The Luck of the Mounted Part 6

"'Tis whiskey," he murmured simply--much as Mr. Pickwick said: "It is punch." He made casual examination of the green and gold label.

"'Burke's Oirish,' begob! . . . eyah! a brave ould uniform but"--he turned a moist eye on his subordinate--"a desp'ritly wounded souldier that wears ut--betther out av pain. 'Tis an' ould sayin': 'Whin ye meet th' divil du not turn tail but take um by th' harns.' . . . Bhoy! I thrust the honest face av yeh--I have tuk tu ye since th' handy lad ye showt yersilf with that team mix-up th' morn."

Redmond, mollified, grinned shiveringly. "I don't mind a snort, Sergeant," he said, "it's d----d cold out here. Beer's more in my line though. Salue!"

He took a swallow or two; the bottle changed hands.

"Eyah!" remarked Slavin sometime later--cuddling the bottle at the "port arms." "'Tis put th' kibosh on many a good man in th' ould Force has this same dhrink. Th' likes av Yorkey there"--he jerked his head at the lighted window--"shud never touch ut--never touch ut! . . . Cannot flirrt wid a bottle--'tis wedded they wud be tu ut. Now meself"--he paused impressively--"I can take me dhrink like a ginthleman--can take ut, or lave ut alone."

Absorptive demonstration followed. Came a long-drawn, smacking "Ah-hh!"

"A sore thrial tu me is that same man," he resumed, "wan more break on his part, as ye have seen this night . . . an' I musht--I will take shteps wid um."

"Why don't you transfer him back to the Post?" queried George, wonderingly, mindful of how swiftly that disciplinary measure had rewarded his own reckless conduct at the Gleichen detachment. "He's got nothing on you, has he?"

"_Fwhat_?" . . . Slavin, turning like a flash, glared sharply at him out of deep-set scowling eyes, "Fwhat?"

Tonelessly, George repeated his query,

Slavin's glare gradually faded. "Eyah!" he affirmed presently, "he has! . . ." came a long pause--"but not as yu mane ut . . . oh! begorrah, no!" His eyes glittered dangerously and his wide mouth wreathed into an unholy grin, "'Tis a shmart man that iver puts ut over on me at th'

Orderly-room. . . Fwhy du I not sind him into th' Post? . . . eyah! fwhy du I not? . . ."

Chin sunk on his huge chest, he mused awhile.

George waited.

"Listen, bhoy!" A terrible earnestness crept into the soft voice. "I'll tell ye th' tale. . . . 'Twas up at th' Chilkoot Pa.s.s--in the gold rush av '98. . . . Together we was--Yorkey an' meself--stationed there undher ould Bobby Belcher. Wan night--Mother av G.o.d! will I iver forghet ut?

Bitther cowld is th' Yukon, lad; th' like av ut yu' here in Alberta du not know. Afther tu crazy lost _cheechacos_ we had been that day. We found thim--frozen. . . . A blizzard had shprung up, but we shtrapped th' stiffs on th' sled an' mushed ut oursilves tu save th' dogs.

"I am a big man, an' shtrong . . . . but Yorkey was th' betther man av us tu that night--havin less weight tu pack. I was all in--dhrowsy, an'

wanted tu give up th' ghost an' shleep--an' shleep. . . . Nigh unto death I was. . . ."

The murmuring voice died away. A shudder ran through the great frame at the remembrance, while the hand clutching the bottle trembled violently.

Unconsciously Redmond shook with him; for the horror Slavin was living over again just then enveloped his listener also.

"But Yorkey," he continued "wud not let me lie down. . . . G.o.d! how that man did put his fishts an' mucklucks tu me an' pushed an' shtaggered wid me' afther th' dogs, beggin' an' cursin' an' prayin' an' callin' me names that ud fairly make th' dead relations av a man rise up out av their graves. . . . Light-headed he got towards th' ind av th' thrail, poor chap! shoutin' dhrill-ordhers an' Injia naygur talk, an' singin' great songs an' chips av poethry--th' half av which I misremimber--excipt thim--thim wurrds he said this night. 'Shaint Agnus Eve,' he calls ut.

Over an' over he kept repeathin' thim as he helped me shtaggerin'

along. . . 'G.o.d!' cries he, betune cursin' me an' th' dogs an' singin'

'Shaint Agnus Eve'--'Oh, help us this night! let us live, G.o.d! . . . oh, let us live!--this poor b.l.o.o.d.y Oirishman an' me! . . .'"

The sergeant's head was thrown back now, gazing full at the evening star the moonbeams shining upon his upturned, powerful face. Cold as was the night Redmond could see glistening beads of sweat on his forehead. As one himself under the spell of the fear of death, the younger man silently watched that face--fascinated. It was calm now, with a great and kindly peace. Slowly the gentle voice took up the tale anew:

"We made ut, bhoy--th' Post--or nigh tu ut . . . in th' break av th'

dawn. . . . For wan av th' dogs yapped an' they come out an' found us in th' snow. . . . Yorkey, wid his arrums round th' neck av me--as if he wud shtill dhrag me on . . . . an' cryin' upon th' mother that bore um. . . . Tu men--in d.a.m.ned bad shape--tu shtiffs . . . . an' but three dogs lift out av th' six-team we'd shtarted wid. . . . So--now ye know; lad! . . . Fwhat think ye? . . ."

What George thought was: "Greater love hath no man than this." What he said was: "He's an Englishman, isn't he?"

Slavin nodded. "Comes of a mighty good family tu, they say, but 'tis little he iwer cracks on himself 'bout thim. Years back he hild a commission in some cavalry reg'mint in Injia, but he got broke--over a woman, I fancy. He's knocked about th' wurrld quite a piece since thin.

Eyah! he talks av some quare parts he's been in. Fwhat doin'? Lord knows. Been up an' down the ladder some in _this_ outfit--sarjint one week--full buck private next. Yen know th' way these ginthlemin-rankers run amuck?"

"How does he get away with it every time?" queried Redmond. "Hasn't any civilian ever reported him to the old man?"

"Yes! wance--an' 'Father,' th' ould rapparee! he went for me baldheaded for not reporthin' ut tu."

With a sort of miserable heartiness Slavin cursed awhile at the recollection. "Toime an' again," he resumed, "have I taken my hands tu um--pleaded wid um, an' shielded um in many a dhirty sc.r.a.pe, an' ivry toime sez he, wid his ginthlemin's shmile: 'Burke! will ye thry an'

overlook it, ould man?' . . . Eyah! he's mighty quare. For some rayson he seems tu hate th' idea av a third man bein' here, tho' th' man' wud die for me. Divil a man can I kape here, anyway. In fwhat fashion he puts th' wind up 'him, I do not know; they will not talk, out av pure kindness av heart an' rispict for meself, I guess. But--a few days here, an' bingo!--they apply for thransfer. Now ye know ivrythin', bhoy--fwhat I am up against, an' fwhy I will not 'can' Yorkey. Ye've a face that begets thrust--do not bethray ut, but thry an' hilp me. Bear wid Yorke as best ye can--divilmint an' all--for my sake, will yeh?"

Not devoid of a certain simple dignity was the grim, rugged face that turned appealingly to the younger man's in the light of the moon.

And Redmond, smiling inscrutably into the deep-set, glittering eyes, answered as simply: "I will, Sergeant!"

He declined an offer. "_Nemoyah_! (No) thanks, I've had enough."

For some unaccountable reason, Slavin smiled also. His huge clamping right hand crushed George's, while the left described an arc heavenwards.

Came a throaty gurgle, a careless swing of the arm, and--

"Be lay loike a warrior takin' his rist, Wid his--

"I misrimimber th' tail-ind av ut," sighed Sergeant Slavin, "'Tis toime we turned in."

In silence they re-entered the detachment. Yorke, minus his moccasins, fur-coat and red-serge, lay stretched out upon his cot sleeping heavily, his flushed, reckless, high-bred face pillowed on one outflung arm.

Above him, silent guardians of his rest, his grotesque mixture of prints gleamed duskily in the lamp-light.

Into Redmond's mind--sunk into a deep oblivion of dreamy, chaotic thought--came again Slavin's words:

"Shtudy thim picthures, bhoy! an', by an' large ye have th' man himsilf"

Soon, too, he slept; and into his fitful slumbers drifted a ridiculously disturbing dream. That of actually witnessing the terrible scene of the long-dead Indian Mutiny hero, Major Hodson, executing with his own hand the three princes of Oude.

_Inshalla_! it was done--there! there! against the cart, amidst the gorgeous setting of Indian sunset and gleaming minaret. "Deen! Deen!

Futteh _Mohammed_!" came a dying scream upon the last shot--the smoking carbine was jerked back to the "recover"--a moment the scarlet-turbaned, scarlet-sashed English officer gazed with ruthless satisfaction at his treacherous victims then, turning sharply, faced him.

And lo! to Redmond it seemed that the stern, intolerant, recklessly-handsome countenance he looked upon bore a striking resemblance to the face of Yorke.

CHAPTER IV

_Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And--"This to me!" he said,--_ MARMION

Early on the morrow it came to pa.s.s that Sergeant Slavin, cooking breakfast for all hands, heard Yorke's voice uplifted in song, as that worthy made his leisurely toilet. He shot a slightly bilious glance at Redmond, who, "Morning Stables" finished, lounged nearby.

"Hear um?" he snorted enviously. "Singin'! singin'!--forever singin'!--eyah! sich nonsince, tu."

But, to George, who possessed a musical ear, the ringing tenor sounded rather airily and sweetly--

"_Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven's Gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs--_"