Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 27

O dream of youth, return!

And let the lights that gleamed of yore Beside this altar burn!

-_Gray_

The subtle irony conveyed in the doctor's last words had not been lost on their hearer.

"Aye! 'The Man with the Muckrake,'" he soliloquized. "That was just it.

Also, it was characteristic of Charley that he should have interpreted the impression in such fashion, too."

It was Sunday, and the sound of the church bells tolling for evening service, interspersed with the merry voices of children in their play, fell unheeded on the ears of the man who, with mind sunk in far-away thought, still remained in the same att.i.tude, with his arms resting on the window ledge, gazing out over the unbroken vista of rolling prairie.

That stern, bandaged face, framed in the open cas.e.m.e.nt, its brooding eyes fixed, seemingly, on the beyond, with the whole setting bathed in the blood-red flame of the sunset's afterglow, might have impressed one as vividly suggestive of that striking example of the late Sir John Tenniel's art, in his depiction of that scene enacted in far-off Khartoum twenty-three years before-of _one_-who, wounded and desperate, gazed day by day from a window in the citadel out across the sun-scorched desert towards Metemmah, his despairing eyes forever vainly seeking that help which came not.

The evening shadows began to fall, but still Ellis remained in that deep reverie while, as if in a dream, visions of his past life rose up in his mind with strange reality.

As if it were only yesterday he recalled that last stormy scene which clinched his determination to leave home. The scornful, accusing face of his step-mother, and his father's angry, worried countenance, as he (Ellis) gazed steadily and defiantly back at the woman whose continual petty spite had contrived to make his life at home unbearable.

Both of them were still alive and well, old Major Carlton had mentioned in his last letter. No-they never spoke of him. He was an outcast from his family of his own accord. Yes, that might be, but never a prodigal, or a remittance man, despite his birth and early breeding.

No, he could never be cla.s.sed with such as they, thank G.o.d. Ever since he had shaken the dust of England off his feet he had earned his living honestly with the toil of his brain and body, as a man amongst men. He had done nothing to shame his manhood, and his life was his own to live out as he saw fit; so, come what might, unless by their express behest, his people should never behold his face again, whether in life or death.

Then, tripping fast over one another, came flashes of the wild, free life on the range that had followed his emigration. That evening he arrived at the Circle H-only a boy in his teens, hungry, foot-sore, and moneyless, after tramping all the way from Billings. The rough, morose face of "Big Jim Parsons," as he sneeringly asked him his nationality, and finally flung him a job, as a bone to a dog. That worthy's kindness to him afterwards, in recognition of his proven courage and adaptability, and the unspeakable language the foreman was wont to use in his clumsy attempts to gloss over any generous deed. Poor old Jim.

_His_ had been the kind of friendship that counts. Too bad that horse had killed him like it did, after all his years of riding. The fun they had when they blew into town after the round-ups. The trivial arguments that so often ended in death, and the blind, unquestioning sincerity with which they espoused their bosses' and friends' feuds over the sheep-grazing infringements and other grievances of cattle men. The smell of scorched hide and the bawling of cattle in the corrals on branding days. The riding and steer roping at Cheyenne and Red b.u.t.te on gala occasions. Aye, that was the life. Why hadn't he stuck to it instead of becoming by turns, prize-fighter, soldier and, finally, Mounted Policeman? getting, in the latter vocation, as he had previously remarked, a taste of everybody else's worries in addition to his own.

Then followed brief memories of his pugilistic career. That sc.r.a.p on the open street in b.u.t.te that night, which had been the thin edge of the wedge of his subsequent entry into professional fighting, when he put away "Bull Blatzsky" for chasing that girl. The piteous appeal in her frightened, pretty face as she sought his protection, and the contemptuous sarcasm of the formidable prize-fighter, telling him to "beat it back to th' farm." The tingling in his veins, and the exultation that he had felt surging through him as he beheld his opponent weakening, and the yelling plaudits of the crowd as he fought himself out of that last clinch and landed the final punch that ended matters. He had knocked out men enough since then, Lord knows, at one time and another, and perhaps might do the same for many more, but that hot, proud flush he would never feel again. That fight in which he had defeated Gus Ahrens at Madison Square Gardens in New York, and received a thousand dollars as his long end of the purse. The terrible month's spree that followed. And then-the low-down, insidious propositions that various promoters and managers kept putting up to him from time to time which, finally, decided him to forsake the ring. Yes, begad! the average standard of prize-fighting morality was rotten to the core. He could vouch for it from personal experience. It was a good job he'd quit it in time before the crooks got him; but, at any rate, he could always look back to those days with the clear conscience of one who had never "put anything over" on the public. Fought on the square at all times, and given the best that was in him for the spectators and those that had backed him. Whatever they might have said or thought, it surely was not flagging endurance or courage that caused his departure for South Africa.

And, with that reflection, the memory of his first glimpse of that later unquiet land came back to him, and again he seemed to see the huge, black, up-flung wall of Table Mountain clean-cut against the blue-black, star-studded sky, and the twinkling lights of Capetown beneath its shadow, with the great, yellow African moon above all, as he beheld it from the deck of the _Braemar Castle_ the night she made Table Bay.

What a curious old and new-world town Capetown was, with its civilized and uncivilized mixture of races, creeds, and dress that you could stand and watch jostling each other in front of the windows of those splendid up-to-date stores in Plein Street. English, Dutch, Portuguese, Hottentot, Malay, Zulu, Kaffir, Hindoo, and Chinese, with the ubiquitous Jew bidding fair to outnumber them all. What a pleasant, lazy time he had had, wandering around there before he went up-country. Out Greenpoint way to the sea's edge, where one could look clear across past the lighthouse to Simon's-Town, and Lion's Head Mountain. And those occasional trips to the outlying suburbs, Wynberg, Paarl, Woodstock, where all the magnates' luxurious bungalows were, lying half-hidden amidst huge, cl.u.s.tering ma.s.ses of magnificent tropical foliage; and Rondebosch, where "Groot Schuurr," the palatial home of Cecil Rhodes, the great Dictator of Cape Colony and Rhodesia, was situated.

He was dead now-that strong, skilful protagonist to whom Africa owed so much, and buried in accordance with his last wish-in a tomb cut out of the solid rock on the summit of the highest peak in the Matoppos, appropriately termed "The View of the World."

It is his will that he look forth Across the world he won- The granite of the ancient North- Great s.p.a.ces washed with sun.

Aye-Kipling's immortal lines were a fitting requiem to the memory of the great dead. Cecil Rhodes was gone, but-

Living he was the land, and dead, His soul shall be her soul!

How well he recalled that memorable pilgrimage thither, as if to a shrine, that he and Musgrave had made together after the war.

Then those two years spent in the Chartered Company's service, before the war came, and the G.o.dforsaken places he was stationed in previous to his transfer to Johannesburg-Umtali, Nhaukoe, Mumbatua Falls, and Inyongo, up in the Mungamba Mountains, with mostly only natives for company. The bright, cool days, and the long, sweet, silent nights afterwards, up in the Magaliesberg Range, where it was so still that it seemed uncanny. The glorious sunrises-the air heavy with the scent of wattle bloom and mimosa flower, as you came out from your tent in the morning, feeling full of the joy of life, healthy and strong, unrecking of the morrow, and amused yourself throwing stones at the baboons that barked "Boom ba! boom ba!" at you from their perches away up on the ledges in the _krantzes_.

And then-"Jo'burg," with its conglomeration of cosmopolitan adventurers.

Hard-drinking, busy, grasping men, all struggling gamely in the same great vortex of speculation in the gold and diamond mines of the Rand, and all breathing the same hatred towards the South African Republic, and the tyranny and injustice of "Oom Paul Kruger" and his ministers, whose grasping avarice and total disregard of even the common rights of citizenship were gradually making the _Uitlander's_ lot unbearable.

Yes, but old Oom got _his_ afterwards, when the war he had provoked finally overwhelmed him and forced him and Steyn to flee from the country and people that they had ruined. A faint, reflective smile relaxed his somber face as he absently hummed a few lines of a doggerel ditty that had been sung around every camp fire from Pretoria to Capetown in the later stages of the war:

"Oom Paul Kruger" seems every one's pal In this wide world, wide world.

For he is such a cleanly, sweet-smelling old chap; Handkerchiefs, he disdains-gives his fingers a snap; Oh! ain't it a shame that he's wiped off the map Of this awfully wide, wide world?

Aye, that war.... He'd sure done some hard slugging there, one way and another. That two months on the Karroo Desert ... whew! rotten water-what little there was of it-and fellows going under every day with "enteric." Those cursed night marches, after a long day's _trek_, where your horse kept coming down with you amongst the _meerkat_ holes in the dark. Lord! but they were hard, bitter men in that Irregular Horse-had had enough to make 'em-mostly refugees from the Rand. They sure could fight, and were up to all the Boer's tricks, too. That was some sc.r.a.p at Wepener, under that burning sun all day. What a smack that bullet gave him. Slap through his body. Felt just like being hit with a hammer.

They'd got him at last, but at a price-for had he not deliberately picked off six "_Doppers_" before it came, as he lay cached behind that broken-down Cape cart?... Flopped 'em out, one after the other ... and lots more before that, too, at Elandslaagte, Waggon Hill, and in various small skirmishes.

That chase after De Wet and Kritzinger, long afterwards, during the guerilla warfare that followed, when they and Honeycroft's column converged on Pampoon Poort and nearly nailed the whole bunch. He'd killed five horses in that two weeks' drive. Those Argentines hadn't got much bottom in them, though. Basuto ponies were the stuff-if you were lucky enough to get hold of one-for they mostly got snapped up by the officers. Tough!... the cayuses in this country were pretty hard-some of 'em-but they weren't a patch on those little Basutos.

Ah, well, it was all over now; but what misery and fun they had had, mixed. Either a feast or a famine. Starving one day, gorged the next.

Things had got pretty slim, though, towards the end, with all the countless columns ravaging the country. Couldn't even get a bit of firewood to boil your coffee, let alone a pig or a chicken. Nothing left except a few thin sheep, and those stringy, pink-eyed Angora goats-worse provender than "bully" or "Macconnochie Ration." The night he, Barney Ebbsworth, and Billy Gardiner "feloniously, and with intent," stole that keg of rum at Norval's Pont, and the glorious drunk that they and the guardians of the neighboring blockhouse had on it.

Yes, they were pretty tough specimens, all right, in that regiment, for the surroundings and conditions they lived under in those haphazard days were not particularly conducive to much close observance of the higher ethics of refinement or morality. "Sufficient unto the day thereof" had been the only maxim that went there, for the span of life was of too doubtful duration, between sun-up and sun-down, to speculate overmuch on what the morrow might bring forth.

He'd done _his_ bit, anyway, and had come out of it safely, with three medals and completely restored health. Luckier than lots of the poor devils in his regiment, so many of whom were lying in their lonely graves back there, on which the _aasvogel_ perched by day and the hyena prowled around by night-or those that were living, crippled up for life, perhaps, scores of them. No! South Africa was all right in some ways, but he wouldn't care to live there again, for many things. The American continent was a better country for a poor man, after all, and he hadn't done so badly. He'd not saved a fortune, it was true; he'd given more away to others than he'd ever spent on himself, for he was always an easy mark for any poor devil with a hard-luck story. But he'd generally kept a moderate stake in the bank for a rainy day, so there was no particular cause for him to take such pessimistic views of life as he was p.r.o.ne to do at times. He'd much to be thankful for. His police record was good, and he had risen very quickly during his five odd years' service. For, without being exactly over-zealous, his list of convictions-long-term ones at that-was probably higher than any other man's in the Division, and some of them had caused him to be the recipient of favorable recognition from the Commissioner on more than one occasion.

Yes, without being unduly "stuck on himself," he _did_ possess a good many of the natural qualifications requisite for police duty. For stock cases, anyway, and the position he occupied in the province as a Sergeant in the R.N.W.M.P., undoubtedly gave him a certain standing in any community. Grouse and worry as he might, there _was_ a good deal of fascination about the life, which was exemplified by the unconsciously keen interest that, entirely apart from the fact of mere duty, he felt in the various crooked problems that he was called upon from time to time to solve.

If only it wasn't such a cursed _lonely_ life. Lonely, in the sense of his self-imposed isolation that he felt was inc.u.mbent on him, more or less, in the interests of duty. That's what gave _him_ the pip, and caused those rotten fits of depression that came over him at times. Yes, there was no doubt about it-he was getting crankier and crankier every year. He was conscious of it. What was coming over him? He didn't use to be like that. Fellows were starting to call him "Old" Ben, too, already.

He didn't deserve _that_, surely-even if his hair _was_ turning slightly gray. He could still show some of those young men, ten years his junior, a thing or two yet, in any test of physical endurance or skill.

Yes, it was lonely, all right. But, then, it didn't do for a man situated in a crooked district like he was to get going around with the glad hand, either. That was apt to make a policeman's duty highly disagreeable on occasion, as he knew from past experience. No, the only way was to keep aloof from people as much as possible in a place like this; then they had nothing on you, obligation or anything else, and you could soak it to 'em without compunction whenever occasion arose. They weren't all like Barney Gallagher or Lake. Thank goodness, he could always trust _them_, and could talk freely in their company without having to be continually on his guard.

Thus he continued to muse, his mind reverting in turns to many curious problems, till suddenly rousing himself with a start, he drew back from the window and, stretching and yawning, looked at his watch.

"Lord, what a time I've been dreaming there!" he muttered. "It's too late for grub at the hotel. I guess I'll have to go on down to the c.h.i.n.k's an' get something there."

He lit the lamp and, after hunting around for some cleaning kit, began mechanically to clean his dusty riding boots, preparatory to going out.

Whilst thus engaged, the door opened, admitting Sergeant Churchill.

"h.e.l.lo, Ben," greeted that individual, with an a.s.sumption of geniality.

"You still here?"

Ellis turned and, straightening himself up, regarded the other with languid interest.

"h.e.l.lo," he returned. "Train in? Was beginning to think you'd deserted."

Churchill did not answer immediately but, divesting himself of his side-arms and serge, sat down and proceeded to smoke.

"Had a trip up to the 'Pen' with a bunch o' prisoners," he volunteered presently. "Yours amongst 'em. That Fisk started in to give us a lot o'

trouble on th' way, but we put th' kibosh on _him_ properly, before we got there."

"M'm, m'm," said Benton absently. "He's a bad actor, 'Big George.' How d'you make out with that perjury case of yours?"

"Nine months," answered Churchill laconically.

A long silence ensued, during which Ellis continued his polishing, Churchill eyeing him furtively meanwhile.

"Must have got a bad smash?" he ventured, indicating the other's bandaged head. "Heard all about it at th' Post."

"Oh," replied Ellis indifferently, "did you?"

His tone was anything but encouraging. Churchill licked his lips and essayed another attempt.