Chapter I

Until comparatively recently, the destinies of nations depended mainly upon roads. A nation might be judged by the state of its roads. Civilization and Progress moved along good roads, bad roads were the symbols of Barbarism. Rome, the Imperial power of the ancient world, the greatest apostle of Civilization and Progress born before the Renaissance, built the best roads ever made.

For the past century the railway has been to nations and Empires what the road once was.

Western Canada, marching under the wing of the Mounted Police, had by this time emerged from barbarism. A decade of strong government had done its work. Homesteads dotted the vastness of the plains, small islands in wide seas of grass. Little towns were rising up like magic at the forks of the long, lone trails. The country was slowly waking, like a young giant, from the sleep of untold centuries, awakening to a vague yet definite conception of its destiny. Faintly visioning its mighty future, it carefully took the measure of itself and looked around for what it lacked to fill its deficiencies. Where one homestead stood it knew there should be a hundred. Where little shack-towns rose, it knew there should be cities. The future held its promise of these things. But until the country's crying need was filled, the future remained a promise—nothing more.

The country's crying need—what was it?

The railway.

And the railway was coming now. From Atlantic to Pacific, one poem with an heroic theme was in the making—the epic of the Transcontinental.

To the East, in this epic, belong the giants of vision, the planners, the intellectuals. The West saw only the men of action, the giants who did the bidding of the fathers of the dream, the surveyors, plate-layers, navvies, engineers. These men of action were organized like an army. Like an army, they had their officers, their N.C.O.s, their rank and file, their hangers-on and camp-followers. The men who supervised—the construction-bosses, skilled engineers, managers of one thing or another—were the officers; the foremen and master-mechanics were the N.C.O.s; the lesser labourers—mostly called Dagoes—who laid the road-bed, dug ditches, carried sleepers, rails and fish-plates—were the rank and file; while the camp-followers and hangers-on—gamblers, whiskey-smugglers, robbers, cut-throats and lost women—were scum clean through.

Though organized like an army—these people—they were actually a crowd. An army is distinguished from a crowd by its discipline. And they had very little discipline. It was necessary, for the good of the great work, that their unruly elements be kept in hand. As far as such men could be, they were kept in hand. And, through their labours—this fact will help them at the Day of Judgment—the great work marched steadily towards completion. Slowly but surely, the thin thread of steel pushed its way through the trackless wastes of rock and burnt-out timber north of the Great Lakes; thrust itself across mile after mile of sunlit plain; climbed step by step over the foothills and into the mountains; clambered along sheer precipices, sprang over dizzy gorges, bored through vast walls of granite; and, tracing always the pathway of the pioneers, pushed forward month by month in the wake of the setting sun.

The crowd was kept in hand—partly by the iron rule of its chiefs but mainly through the unceasing vigilance of the Mounted Police, who soothed their discontent, caught their robbers, suppressed their gamblers, baffled their whiskey-smugglers and forestalled their murderers.

The 'end of track,' by this time, had reached Regina; and Hector was the senior N.C.O. of the Mounted Police on that division.

When Sergeant-Major Whittaker, six months before, had left the Force to take up land in the North, his departure had left a great gap in J Division; but nobody had been surprised when Hector was called upon to fill it.

"He's one of our best N.C.O.s," was the general comment. "Besides, he has the luck of the devil, anyway!"

So Hector was now Sergeant-Major, at twenty-eight, and it was more than probable that before he was thirty he would easily realize his dream of a commission. There was no cloud on his horizon. He was very happy.

For some time after Welland's escape Hector had feared for his prospects. A criminal involved in innumerable crimes had slipped through his fingers; he thought the Big Chiefs would consider this inexcusable. Hector's fall, which to some minds might have exonerated him, seemed to him to add to the disgrace. The result of sheer carelessness—so he considered it—that fall should never have happened to a Mounted Policeman; and he was certain the Big Chiefs would hold the same opinion. But when the Commissioner and Inspector Denton heard the details of his condition when, ragged, gory, white-faced and held up only by his indomitable will, he returned from Welland's, and realized just what he had done, they acted as they thought best. Hector, after all, had unmasked the man—one of the most dangerous in the country—and at least driven him out by his own unaided effort. It was good riddance of bad rubbish; and Welland's escape did him no harm.

That was two years ago now and Hector had almost forgotten the whole affair. Even Welland's dramatic little note, with its vindictive threat, 'I'll get even, if it takes me twenty years' he had contemptuously banished from his mind. And today he was Sergeant-Major of J Division, maintaining the law along one hundred miles of the line of construction.

The job carried very heavy responsibilities, which aged him daily—not physically but mentally. He had, where duty was concerned, the outlook of a man twice his age. He was the connecting-link between officers and men, his task to see that every order and regulation was obeyed. Besides these matters concerning the internal economy of the Force, he had also to deal direct with law-breakers. So he came in touch with all the vice, wretchedness and stark tragedy abounding in the tent-towns and construction camps. He knew all the thieves, 'rollers,' toughs, shell-game experts, whiskey-peddlers and ladies of doubtful reputation by sight and most of them by name. When the scarlet-coated patrols swooped down on crowded caboose or side-tracked box-car at dead of night to catch the drunks in full carouse, he was almost always in the offing. When a gambling-joint was raided, he led the rush. When, in pauses between dances, the dirty men and painted women at the little tables in the reeking dance-halls became suddenly silent to watch a lone man in uniform pass vigilantly among them, the lone man was generally Hector.

In his turn, through all the seething, howling world whose axis was the railway, his was the most familiar figure. They knew him as the kindest and best-hearted of men to those who slipped through ignorance or foolishness, and, to those who slipped from choice, the most merciless; loved him or hated him, according to their lights; went out of their way to meet him or to avoid him; and feared him, one and all, far more than they feared God.

In spite of all his responsibilities and hard work, Hector found opportunities to have a little harmless fun; as witness Mr. Augustus J. Perkins, gambler and whiskey-smuggler, temporarily resident in the mushroom city of Regina.

Hector first spotted Mr. Perkins on the way to Qu'appelle, a few miles down the line, where Sergeant Cranbrook was stationed. His attention was drawn to Mr. Perkins because, firstly, the man's face was unfamiliar, secondly, he was a book-agent. Book-agents were frequently seen along the line and Hector had learned to regard them all with suspicion, as most of them adopted the profession to hide their true identity, which was generally criminal. And Mr. Perkins' appearance was against him. He was a plump, ruddy, cheery soul and might have passed muster but for his eyes, which were shifty and bloodshot; also, his nose was red. His hands were pudgy, too, and covered with cheap rings. He wore a little bow-tie, a wide-awake hat, a vile flowered waistcoat, a Prince Albert, very baggy trousers and a dazzling gold watch hung with many seals. His face was too good to be true and he studiously kept his eyes away from Hector. These things condemned him.

"I'll try him out," thought Hector.

He approached Mr. Perkins, who greeted him with a convincing smile but was still unable to hide his aversion to Mounted Policemen. Hector noted the fact.

"Nice day," he began, sitting down opposite the book-agent. "Augustus J. Perkins, I presume?"

"Yes." Then, doubtfully, "Le's see now, where'd we meet before?"

"It wasn't in jail, was it?" Hector smiled.

"Quit your jokin'," Mr. Perkins returned, shifting uneasily. "Where was it, though?"

"I don't know. I saw your name on your grip, if that's what you mean?"

"Oh, yas. Yas." Followed a pause, Mr. Perkins evidently searching his whirling brain for something to say. "Have a cigar?"

"Thanks. I'll smoke it later, when no-one's around."

The book-agent lighted up.

"How's business?" Hector resumed.

"Pretty good," Mr. Perkins admitted.

"Sold lots of stock?"

"Oh, yas. Yas!"

"I wonder if he's foolin' me?" Perkins was thinking. But Hector was perfectly serious.

"I'm quite fond of reading myself," said Hector. "You've a lot of books there. What have you?"

The book-agent pondered.

"I've got Scott, Thack'r'y, Dickens, an'—Dickens—an'—le's see; the Waverley Novels, Shakespeare, Pickwick Papers—that's a new book, just out, by—by——"

"Scott, isn't it?" Hector suggested.

"Yas, Scott—tha's right," Mr. Perkins hastily affirmed. "Oh, an' lots more."

"Good, I'd like to see one or two. Fetch down the big bag and let's have a look at it."

The agent reached a hand to the rack, laying hold of a small bag.

Hector did not let the action pass.

"The big bag, I said," he reminded the agent pleasantly.

Perkins pretended not to hear.

"The big bag," Hector repeated.

"Eh?" Mr. Perkins jerked suddenly.

"I want to see the big bag."

The agent found his voice.

"Hell, that's my stock," he protested. "My samples are in this."

And he pulled the small bag down.

"All right, my buck," Hector thought. "I understand."

They looked over the books together.

"Well, you've a fine stock," Hector asserted, after a time. "Now, I'll tell you where to find me in Regina. Come up there when you're next in town and I'll buy twenty books from you."

"Say, that's real white of you, Mr. Adair. An' I'll be there first chance."

Though he tried thereafter to pump Mr. Perkins, the book-agent would not be drawn. But he was well satisfied.

"A smuggler and probably a gambler," he thought. "He'll never come within a mile of my quarters, of course. That's a certainty. Never mind. We'll land him."

They parted at Qu'appelle. Cranbrook was waiting for Hector, who pulled him under cover and pointed out Mr. Perkins, instructing him to keep an eye on the gambler.

Together, they prepared a combined plan for the downfall of Mr. Perkins.

Returning to Regina that night, Hector delved into certain records and finally unearthed data concerning a gambler answering closely to the description of the suspect. Moreover, he was nicknamed 'Artful Gussie.'

Hector advised Cranbrook of this discovery and passed word along the whole line setting detachments on their guard.

In one week's time they amassed sufficient evidence to arrest Mr. Perkins, and landed him behind the bars.

III

The Press Association's special train was speeding towards Qu'appelle, its whistle screaming, its noisy little engine pouring out long trails of sparks. From the windows of the cars were thrust serried rows of heads and strings of handkerchiefs. As they neared the little town, one lively young lady, wearing an especially smart hat and a particularly large bustle—her name was Nita Oswald and she represented a leading Eastern paper—gave voice to the sentiments of the company:

"Oh, here's another of these horrible holes! When are we going to meet the real 'Wild West'? I've seen plenty of picturesque scenery and some lovely cut-throats. But I do want to see something truly romantic. Please send us something romantic, O Lord!"

And she rolled her very alluring eyes towards Heaven.

Whereupon, suddenly, the prayer was answered. From the woods fringing either side of the line at some distance, came all at once a startling succession of blood-curdling yells. Everyone became galvanized to attention, with thoughts of Indian attacks and gory massacres. But they had no time to yield to their alarm. The first war-whoop was still echoing through the August woods when out burst two racing lines of horsemen in dazzling scarlet. They dashed across the intervening ground, swung to left or right with thrilling precision and so, at utmost speed, galloped alongside the train.

"Oh, oh!" screamed the young lady with the bustle, "How lovely! A whole army of the Mounted Police!"

The windows of the train grew clamorous, the handkerchiefs fluttered like frantic birds, the engine answered the continued yells of the flying horsemen with shriek on shriek. A trumpeter at the head of the troop stirred the watchers with a glorious ripple of music and the horse at the tail, wildly enthusiastic, put down its head and tore over the ground with terrific bucks but without lagging a yard behind or disturbing its impassive rider by the breadth of a feather. The gleaming scarlet and steel, the brilliant horsemanship, the dash and movement of the whole picture roused the journalists to mad applause.

This was something like the West and no mistake about it!

At Qu'appelle, a halt was made, and journalists and policemen fraternized. A group of admiring press-men offered respectful congratulations to the tall young Sergeant-Major who had argued with the horse. Attracted by the little crowd, a man on the platform of the nearest car came down and joined it. A moment later the journalists were thrust aside.

"Hector!"

And Hector, wheeling, gave joyous answer:

"Hugh!"

After that, of course, there was nothing for it but that Hector should hand over his horse to one of the men and to return to Regina with Hugh. This was easily arranged; and, while the train rattled on to the 'end of track,' Hector and Hugh enjoyed a splendid chat—the first in ten long years.

There was naturally a tremendous lot to tell, but certain facts stood out. Hugh had been a journalist a long time now—Hector knew this already, having watched his career with a good deal of interest—and when the editor of his paper in Toronto looked for a man to send Westward with the Press Association, his choice had fallen upon Hugh. Why had he kept his coming secret? Oh, he wanted to give Hector a real surprise.

"Well, you've done that, all right," Hector declared. "You're the first man from home I've seen since I came West, Hugh!"

Speaking of home inevitably led to a cross-examination covering all the latest doings of Hector's mother—Cousin John—Allen—and the others. Hugh, to satisfy Hector's craving, described everything in detail. Then, suddenly, he was struck with an inspiration:

"But look here, Hec'. You've earned a holiday, God knows. Why not come back with me and see it all for yourself? I can't possibly do it justice, you know. Now, Hec'!"

The suggestion brought a light to Hector's eyes. But presently he shook his head.

"I can't, Hugh," he said. "We're up to the neck just now. I can't be spared. Don't argue. There's no-one to take my place."

"Oh, bosh!" laughed Hugh. "You're not so darned important. Of course they can spare you! You've got swelled head, old boy."

Hector rapped him playfully.

"Yes, haven't I?" he replied. "Never mind—it can't be done. No such word as 'can't' in the Police vocabulary? There is, in this case!"

Hugh thereafter exhausted his arguments. Hector was a Gibraltar.

"Oh, tell us—who's your C.O.?" asked Hugh, at last.

"Superintendent Denton. Why?"

"Never mind," said Hugh, abruptly changing the conversation. And Hector forgot the matter.

But, later on that day he was greeted with the dazzling information that Hugh, while Hector was absent a moment on duty, had seen the Superintendent and the latter had consented to allow Hector six weeks' leave.

"Six weeks' leave, Hec'! Six weeks! Think of it! He didn't say a word against it. Said, in fact, he'd been contemplating sending you, as ten years without leave was quite enough for any man. And when I told him you'd refused to ask for it and I was seeing him without your knowledge, he said it was just like you—that you had a wonderful sense of duty! What more can you want? Isn't that great?"

"Hugh!" said Hector.

He was going home!

News of all kinds runs swiftly through organized formations and within an hour every man at headquarters, including the prisoners in the cells, knew that Hector was going East.

While he was putting the finishing touches to his hurried preparations, the Sergeant in charge of the cells came to him.

"Sergeant-Major, can you spare a moment?"

"Well?"

"You know that gambler that's awaiting trial—the fellow Sergeant Cranbrook arrested at Qu'appelle?"

Hector smiled.

"Oh, yes—Perkins. What about him?"

"He's heard you're going home, S.-M., and he wants to know if you'll go and see him first."

"Eh?"

"Yes, that's right."

Hector considered a moment. What could Perkins want? It was not in him to refuse.

"All right. I'll be over in a little while."

When Hector entered the cell, the gambler greeted him with a cry of joy.

"Here I am, Perkins," he said. "What do you want?"

Perkins looked abashed and his head dropped.

"Come along," said Hector, more kindly. "Speak out, man."

"P'raps I ain't entitled to it, Mr. Adair—but—but—I want to ask a favour—a favour of you."

"Go on," Hector encouraged him.

"The boys have been tellin' me about you, Mr. Adair. An' it appears you come from—from th' same part o' the world as I do."

"Where's that?'

"You're a Blenheim county man, ain't you?"

"Why, yes," replied Hector. "And you——?"

"Me? I'm from Arcady,"—Perkins was grinning with sheer joy—"just in th' next county. You know it?"

"The little village of Arcady?" Hector asked, in an uncompromising tone. "I know it well. I thought you were an American."

Perkins looked sheepish.

"No—ah, that's just a—a business nationality, with me. I'm a Canuck, born in Arcady, Ontario. An' I want—if it ain't asking too much, Mr. Adair, I want you to do me a little favour there."

"What is it?"

"My old mother lives there yet, Sergeant-Major."

Hector felt his sternness melting; but he said nothing.

"I wasn't—wasn't always a—a shell-game expert, Mr. Adair. I ran away from home, though, when I was nineteen—more than twenty years ago—I was wild—couldn't stand the apron-strings. Well, for a while I ran straight—an'—my mother, she forgave me, when she heard I was doin' well—an' for a long time I ust to write to her an'—an' tell her, God help me, what a fine feller I was. Then—well I left the straight an' narrow, Mr. Adair, but I couldn't bear to let my mother know, 'cause it 'ud 'a' broken her heart. So' I just kep' on pertendin' I was doin' awfully well. I wrote her a pack o' lies, Mr. Adair, but if she'd known the truth, I guess it 'ud have killed her.

"So all these years I been foolin' her, Mr. Adair. I ain't wrote to her just lately but that wasn't my fault. An' now—well, I want you to help me out, Mr. Adair."

Perkins had fired the one shaft capable of piercing Hector's otherwise impregnable armour. Before Hector left the cell he had pledged himself to go and see the gambler's mother and give her that message from her prodigal son.

And perhaps—who knew?—it might be the turning-point in Perkins' career.

"God, you're a white man, Mr. Adair," declared the gambler, as they parted, "the first white policeman I've ever met."

"None of that," growled Hector. "And mind you behave while I'm away."

"It's not much to do," he thought, as he walked back to his quarters. "A small thing——"

A small thing, yes; but then he did not know that on it was dependent an epoch in his destiny.