Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 32

"Come! don't go to sleep," she said. "A dime for your thoughts, O man of many moods! You look like Hamlet watching the play-lying gazing away there.... Wake up and talk to me, sir!"

Ellis, who lay stretched out with his back, turned to her, rolled over and looked up into the long-lashed, half mocking, half serious hazel eyes.

"'Hamlet'!" he echoed, with an amused chuckle. "And pray what have _I_ done to deserve the honor of being likened unto 'the melancholy Dane,'

kind lady? 'Wot shall I tork abaht?' as old Bob Tucker would say. 'Bid me discourse-I will enchant thine ear!'-a la 'Baron Munchausen.'"

"No, don't be foolish," she said beseechingly. "Can't you be serious for once in a while, please? I don't feel in the mood for any 'Munchausen'

nonsense _just_ now. Confine yourself strictly to the truth on this occasion. Just tell me _who_ you are-where you came from-and what you've done for your living ever since you can remember! There, now, you've got your orders in full ... fire away!"

Ellis gave a dismal whistle. "Pretty big order on short notice," he said. "If you expect me to fill all that, extempore, I'll have to limit it to a synopsis."

There was, undoubtedly, a strong fascination about Benton, and few there were of either s.e.x who came into contact with him that did not fall under the spell of his personal magnetism. The dry humor he emitted at times, and the utter absence of self-consciousness or vanity in his quiet, forceful personality, may have accounted for this in a great measure. Also, in a simple, direct fashion, he could "talk well"; and when he chose to exert himself, or was in the mood, could be a most interesting companion as a raconteur, drawing upon a vast reserve of experiences acc.u.mulated during his stirring, eventful, wandering life.

The quiet peace of his surroundings were conducive to such a mood just now and, as the girl adroitly drew him on, he responded, and talked of his past life as perhaps he had never done to man or woman before. Those who love make good listeners and, as Mary, sitting there, heard with an all-absorbing interest of his strange ups and downs, trials, hopes, and adventures, she gained a vivid and lasting impression of the career of a strong man who, early in life, had cut himself adrift from kith and kin; glimpsing something of the real, deep, complex nature of this careless soldier of fortune who, all unconsciously, had won her heart long ago.

His story began with his early schoolboy recollections. The unhappy period following his mother's death, and his final emigration to the United States; then pa.s.sed on, fantastically, through innumerable chops and changes of life. It told of a wild, haphazard existence in camps, and on the range in Montana and Wyoming, the lure of the gaming table, and the companionship with men of nearly every nationality under the sun. Desperate ventures in bubble speculations that either broke or made the investors, of chances missed by the merest margin of time and travel. It touched on all the phases of his pugilistic career, his later adventures on the South African veldt and memories of the great war. He described his return from that unquiet land, how he had eventually joined the Mounted Police, the years that had followed in that Force, and some of the various cases that had brought him his third stripe.

Sometimes on foot, more often on horseback, now fairly prosperous, now poor, in and out, back and forth, ch.o.r.e boy, cookee, bronco-buster, pugilist, Chartered Company's servant, Irregular soldier, and finally Mounted Policeman, moved Ellis Benton, taking his chance honestly and bravely in the great game of Life.

All this he related without bravado, deprecating false modesty or extravagant gesture, and the simple, earnest manner in which he told his life's story caused the great, generous heart of the listening girl to go out to him in a wave of love and sympathy-the outward expression of which she had difficulty in controlling.

Gradually, however, his mood changed, and the trend of his experiences veering from the hard-bitten facts of ordinary police duty to the more humorous occurrences that from time to time vary its red-tape-bound monotony, he recounted several laughable episodes in which he had been involved at different periods. The relation of these tickled the girl's imagination greatly.

"Yes," he said musingly. "We do get up against some funny propositions at times, that any one who's blessed in the least degree with the saving sense of humor can't help but appreciate. If it wasn't for these occasional little happenings our life would be pretty dull. I remember one time"-he checked himself, with a laugh. "Bah! I'm yarning away like an old washerwoman full of gin and trouble."

"Will you go on?" Mary said, leaning towards him with dancing eyes.

The thrill in her voice-strangely contagious it was-told how much she was interested. It was not to be wondered at. There was only one man on earth for whom she really cared-he lay stretched before her then, and probably what attracted her most in him was his manly simplicity and the sincerity of his tones and expression which, somehow, always had the knack of carrying absolute conviction with them in the narration of even the most trivial story.

"Well," Ellis went on, "I was on Number Thirteen-south-bound-one day, about eighteen months back, I guess, returning to my line detachment at Elbow Vale. As we pulled away from Little Bend-the first stop-the Con'

came into the car I was in with a wire in his hand. 'Benton,' he said.

'Anybody here by that name?' I was in mufti-had been on a plain-clothes job. 'Right here!' I said, and opened it up. It was from the O.C., and as far as I can remember, ran something like this: 'Definite information just to hand. Arthur Forbes escaped Badminton Penitentiary; is on No.

13; forty-five; weight, one hundred and ninety; five feet ten; thick black eyebrows; hook nose; triangular scar top bald head; dress unknown; search train thoroughly; arrest without fail, signed R. B. Bargrave.'

"It wasn't much of a description to work on, but I realized it was a hurry call and was very likely all the O.C. had been able to get. It was up to me to make good somehow. So I started in to investigate that train with a fine-tooth comb, and I put the Con' wise, too. It's only a short train-the Southbound-and I thought I'd have an easy job locating my man if he was on it. I sauntered casually through, from end to end, and sized all the pa.s.sengers up. There was only one who came anything near the description I'd had given me. Beggar was a parson at that, too. I pa.s.sed him up for the time being, and when we stopped at Frampton, I and the Con' made a pretty thorough search of the tender, baggage, and mail coaches-also the rods underneath the whole length of the train. Nothing doing, though, so we got aboard again. Then we ransacked every cubby hole we could think of. Nothing doing again there, either. I began to figure I was up against a hard proposition, or that p'r'aps he wasn't _on_ the train at all. But the wire read so positive, and our O.C. isn't the man to send you on a wild goose chase. Besides, I hated to think this gink might slip it over on me after all, and make his get-away.

"Consequence was-I only had this parson to fall back on. I was only two seats back from him, so I could watch him good. He was a big, stout, broad-shouldered chap about the height and weight of the description, all right; clean-shaved and very pale, with a hook nose and thick black eyebrows, too. Didn't fancy, somehow, that his expression and the cut of his jaw was exactly in keeping with his clerical dress-and his hair-what little I could see of it under his shovel hat-was pretty short. But there! you can't always judge a man by his personal appearance. It isn't wise or fair. Though honestly-I tell you, Miss O'Malley, I _have_ seen parsons before now with faces tough enough to get them six months-without the option of a fine-just on sight. I casually moved up to the seat alongside his, on the other side of the aisle, where I could keep good tab on him. He'd got some magazines and two or three clerical papers-_The Pulpit_, _The Clerical Review_, etc., that he seemed very interested in, and I began to think what ridiculous nonsense it was for me ever for an instant to a.s.sociate _him_ in my mind with an escaped convict on the mere coincidence of his answering a vague description.

While all this was running in my head something happened which caused me to change my mind a bit and feel kind of uneasy and suspicious of my Reverend 'Nibs.'

"All the way from Frampton, the whole bunch of us in the car-with the exception, of course, of the divine-had been in turn amused and annoyed at the antics of a bleary-eyed-looking bohunk who'd come aboard there with a bottle of 'Seagram's' rye sticking out of his pocket. He'd got a proper singin' jag on, and every now and again he'd pull out his bottle and whet his whistle. Might have been anything from a camp cookee to a section hand out on a 'toot.' _I_ don't know what the beggar was.

Anyhow, getting tired of sitting still and singing on his lonesome, he comes zig-zagging up the aisle, pitching cheerfully into some one's lap at every lurch of the train. The last lap he hit happened to be this parson's, who shoved him off disgustedly, and drew in the hem of his garments, so to speak, all same Pharisee and Publican. The way he did it got that drunk goin' properly-made him pretty nasty. So he gets back at the parson by pulling out his bottle and offering him a drink right then and there. Of course that fetched a great big ignorant laugh out of the whole lot of us, watching this Punch and Judy show. Parson never let on, though-kept his face on one side, staring out of the window. Well, the drunk, seeing his offer of a nip was turned down, takes one himself and, swaying all over the place, puts his hand on the parson's knee and looks up into his face.

"'Sh-shay, Mister!' he says, as solemn as an owl. '_I_ don't believe in Heaven!'

"Of course we all started in to grin again, and the parson looked like a proper goat. But still he took no notice-kept as mum as you please, though; I guess if it'd been _me_, that drunk'd have got a back hander across the mouth and kicked off the train by the Con' at the next station.

"Beggar got tickled with the fun he was causing, and he kept on repeating this conviction of his over and over again like a parrot; but, as the parson took not a bit of notice, he shut up for a bit and dozed off to sleep-much to our relief. We were getting a bit fed up with him.

Then it was 'Mister' Parson made a darned bad break. He began fumbling in his pockets for something-a penknife, if I remember-to cut the leaves of a magazine. Well, his gloves seemed to hamper him, so he took them off and I got a good look at his hands. They-like his mug-didn't fit in with his dress at all. Pretty rough-looking mitts, that it was very evident had recently done heavy manual work-all grimed up, with black broken nails and hard callosities on the palms.

"Still I hung fire-for _his_ cloth always demands a certain amount of respect. He _might_ have been working in his garden, I argued to myself.

I didn't want to make any fool break by humiliating a, p'r'aps, perfectly innocent man and a gentleman on mere suspicion, and without any positive proof. While I was twisting things over in my mind, the brakeman came through, calling: 'Baker's Lake! Baker's Lake!' And presently the train began to slow down. Parson began to gather all his belongings together as if he was going to get off there. I was 'between the devil and the deep sea'-properly. For it was a case of 'Going!

going!' and the next minute it'd be 'Gone!' with me, p'r'aps, for the goat instead of him.

"But just then Providence, in the shape of the drunk, settled all my doubts for me at the eleventh hour. The brakeman calling out the name of the station, and the parson rustling around with his traps, had combined to wake this beggar up, and he started in to sing again. He quite brightened up at the sound of his own music-takes another swig at his bottle and, squinting at our reverend friend, starts in again with his old parrot squawk:

"'_I_ don't believe in Heaven, mister! _I_ don't believe in Heaven!'

"Parson stands up and reaches for his bag off the rack.

"'Don't you?' he says, showing his teeth in a nasty sort of grin. 'Don't you? Well, then-you can go to H-l!'

"That fixed it-absolutely. I jumped up and followed my 'wolf in sheep's clothing' down the aisle and out onto the platform.

"'Just a minute, please,' I said. 'I'm a sergeant of the Mounted Police.

I don't think there's any doubt about _you_.' And I collared him.

"For answer, he dropped his bag on the instant and closed with me-desperate-tried to trip me up. Oh, I tell you, he sure _was_ some handful. Well, he wouldn't give in, quiet, and I began to get mad at the way he was scuffling with me, so I let go of him and broke away for a second. Then I came in on him quick and flopped him out with an uppercut and a back-heel-and as he keeled over his hat flew off and I saw the scar on the top of his bald block. Regular entertainment for the people on the train and the platform. They were wondering what the deuce was up when they saw us sc.r.a.pping and rolling around there. I shoved the steels on him and took him back next train."

Mary laughed heartily at the conclusion of this episode.

"Wherever had he got the parson's clothes from?" she queried.

"Oh," said Ellis, with a grin, "when I landed back to the Post with him I heard the city police'd received a report from the Reverend Seccombe-the Baptist minister-to the effect that his house had been broken into the night before and some of his clothes pinched. We got him to come down to the guardroom right away, and he immediately identified the clothes the prisoner was wearing as his-and the bag, too. He and the other gink were just about the same build and height. Oh, his understudy pleaded guilty to burgling this house then and there, when he saw a bluff wouldn't go. Made a statement and told us the whole business.

"It appears he'd broken into a shack when he first made his get-away from the 'pen,' and stolen some workman's clothes. He was kind enough to leave these behind him when he exchanged with Seccombe. Oh, he sure was some 'Holy Roller,' this Mr. Arthur Forbes. _Just_ such another flim-flammer as that Jabez Balfour, who put that smooth 'Liberator gold brick come-on' over a lot of the smug Nonconformist fraternity in the Old Country many years back, and then skipped out to Buenos Ayres. This beauty was doing eight years for a somewhat similar fake-a big oil well 'salting' swindle. He'd defrauded the public out of something like four hundred thousand dollars."

He rolled and lit a cigarette and, after carefully extinguishing the match, gazed dreamily awhile across at the mountains, behind which the sun was gradually disappearing. Presently, looking up at his companion with a faint, whimsical smile playing over his stern features, he said quietly:

"Now it's _your_ turn to be Scherazerade. So far, I've been in the role of Sinbad-completely monopolizing this 'Arabian Nights' entertainment in a very one-sided manner. Won't you tell me something of _your_ life-in return?"

She shrugged her broad, gracefully rounded shoulders with a queer little hopeless gesture, all the life seeming to have gone suddenly out of her mobile face as she regarded him now with grave introspection.

"I'll tell you a little," she said slowly. "But I'm afraid you won't find it very interesting."

What she related was a very fair corroboration of the facts previously told him by Trainor; and though in their narration she strove to appear indifferent to the changing fortunes of her family, and to gloss over her father's improvidence and selfishness, reading between the lines it was very apparent to Ellis what sacrifices she had made willingly for those same young brothers of whom she spoke with such loving solicitude.

"So ye see, me frind," she wound up with a kind of forced gaiety:

Fwat ups an' down an' changes there be E'en in the lives av th' loikes av me.

Four years ago the fortunes av the House of O'Malley were in the ascendant; today they are shtrictly on th' wane."

She threw up her head and smiled gamely in a forlorn sort of way; but the quivering lips belied the careless, inconsequent tones, and he, guessing that the tears were not far from the surface, dimly sensed something of the bitter struggle that that brave heart must have been forced to make at times to keep up appearances in past periods of adversity. With this in his mind, he impulsively held up his hand to the girl, and she, choking back a little sob in her throat, reached out and clasped it warmly in hers.

"Eyah!" he said; "I guess we've both had our ups and downs, all right, but there's one consolation about our respective lots-they might have fallen in worse places, though there's little _real_ peace in the lives of us who are comparatively poor and have to earn our own livings forever dependent on the whims and fancies of the powers that be, set in authority above us.

"Take the life of the average non-com, or 'buck,' in this Force, for instance. It may seem rot to get harping on grievances at such a time and place as this, I know," (he made a sweeping gesture to the landscape with outflung arm) "but there's no lasting peace of mind or future in it. People see us patrolling around in a smart uniform, and riding the pick of the country in horseflesh, thinking, I suppose, what a fine time we have of it. They little guess it's one continual round of worry and trouble. All the way from murder and robbery to settling neighbors'

trivial squabbles over d.o.g.g.i.ng each other's cattle, paying the cost of divisional fences, and all those kind of petty disturbances. Either that, or being chased around from one detachment to another, though in that respect I must say this Division isn't as bad as some of 'em.

Couldn't have a better O.C. or Inspectors'n we've got in L. As long as you're onto your job and do your work right, they let you pretty well alone. But it's the confounded office work that we have to do in addition to our ordinary police duty that _we_ get fed up on. Talk about red tape! This outfit's sure the home of it! Every report, every little voucher for p'r'aps fifty cents' expenditure-four, and sometimes five, copies of each. Statistics for this, and statistics for that; monthly returns, mileage reports, and the copy of your daily diary. Oh, Lord!

you should just see what we have to get through. Most of us use typewriters, of course, or we'd _never_ make the grade at all. It's much easier and handier. Guess you saw that one of mine in the detachment.