Chapter II

At Winnipeg, straggling its hundred-odd houses, its dozen stores, its sturdy churches and its garish saloons along the muddy trail, the column found the entire population awaiting them. During the winter the Police had made many staunch friends. There were cheery greetings enough and to spare for Hector as he rode along with his comrades through the little crowd. Here was a shout and a wave from Big Jim Hackett, owner of the Hell's Gate saloon, there a smiling blush from pretty Miss Sinclair, one of the local lights, which drew upon him a volley of chaff. Stout, grizzled, jovial and 'unco' canny' Andrew Ferguson, the village baker, received him with a round of Gaelic and a burst of Cree which betrayed his parentage. Johnny Oakdale, the little hardware man with whom Hector had become pleasantly intimate when they erected stoves at the lower fort months before, gave him a shake of the hand which was worth a dozen noisier welcomes.

Now that the hour when he must part with these great-hearted friends was actually upon him, Hector found himself stirred with regret. Recalling happy times, he almost wished that he could remain in the settlement forever or, better still, take the entire population into the North-West with him.

Arriving at Dufferin, they joined in preparing for their tremendous march. The Commissioner and the rest of the Force came into camp, bringing more horses and wagons and an army of agricultural implements—they would be dependent entirely on themselves for food in the country to which they were going. A marvellous atmosphere took possession of the camp. The crews of the Golden Hind, the Santa Maria and the Nonsuch, which carried Drake and Columbus and the first officers of the Hudson's Bay Company into the new and unknown world, must have felt just such an atmosphere as they got ready for sea. La Verandrye, Champlain, La Salle were close kin to the men of the Mounted Police assembling at Dufferin.

Languid June drifted into the sunny splendors of July and the white-helmeted, red-coated little column began its march Westward.

To establish posts through that great wilderness, now tenanted only by a few white settlers, Hudson's Bay traders and other traders who dealt in poison-whiskey with nomadic bands of Indians; and from these posts to enforce over every yard of that immensity the laws of Canada—that was their task. They played the dual role of soldier-pioneers.

But they were soldiers and soldiers only in the routine that governed them in camp and on the march. From dawn to dusk, each day slipped easily by. The advance led them over mile on mile of wind-swept prairie blazing with wild flowers, trilling with the songs of birds and insects, dappled with sun and shadow, sweetly perfumed, a hundred tales of hoof and claw on its broad surface and the cloudless sky above. Sunset, when the tired teams halted, the tents sprang up, the wagons marshalled themselves into line abreast, the scouts and guards came loping in and the smoke of cooking fires arose—sunset, when the glories of the Kingdom of Heaven flamed for a moment in the dusk, was an hour of splendor. Then, after supper, the older officers told them strange stories, they sang choruses to the accompaniment of mouth-organ, concertina or violin, and the happy half-breed drivers danced the Red River jig on a special door they carried in the carts. Coffee followed and a general departure to the tents; more laughing as all hands settled down for the night; and so they came to the last bugle-call of a day punctuated by bugle-calls, 'Lights Out' quivered dolefully through the lines, the orange cones of glowing canvas vanished one by one and the deep silence of night in vast spaces, broken only by the occasional stamping of restless horses, descended on the camp, leaving the sentries to watch the stars alone.

There was plenty of hard work and much discomfort, rising towards the end, for some of them, to real hardship. But they were young and as keen and vigorous as steel blades. They cheerfully stood it all.

Hector preferred duty with the advance-guard or scouts to anything else. There was much more to see and do there, and courage, strength and intense vigilance were essential. Many useful lessons were to be learned in front and, above all, the teacher was the finest scout, the wisest plainsman, the surest horseman in the column, old in Indian fighting, versed in all the legends of the country, knowing the Indians as a mother knows her children and the prairies as a postman knows his beat. Though usually silent and distant, this giant seemed to take a fancy to Hector and unbent to him always. After a time they made a custom of riding together. He was guide and interpreter; a quarter breed; and Martin Brent his name.

Old Martin told Hector everything he knew, and started him fairly off towards being one of the best men in the Force.

As they moved forward, week by week, through sun and storm, intense heat, dead calm, cold rain and blustering wind, the country changed. The wide levels of plain dotted with small bushes became little ridges, sharp bluffs and rounded hills. Then a maze of rivers appeared before them, running in all directions but Martin led them unerringly through. Next came a bolder roll of prairie, with wider valleys and steeper, larger crests, sweeping on again to blend with the confused jumble of foot-hills which fringe the Rocky Mountains. The Commissioner at last turned back Eastward. The Assistant-Commissioner pushed on, Hector's division with him. Indians hovered restlessly on their flanks and came to visit them with tokens of friendship. Not a shot was fired against them. Once they passed through immense herds of buffalo, covering the plains for miles like a restless sea, the rear-guard of a tribe fast disappearing. At last the long-expected mountains rose in the Assistant-Commissioner's path, marking the limits of their journey, a line of blanketed chiefs, a ridge of wintry sea hurling silvery crests against long palisades of angry sunset.

Here they halted and prepared to build their barracks, the great trek ended.

A thousand miles, or little less, had been covered since they left Dufferin. In their trail blossomed flowers of law and order. The wilderness became a Land of Promise as they passed. Today the iron road, laden with the traffic of a continent, gleams where their wagons rolled. Prosperous farms rise everywhere on the expanse which to them was only an Indian hunting-ground. Young towns stand where they pitched their lonely tents. Proud cities blaze and thunder where they built their lonely forts and in peace and ease a People reap the harvest sown by them in peril and privation.

III

Before winter took full command the barracks were built—rough cabins, enclosed in a stockade—and the Flag hoisted. They christened the place Fort Macleod, in honour of their chief.

In the meantime, callers came and left their cards, came from everywhere—white men and Indians—but especially Indians. One of the first visitors was Crowfoot, chief of the Blackfoot Nation, who rode in with his fellow-chiefs of the Bloods and Piegans, a Prince of the Plains surrounded by his Court. They were tall, straight, fearless men, well armed, dressed in buffalo-robes or gay blankets, richly beaded moccasins and leggings, brass rings round their neat black braids, feathers in their hair. Martin began the pow-wow by presenting them to the Assistant-Commissioner. Then they squatted in a semi-circle before him and passed around the pipe of peace.

When the Colonel had explained the why and wherefore of the Force and Martin had interpreted, his long hair thrown back, his eyes blazing, the chiefs stood up in turn and gave thanks. They told of the devastating fire-water, of women carried away, of robes and horses stolen, of pillage and butchery endured at the hands of beastly white men. They showed themselves facing starvation through the wanton destruction of the buffalo. But now, they said, those days were past.

"Before you came, we crept in terror of our lives," said The Gopher. "Today we walk erect and are men."

Most eloquent of all was Crowfoot himself.

"Hear me," he began, "for I speak for every man, woman and child of the Blackfoot Nation." Then, baring his arm and with proud gestures, he went on. "I thank the Great White Mother and the One Above who rules us all because they have sent to us the Shagalasha, the red-coats, to save us from the bad white man and from ourselves. The Shagalasha are our friends. When we see them we lower our rifles and show them the open hand. What you have said is good and what you say shall be the law. I have spoken."

Hector, hearing these words interpreted, remembered how they had marched unchallenged through thousands of Indians, looked at his scarlet coat and, with a strange thrill of pride, understood.

Other visitors came to Fort Macleod in those early days—white men—spies sent by the whiskey-traders, curious American horsemen, and a few settlers, who thanked God, as Crowfoot had done, for sending the Police to deliver them from the drunken Indian and the low-down white. Of the settlers, none was so thankful, none became so popular in the course of a few calls, as Joe Welland, who lived on a homestead of sorts some sixty miles to the south, on St. Mary's River.

A keen-faced, clean-shaven, strong-handed man was Welland, tawny-haired, lean, sinewy as a broncho and as hard. He came in one day from what he called his 'ranch,' riding a fast mustang which he handled as easily as an expert dancer handles his partner on a ball-room floor. First he called on the Assistant-Commissioner, hat in hand, showing him the respect which was his due and telling him that the arrival of the Police was something for which he had prayed ever since he first came West. Thence he went to see 'the boys,' who received him cordially and consented to smoke some excellent cigars which, somehow, even in that wilderness, he could offer them. He revealed a quiet, congenial manner and wits which were as sharp as needles.

His antecedents, such as they were, were satisfactory, representing all his respectable neighbours knew of him, which was not much. From them the boys learned: First, that Welland was well educated; second, had been born in North America, none knew exactly where; third, had lived in the country at least ten years; fourth, was of unimpeachable character; fifth, seemed apparently well off; sixth, was one of the 'livest' men in the Canadian North-West; seventh, like most of his fellows, was a squaw-man.

"You'll like Welland," said the honest traders. "He's dead against the whiskey-men. And he'll surely help to make things lively!"

A short time before Christmas Welland met and halted Hector on the trail outside the fort.

"We're going to have as real a Christmas here as you can get in this God-forsaken country, Hector," he announced. "The officers and men will chip in a day's pay. The store-keepers will help us out and we'll form a citizens' committee. We're going to have a dance and dinner and ask every decent man and woman we can lay our hands on. The Old Man's consented, but it's a secret so far. So mum's the word."

"That's fine, Joe," said Hector—there had grown up quite an intimacy between them. "Who started the idea? First I've heard of it."

"S-s-h!" replied Welland, twinkling. "Not a word, boy. I—I started it myself. You see, I thought this-ud be a lonely Christmas for you young fellows, the first in a strange land, and we'd better help to make it a merry one. A sort of combined affair, it'll be, d'you see—welcome on our part, house-warming on yours."

"Good of you, Joe," Hector asserted.

"Bosh! Another thing—I'm going to suggest you for your committee."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Hector. "Don't do that, Joe."

"Why not?" asked Welland, smiling a little.

"Well—you see—first of all—I—the boys might think I'd put you up to it. They know we're friendly. Second, I don't want to push myself. If they want to elect me, let them do it on their own. Besides, I don't know anything about these things."

Welland set out to crush this youthful modesty.

"Now, look, Hec'. This will be done quiet and nice and proper. There won't be any harming you in the eyes of the boys. I'll just tip Sergeant-Major Whittaker that I want you on the committee because I think you're one of the most suitable men they can elect. He'll put you forward—he thinks as I do—and then you'll get a place. You're a gentleman born. You've seen how parties should be run—yes, you have!—and you're popular. Young? Hang it, boy! What does your age matter? There's not a more manly or popular character in the whole Force. Come, Hec', to oblige me! Well, I don't care whether you like it or not—you're going on this committee!"

With that he rode away.

Hector hated this favouritism but was none the less flattered. Welland, it seemed, had taken a fancy to him at the first meeting—had apparently singled him out from the ruck. And now this remarkable demonstration of the man's esteem had come. Welland was one of the best friends of the Force in the country. To be singled out for his favours was a high compliment. But Hector didn't want to be on the committee!

A few days later, at Sergeant-Major Whittaker's instigation, he found himself elected. Preparations commenced. Welland was mainly responsible for their success.

Welland it was who acted as the link between the Police and the civilians, advised the Assistant-Commissioner on a hundred points and, though he modestly refused a place on the committee himself, did more than any other man to help the thing forward. He won the co-operation of the grouchiest store-keepers; solved the difficulty of obtaining enough flags to decorate the ball-room by having them manufactured at Fort Benton, in Montana, the nearest town; soothed all disunity among the members of the citizens' committee with a quiet word here, a story there; and oiled all the wheels of the preliminaries with a master-hand.

And, when the festivities had actually started, Welland was always at hand. If a guest became unruly, he brought him to his senses without disturbing for one moment the smooth tide of convivial joy. If the fiddlers got drunk before the dance, Welland had them in their places, tuning up, as fresh as daisies, when the hour for music came. To crown it all, he was so self-effacing that he might have been a helpful unseen spirit rather than a man.

As for Hector, the Colonel afterwards congratulated him on the part he had played in the arrangements.

"I owe this to Welland," Hector thought, a sentiment which would have greatly pleased that honest gentleman, as it happened to be true.