The Luck of the Mounted Part 2

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 c.o.c.kney 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 repet.i.tion, 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 ba.s.s 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--d.a.m.n the man! d.a.m.n 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 ba.s.s voice of the senior non-com; and he kept step behind George into the pa.s.sage. "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 spa.r.s.ely-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 att.i.tude 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 rea.s.suring 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!"