well in hand.
He clucked softly to his team, the fallen horse plunged to its feet again
and the next moment all was clear. George, burrowing around in the snow
unearthed a big stone, with which he proceeded to tap the team's shoes
all round until the huge snow-clogs fell out. In silence the two men
hooked up again and were soon on their way.
"H-mm!" grunted the big Irishman at last, eyeing his subordinate with a
sidelong glance of approval, "h-mm! teamster?"
"Oh, I don't know, Sergeant" responded Redmond deprecatingly, "of course
I've been around teams some--down East, on the old man's farm. . . I
don't know that I can claim to be a real teamster--as you judge them in
the Force."
"H-mm!" grunted Slavin again, "ye seem tu have th' makin's anyway." He
expectorated musingly. "Wan time--down at Coutts 'twas--a young feller
was sint tu me for tu dhrive. Mighty chipper gossoon, tu. 'Teamster?'
sez I--'Some!' sez he, as if he was a reg'lar gun at th' business--'but
I'm gen'rally reckoned handier wid a foursome 'n a single team.'"
"'Oh!' sez I, 'fwhere?' An' he tould me--Regina. Sez I thin ''tis
Skinner Adams's undershtudy ye must have bin?--for he was Reg'mentil
Teamster Sarjint there, an' sure fwas a great man wid a four-in-hand
team.'"
"'Fwat, ould Skinner Adams?' sez me bould lad, kind av contempshus-like,
'Humph! at shtringin' out four I have Skinner Adams thrimmed tu a peak.'
We was dhrivin' from th' station tu th' detachmint--same like tu we're
doin' now. Whin we gits in I unhitches an' puts up th' team. 'Give us a
hand tu shling th' harniss off!' sez I tu him--an' me shmart Aleck makes
a shtab at ut wid th' nigh horse. He was not quite so chipper--thin, an'
I noticed his hands thremblin', an' he was all th' time watchin' me close
how I did wid th' off harse. I dhraws off wid th' britchin' on me
arrum--'Come!' sez I--an' he shtarts in--unbucklin' th' top hame-shtrap.
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