Chapter III
I
Hector and Superintendent Denton walked over together to headquarters, a group of sunlit buildings in the shadow of the straining Union Jack. A brilliant young sentry paced the path between trim rows of whitewashed stones, an orderly kept guard in the ante-room and the atmosphere breathed the ceremonious and formal efficiency invariably surrounding such places. Somewhere within this group of buildings was the Holy of Holies, the sacred and inviolate sanctum which held the High Priest of this Canadian Order of Knights Templar, the terrible and all-powerful Commissioner of the North-West Mounted Police.
They entered the Presence.
"Sit down, Denton." The Commissioner cordially waved the Superintendent to a seat. "Good afternoon, Sergeant-Major."
Hector saluted. The Commissioner looked at him quizzingly.
"I called you 'Sergeant-Major,' Mr. Adair. As a matter of fact, my recommendation which, as you know, was forwarded to Ottawa after Major Denton had brought your services to my notice in a very laudatory manner, has been approved and your appointment as Inspector is gazetted. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on an unusually well-earned promotion."
He held out his hand. Thus was Hector's lifetime ambition achieved.
Presently the Commissioner told Hector to draw up a chair.
"I haven't had you brought here merely for this, Adair. I'm going to entrust you with an important—a very important—mission and I think it as well for me to give you some details myself."
In a hushed voice, he proceeded to explain.
"You've known that for several months we've been fearing trouble with the Indians and half-breeds; but I doubt if you know just how serious the position really is. Ever since the Government surveyors appeared, Adair, there's a storm been brewing. The half-breeds want their land parceled out in their own way, not the Government way; and they mean to have it. That's the main grievance. They have others. In addition, they see the railway making rapid progress and they know what that means. Once the railway goes through, settlers will follow in tens of thousands and the old order—the order we found when we first came here—will have received its death blow. They don't like this and they mean to prevent it. I think they'd be all right if it wasn't for the agitators. They're in every settlement and camp and they're doing their best to bring about a revolt. Our business is to keep the peace; and I mean to see that it is kept.
"I'm having all camps, settlements and agitators carefully watched. Every movement, every event is known to me. One of the reserves which needs especially close watching is Bear Tooth's, near Broncho. Bear Tooth's all right, I think, and so are most of his chiefs; but his young men are warlike, there's a lot of them and Broncho is temptingly close by. If they kicked over the traces, the results might be terrible. So I must have them watched night and day—but diplomatically. Bear Tooth mustn't be offended. Nothing must be done to stir up suspicion or hatred. This needs a good man. I'm sending you, Adair. Your qualifications are exceptional. You've proved yourself over and over again. And you've made it your business to know the Indians thoroughly. It's a devilish big thing for a new officer, Adair. But you're an old Policeman—and big enough."
Then, while Hector expanded with pleasure inside, he added:
"Inspector Lescheneaux will be working with you but you'll be independent of each other. He knows and likes you, so it will be all serene. It means your posting to 'I,' of course. Major Denton will be sorry to lose you, but it's inevitable. And, as you'll understand, it's wiser to post a newly-commissioned officer to another division. This is one of the most important tasks I could give you, Adair. Your appointment and transfer will appear in tomorrow's orders. Good luck—and, again, my congratulations!"
II
There are moments in life, great moments witnessing the realization of a cherished ambition or embarkation upon some fateful enterprise, when one prefers to be alone. This, to Hector, was one of them. He left the Superintendent at headquarters and, going to his room, tried to grasp to its full extent the meaning of what had just occurred. A wild exultation had hold of him and he was for the time being drunk with success—so drunk that he could not think. He wanted to drag himself out of this mental state and soberly to contemplate the situation.
Gradually his mood became less intense and he was able to con things quietly over, like a child lingeringly, one by one, over a string of new toys.
What did his Commission mean to him?
Firstly, it meant that the goal of all his lifetime and especially of the past ten strenuous, passionate years had been achieved, that his long fight for the leadership which had been his birthright was ended.
There was joy enough in that.
Secondly, he told himself, it meant that the second, more distant and ultimate goal of his life was now within reach if not within sight. The soldier-blood in him had always longed for the opportunity of great service to his country, for advancement and distinction, not from selfish motives, but from the pure, clean motives underlying the highest form of patriotism. 'Give me power, that I may use it for my country's good'; that was the sentiment animating him. The power, though not yet given him, was now close at hand. The long, toilsome pilgrimage had brought him at last to the edges of the dawn.
There was also joy enough in that.
But thirdly—and perhaps, chiefly—it meant—Frances; not that Frances was now his, by any means. But he could stand up now before her father and say: 'You wouldn't listen to me before, because I was not an officer. I am an officer today. What is your answer?'
When Hector left Major Edginton's house, he had suffered a broken-hearted agony far beyond any physical torment he had ever known. Injured pride, self-pity and, above all, outraged love had combined to harry him and he had tasted their torture as only strong natures can taste it in the first tragic shock of disillusionment. This agony had driven him out of Arcady early on the following morning without an attempt to say 'Good-bye' to Frances. It made itself more acute because it forbade him to tell Mrs. Tweedy what had happened, though he knew that she sensed the crash and he was longing to give way to his misery. It persisted in even fiercer form during the last few days at John's, but during that time, in spite of it, he had forced himself to write a note to Frances for secret delivery by Mrs. Tweedy. At Winnipeg, on the return journey West, it laughed in bitter mockery in his ears when he saw his prophetic friends and was compelled to make a jest of the absence of the bride they had expected. And it reached its climax when, writing Mrs. Tweedy for news, he learned that the Edgintons had left Arcady, immediately after his own departure, for an address in New York given her by Frances—the only message the girl had been able to leave.
Gradually, however, the first acute pain passed, leaving a dull, lingering torment which in time became almost a part of himself. With this transition, he recovered something of his old buoyancy and determination. Destiny had made a mock of him but its trickery, after all, might be only temporary. He knew what he would do! He would redouble his efforts, by hard work and untiring study, to win his Commission. And then, when he had his Commission,—well, Major Edginton would relent, if Destiny so decided. And if he did not relent—well, he would still have his old dreams of advancement to follow and would be on the threshold of achievement.
Having made up his mind, he at once set about the task with his usual vigour. The task was not difficult. Long before meeting Frances, he had made great progress. His officers were interested and helped him along in the kindest possible way. Eighteen months after his return from Arcady, six months previous to this day of days, Superintendent Denton had dropped him a hint of what was coming.
And today—today!—
He was happier than he had been since that fateful night now two years past.
He knew that, as far as Frances was concerned, he was not yet on dry land. Nevertheless, he had her address—the lifeline holding them together, without which he felt he would certainly have drowned. It was enough, today, to know that he might at last stand up before Major Edginton to claim Frances. He was determined not to admit any possibility of failure, to leave no room for fears that Frances might have moved again or, worse, forgotten him. She had not written him? That was nothing; the Major might have prevented her. It was sufficient that he had her address and that she had promised to wait till the end.
So then and there he wrote to her, telling her everything and saying: 'Please let your father know and, if there is any hope whatever, just advise me accordingly and I'll write to him....'
The letter finished, stamped, sealed, his thoughts drifted to the work awaiting him near Broncho. He recalled the Commissioner's words: This needs a good man.... One of the most important tasks I could give you....' and, recalling, realized that this was a marvellous opportunity. He felt a return of the exultation which had lately possessed him. The possibilities were endless. Let him but handle this situation successfully, receiving the distinction which would naturally follow and Major Edginton would probably change his mind soon enough!
III
With the spring came War.
In spite of all the efforts of the Commissioner and his followers, the Old Order, as he had prophesied, seeking to stave off the inevitable, broke out in arms against the New.
Lescheneaux, much excited, told the news to Hector.
"Mon Dieu, mon leetle camarade! She 'as com', oui! She 'as com', en fin! 'Ave I not said so all along? An' af-taire all we 'ave don' for dem, les dam' scoun-drelle! De way we 'ave slave', we 'ave toil', we 'ave sweat' an' freeze an' starve'—sacre! Écoutez vous, 'Ect-eur! De 'alf-breed an' de Indian—dey 'ave risen, oui!"
"What details?"
"Dey 'ave risen—risen everywhere! Dey 'ave attack' our fellows an' kill nine and wounded I don' know 'ow many more up dere near Goose River. De Commission-aire 'as march' wit' all 'ands, dey bring in outlyin' detachment' everywhere as can be spared. De Crees, de Assiniboines are up wit' de 'alf-breed, Calgary, Edmonton, all de Nort'-West is alarm'. An' we—we 'ave about t'ree-four 'ondred men, among twenty-t'irty t'ousan' Indian! By Gar, 'Ect-eur, I t'ink we in for 'ot time, oui!"
Rubbing his hands, the little Inspector grinned ecstatically.
"You're right, that's certain," Hector agreed. "But it won't last long. They're sure to send troops from the East. Why not before—eh?"
"Oui! But don' as' me. Mais, restez tranquil! We see plenty fon, all de same. But I'm sorry, ver' sorry—for you, mon ami!"
"Why for me?"
"Eh? Mon Dieu, I 'ave forgot to tell you de mos' important t'ing ov all! I leave you today an' tak' mes enfants along, too. You are to stay 'ere an' watch Bear Tooth. Me? Maybe I get into de beeg war. But you, pauvre petit, you mos' stay 'ere an' eider Bear Tooth rise an' eat up your leetle 'andful—goolp!—in one modful or 'e stay quiet an' you 'ave no fon at all. No alternative, mon ami. Nevaire mind. You will 'old a position alone even more important den before!"
Hector looked at his companion blankly.
"Hold on!" he urged. "You're going away with all your men and I am to remain, watching Bear Tooth, with ten? Is that right?"
"Absolument! Regardez—'ere is de order."
Hector looked at the document.
It was quite true. He was to be left alone to watch Bear Tooth; and the tribes were up through all the North-West!
The hell the agitators had brewed was boiling over everywhere. Bear Tooth was quiet but his braves might rise at any moment. The Commissioner looked to him to sit on the lid of that particular cauldron with his little detachment and see that they did not do so.
He took a deep breath.
Lescheneaux, seeing himself already engaged in hounding the rebels, slipped jubilantly away with his command that night and Hector was left alone.
IV
The uprising, as everybody knew, was the product of the campaign which had been continued throughout the winter, among the ignorant and inflammable half-breeds and Indians.
That winter had been a busy one for Hector. In co-operation with Lescheneaux, he had kept Bear Tooth's reserve under constant observation. Indian and half-breed scouts helped the Police in watching the camps, attending the meetings and patrolling. Hector did his best to allay the mischievous talk. The Indians knew they were being closely observed but they did not know that no man went to or from the reserve or spoke a single word of sedition without Hector's knowledge. Night and day, week after week, in thaw or blinding blizzard or bitter cold snap, Hector and his men were in the saddle—silent, inconspicuous but never-resting guardians of the Queen's peace on the great frontier.
Meanwhile, the shadow of revolt grew darker and darker over the land.
And now—the shadow had become substance. Broncho lay at Bear Tooth's mercy—unless Hector could hold his warriors in check.
It was a terrible position.
Fortunately he had two staunch allies: Bear Tooth himself and Father Duval.
Hector had kept in touch with Father Duval, whom he knew to be using all his tremendous influence to divert disaster. He had also sounded and consulted Bear Tooth. The chief, he felt, was reliable and loyal.
Between them, Hector felt, the situation might just possibly be kept in hand.
For the fortnight following Lescheneaux's departure, he was constantly on his feet and in constant communication with Father Duval and Bear Tooth.
His first move was to consult and advise Father Duval.
They met secretly.
"Whatever we do, Father," said Hector, "we must use tact, logic and persuasion. Threats? Useless!"
Father Duval smiled.
"Eh-h-, but you are a man af-taire my own 'art, Inspecteur. Dese pauvres sauvages—dey are joost children—bébés. Show a beeg, beeg stick—dey be'ave! Vraiment! But show a leetle stick—poof! Dey knock you down! Ef you 'ad all de Police be'ind you—ah! All right—shake de fist! But as you 'ave only ten men—ah! Talk quiet—ver', ver' firm but always no t'reat! Mais, attendez! Dese fellows are no fool. We give dem logic, as you 'ave said an' I bet you all stay quiet."
"My sentiments exactly, Father," Hector agreed. "Now, you are a man of peace; and they know it. There's not an Indian from here to the Arctic Circle that doesn't trust you, Father. Whereas—well, they know the Force is in arms against this revolt and they might think I was just talking to bluff them if I see them first. What I suggest, Father, is this: go to them, get them together, point out how we have helped them and treated them fairly always. Show them the treacherous side of this uprising. Tell them the mistakes the rebels have made. Then go on to point out the power of the Great White Mother—how we've already avenged the Goose River affair—how an army is already on its way to crush the enemy—how the flow of troops will continue, thousands and thousands of Shagalasha, until the war is ended at any cost and the leaders of the rebels hanged. Don't forget the rope, Father. Then—"
"Den—pour fini,—tell' dem 'ow much wiser to stay on reserve, till de ground, sell to de Government an' be true to de Queen. Eh, mon enfant, I know! 'Ow you say? Count on me, count on me! Mes pauvres petits! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!"
"Then that's settled. I will stay away—it will be more diplomatic. Afterwards—well, we'll see how you get along first."
"Bon, bon, bon! I go. Pray for me!"
And Father Duval departed on his great mission.
After forty-eight hours of—for Hector—intense anxiety, Father Duval returned, victorious.
"I saw every-one, Bear Tooth an' all," the priest told Hector. "I talk joost as we agree, you an' me. We are not yet escap' from de wood, vous-comprenez: mais, le bon Dieu, 'e as bless our effort, oui! You go yourself now to Bear Tooth! You see."
"Father," said Hector, "the country owes you a great debt—"
"Could I leave mes enfants to go stray at de word of fools an' demons?"
In the meantime, things were marching steadily to a climax in the field. The number of rebels had increased. The Mounted Police had been driven out of their northerly posts. Troops were moving steadily Westward, from all Canada, to reinforce the little bands of settlers and Police in whose hands the safety of the country rested.
Would they be in time? Heaven alone knew.
In Broncho, Colonel Stern was organizing a column to co-operate with the soldiers when they arrived. Hector longed to be with him, so that he might bear an active part in the operations. But he could not leave the reserve without orders. To leave it at that moment, in any case, would have been madness. The cauldron, despite Bear Tooth's pledge, was still bubbling. The dashing, brilliant role was not for Hector; his was the harder, less attractive part of mounting guard. Fate was cheating him out of the glorious opportunity of a lifetime. But he was too good a soldier to complain.
Suddenly came splendid news—a letter from Colonel Stern, 'through the usual channels,' offering Hector command of the body of scouts then in process of formation for work in the Broncho column.
This was the Colonel's way of showing his long-established affection for and confidence in Hector. The temptation was immense. Hector decided to see Father Duval and abide by his decision. He had been fretting out his soul for action; but without a clear conscience, it was—of course—impossible to leave.
"Father Duval, can you control Bear Tooth without me? Is it safe for me to go to Broncho?"
"Mon enfant," the priest smiled, "you 'ave don' your share. Today, Bear Tooth an' me—we 'old de 'ole tribe in our two fists—so! Go—and de Lord go wit' you!"
There was no doubt of it. Between them, they actually had kept the most dangerous tribe in the North-West in check for good and all.
"If you feel, as I do, that Father Duval is capable of dealing with the situation henceforward," Hector wrote to his chief, "I would recommend that Colonel Stern's request be granted."
This answer placed his fate in jeopardy. But he was honest to the last.
Came, after torturous suspense, the following:
"In view of Father Duval's opinion and yours, you will withdraw to Broncho with your detachment forthwith."
Conscience was satisfied and the Road to Glory laid open! When Hector told the men, they cheered like mad.
"Tak' good care yourself, mon petit ami!" said Father Duval. "An' don' worry about us no more!"
That night they marched to Broncho.
V
Broncho was in a turmoil. Already overcrowded with settlers, cow-punchers, loyal half-breeds and their several families from the surrounding district, it was daily becoming a richer prey for the bloodthirsty rebels. Appalling rumours kept it on the rack. Special trains, loaded to capacity with women, children and faint-hearted men, pulled out for the East and safety in an unending stream. The streets were full of galloping horsemen, raw bands of eleventh-hour recruits and long-faced citizens hastily organizing themselves for defence. Saloons, eating-houses, stores and stables talked War, War, War.
Through this turmoil, hailed as a troop of angels descended from Heaven to the rescue, Hector and his scarlet-coated policemen rode to Colonel Stern's headquarters. The Colonel, wearing a gunner's uniform of incredible age and an expression of the utmost calm, met them at the door.
He was obviously delighted to be back in harness.
"Well done, well done, Adair!" he exclaimed, returning Hector's salute. "You're the best thing I've clapped eyes on since I got here. Just the man I need—chose you myself! Come inside! Glad to see you—at last!"
In the office, the Colonel explained the plan of campaign—a push northwards of three columns, of which the Broncho crowd was one, as soon as the Commander-in-Chief was ready, to converge on So-and-So. The Colonel's lot was to consist of a squadron, under Hector, two battalions of militia from the East—'all the way from the lower Provinces, Adair—there's your united Canada!'—and a detachment of artillery—'Yes, they've given me a pop-gun!' The advance would take place very soon, as speed was essential if the northern settlements and Western Canada were to be saved from a general conflagration. The Colonel was having some difficulty in arming his men, with whom fire-arms had become unnecessary of late years, owing to the protection afforded the country by the Mounted Police; but that difficulty was in the course of solution.
"And I've an ideal Sergeant-Major for you; an old friend."
"An old friend?" Hector was puzzled. "Who—let me see—"
The Colonel's eyes twinkled under their deep thatch of eyebrow.
"Sergeant-Major Whittaker! You couldn't have a better man!"
"Whittaker! Well, I'm—; Jove, that's splendid! Is he here, sir?"
A short time later, these two, who had last met as Sergeant and senior N.C.O., were shaking hands as officer and civilian.
"Yes, sir, I came down right away," said Whittaker, smiling all over his bronzed hatchet face. "Fact is, I heard Colonel Stern was here organizing a column and—well, anyway, I'm like that old warhorse in the Bible, saying 'Ha! Ha!' among the Capt'ins. I smell the battle afar off an' there's no holding me. Once a soldier always a soldier, Mr. Adair!"
Things were looking up! With Sergeant-Major Whittaker and his little troop of constables to stiffen it, Hector could make such a corps out of the splendid raw material at hand as would write a new chapter in the history of frontier cavalry.
It was at this time that Hector was introduced to the machinations of the political press, with which he was to have a close acquaintance later on.
Newspapers from the East came in regularly, full of prophecy, criticism and advice, each more hysterical than the last. Issue after issue, blatantly headlined and editorialed by know-nothing party reporters fifteen hundred miles distant from the scene of action, reached the hands of Hector and his constables, uttering such things as these:
ARE THE MOUNTED POLICE ASLEEP?
IS THE COMMISSIONER AFRAID?
SOME DRIVING POWER NEEDED.
KOW-TOWING TO THE REBELS.
One day he saw his trumpeter tearing one of these papers to shreds, crying:
"Damn them! Damn them!"
"Never mind them, Mason," Hector said. "All servants of the Government have to put up with such attacks. We'll just show we're too big to pay attention to them."
But when he realized that these papers were believed infallible by the militia regiments and half the people of Canada, he found it hard to preserve that equanimity.
In a week of desperate work, Hector produced a body of over a hundred scouts drawn from the world's best sources, of no uniformity but fully supplied and able, with its string of pack-mules and extra horses, to move independently of the main body, go anywhere, do anything and fight anyone on earth.
In ten days' time, they received orders to advance. At the head of the column, cheered frantically by hysterical citizens, they swept out of Broncho.
VI
From the naked woods on the rolling brown ridge beyond the valley came the echo of the last lingering shots of the enemy. In the deserted rifle-pits which pocked the hillside lay many motionless forms, dark, dwarfed by distance. Two or three white-faced corpses sprawled on the open ground in front of the pits. One of them wore a red coat, which, in the afternoon sunshine, stood out startlingly, like a blot of blood, the one bit of colour in the entire picture. Near by was a dead horse, legs in air, repulsively grotesque.
Colonel Stern's column had attacked and completely defeated the rebel right wing that morning in a position several hundred miles beyond Broncho. Covered by a weak rearguard, the enemy were now rapidly retiring.
In the distance, out of range, the transport—heavy farm-wagons, light carts and pack-mules—were clustered. With them were Hector's cavalry.
Colonel Stern stood with his staff close behind the firing-line, studying the enemy's country.
Utterly unflustered, he began to talk rapidly to his senior officers. They were all agreed. The time had come for a vigorous pursuit.
"Boy," said the Colonel to an orderly, "give Mr. Adair my compliments and tell him to come up here at once."
In five minutes, Hector joined his commander.
"Adair," the Colonel said shortly, "it's evident we've shaken 'em badly. A hard, merciless pursuit now may end everything. Are you ready to start?"
"At once, sir."
"And, oh—Adair. I didn't mention it before; but I had a despatch from the C. in C. this morning and it appears—" he whispered a smiling sentence.
"The man himself?"
Hector for once was shaken out of his calm.
"The man himself—the cause, the leader, the keystone of the revolt! Joined 'em three days ago, the General says. Chase 'em night and day; give 'em no rest; harry 'em; smash 'em; capture that bird and you'll be the hero of the whole campaign. It's the chance of a lifetime, Adair; but I'm glad you've got it."
For a moment Hector paused, his eyes far away. He thought of that night in Regina when he had seen in this uprising a marvellous opportunity. But he had never dreamed of it developing such an opportunity as this! For a moment he felt as if everything were already his—Frances—success—the world—
"I'll follow you, Adair."
"All right, sir."
To get back to his men was a matter of a few minutes. Rapidly he gave his orders:
"Trumpeter, the 'Fall In'—look sharp. Quartermaster, follow up with the pack-mules. Sergeant-Major, detail an escort. 'Tion! Number—"
The trumpeter rattled out the call. The men fell in, their horses plunging. The scouts swept off in front. Then, in single file, their scarlet-coated leader at their head, Hector's dashing frontier cavalry circled the camp at full gallop, tore through the ranks of yelling infantry, waved a hand in farewell and thundered down the slope and away.
VII
In a wide and desolate expanse of open country patched with sloughs, Hector's men, after twenty hours of unceasing pursuit, were suddenly and definitely checked. They had lost the trail.
Gaining touch with the enemy soon after the start, they had maintained it all through the night, through the grey hours of the morning and so on till nearly noon. The night's pursuit had been fierce, wild work, like some mad vision of a disordered brain, fierce, wild work at a furious pace, over ridge and hill, round lake and wood, through brawling river, down broad valley and deep ravine and full of fearful, unforgettable sights and sounds: scouts on their knees, like ape-men in the gloom, feeling the ground for telltale tracks left by the rebels; the rattle of sliding stones as the cavalry plunged along the steep face of a gully; distant shouts of the scattered enemy, trying to keep touch; loud shouts, near at hand, of warning—fear—command; strings of horsemen, glimpsed for an instant, gigantic and pitch black against the lighter blackness of sky; the faraway drum of many galloping hoofs, sensed rather than heard; the flash of rifles, darting from rock to rock; the swift glare of light on the face of a rebel scout, firing his last round home; horse and man dashed for a breathless moment in a sudden blaze, like a man and horse of living flame, as the nearest cowboy answered surprising shot with shot; and now and then, cleaving the darkness from some unknown source, the unearthly scream of a wounded animal, expressive of the hate and terror of it all.
Daylight found the pursuit still hanging on, though reduced in numbers and still pressing the rebels hotly, though splashed and drenched from head to heel, parched with thirst, racked with hunger, worn out and running short of ammunition. By that time the battlefield of yesterday and Colonel Stern's column were alike far behind and they were alone on the verge of the great lake district to the north. But Hector drove his men tirelessly forward, with a merciless 'Push on!'—'Push on!'
And now the trail had been utterly lost for over an hour and they were checked, willynilly, for good and all.
With a little party to cover the operation, the scouts were working on a cast, in a wide circle, like questing hounds. Hector had with him some of the best scouts in the North-West and he was among the best of them himself; but they could not find the trail and all hands were near despair.
In this crisis, he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to have old Martin with him. But Martin Brent had been in his grave for years.
He had no-one like him to rely on.
The situation was agonizing to Hector. This was his first great experience as an officer and he knew that not only his own men but every man in the Police would judge his capacity as an officer by his present success or failure. Besides, Frances—his dreams of progress—everything he most desired was dependent on this one issue. He had built up a thousand visions with victory in this trial as their foundation. To fail now—after pushing his men and himself to exhaustion, after hounding the enemy on and on for twenty desperate hours—would mean the end.
Then, above even these things, there was the country. Its eyes were on him. Colonel Stern looked to him. He had it in his power to save a welter of bloodshed, to smash the revolt, to bring its leader to the scaffold—if he could only find the trail.
But the trail was lost.
He remembered, too, the newspapers, in his mind's eye saw headlines like these:
REBELS TOO SMART FOR POLICE.
INSPECTOR ADAIR'S FAILURE.
RESULTANT LOSS OF LIFE.
LET HIM RESIGN.
He heard, too, in imagination, the sneaking, mocking whispers of malice and jealousy condemning him on every side.
He went on searching relentlessly; but in his heart the spectre of defeat had already risen.
Till, all at once, the light came—sent, once more, by Destiny. With Mason, his trumpeter, he had moved off to a flank, on the slope of a hill, covered with small bushes, the crest just above them. Suddenly the bushes on the crest parted and an Indian appeared. Mason threw his carbine to his shoulder.
"Don't shoot!" Hector roared.
He saw that the Indian was a squaw and unarmed.
But it was too late. The boy's jumpy nerves had pulled the trigger.
"Oh,—!"
Hector ripped out an oath that none had heard him use before and ran up the hill.
He found the woman lying in the bushes. The bullet had gone straight through her chest. She was done for.
Hector, seeing that the damage was done, had now only one thought—to question her about the rebels.
He lifted her—she was small and light—kneeling and holding her in his arms. He did not yet recognize her.
Speaking her own tongue, he began.
"Where have you come from?"
She opened her eyes with a great effort and looked at him woodenly. A vague perplexity crept into her haggard, deathly face; a faint smile; then all her perplexity vanished and, smiling almost rapturously, she put out a trembling hand—touched his cheek—whispered—
In a flash, he knew her—in spite of her thinness, suffering, faded beauty. His mind went back through the mists of three—four—five years and more, back to Milk River, Fort Walsh and Sleeping Thunder's teepee—
It was Moon.
He uttered a strange, inarticulate cry—struggled to speak—could not—
She touched his cheek a second time. Agony was in her smile, making it terrible.
"Oh,—they've killed—me," she said.
"Moon!" Hector burst out, "What are you doing here?"
She still smiled—the old sweetness always in her face—through tears of pain that dimmed her beautiful, soft eyes. Every word was an intense effort.
"So—you have—come," she whispered. "I stayed—behind—to meet you. I was—so tired—so tired—and Loud Gun—he beat me. I knew—you were—following us—everybody knew it, for—everybody—knows you. You will—not beat—me. You have always—been kind—to me. I thought, 'I can—go no—further. I will stay—behind—and go to him. And he—will protect me.' So I—stayed. That is why—I am here. I was waiting—till you came—near. I—thought I—would jump out at you—as children—do. I—thought 'How pleased and surprised he—will be.' But, oh—they shot me!"
Hector held her closer. A thin trail of blood trickled pitifully from the corner of her trembling, childish mouth. The sight pierced him. He took her shaking hand.
"Where is Loud Gun?" he asked, his voice like flint.
By this time the trumpeter and some of the men were standing near, a silent group, puzzled, unable to understand what the woman said but able to see that their leader had been deeply stirred. Hector barely realized that they were there.
"Loud Gun?—He is with—the rest of them—the rebels. He is—chief of the band—now. My father—is gone. He rides the ghost-trail. Had he—been—living, his people, my people—they would not—have been—led away—into this—cruel—madness. But—" she repeated, "he rides the ghost-trail. And I—will soon—O, I am happy!—I will soon be with him!"
"You say Loud Gun has been unkind to you?"
Hector's voice was trembling, though he tried hard to control it.
"At first—he loved me. But then—he—tired—of me. But now—all that is over; and I do—not—care."
The words came heavily, painfully, from her lips, like cripples, one by one. The blood from her mouth still trickled down. Hector tried to stop the thickly welling flow from the hole in her chest with his handkerchief but could not.
"Listen, Moon." He steeled himself for the effort. "Tell me—where have they gone?"
She looked at him, striving always to smile. But her eyes were already clouding, her voice and senses failing.
"Will—it—serve you—if I tell?"
He answered swiftly: "It will be the greatest service man or woman ever rendered me, Moon. And it will end this miserable, useless rising."
"So?" she said. "Then—I will tell—you. Why should I not—tell you? Loud Gun—and his—people—have cast me off. Then, why should I—not—tell you—whom I love—ah, yes I love—as much as—ever? They have gone—they have gone—"
He felt her slipping away and made a desperate attempt to hold her back.
"Yes, yes! Where have they gone? Quick, Moon—tell me!"
"They have gone—gone—that way." She pointed with her shaking hand. "They—rode—through—that slough—there—to hide the tracks—and down a little stream—on the other—side. So—for three hours—and then—for—"
"Yes?"
"For the—great lake—in the north. Its name—its name—"
"I know it!" said Hector. "I know it."
She had shown him the trail.
And she was fast nearing another trail—a longer trail—herself. He felt her clutch his hand convulsively.
"Then—I—have served you, after all!" Her voice was very weak but there was great joy in it. "I—could—not have—you for my own self; and you—would not let—me—be your servant then. But the Great—Spirit, He—has—been—so kind to me. He has—let me—aid you—serve you—when you—most needed me—and in the—end. Oh, you of the gentle heart—see how your kindness to the—poor and lowly—brings you—a reward!"
Her eyes rested now with a vague longing on the heedless, bright blue sky, the dazzling sunshine, the long sweep of the empty hills and the slough, a sheet of silver. To renounce all this—and lose him with it! All the agony of all the partings and renunciations that have ever been was in that one wistful glance.
Hector's heart—soft as a woman's, as are the hearts of all really strong men—was breaking and this was more than he could bear. A slow tear coursed down his face. He did not heed it. But she saw it there.
"Tears—for me?" she said wonderingly. Again she smiled, the bravest smile he had ever seen. "Ah, do not weep for—me. I am happy—to—die—for—you—with you. It is—just as I—have always—wished."
A moment more and the fierce grip of Death seized her. She felt it coming, shook convulsively, torment indescribable on her face—
"Moon!" Hector implored.
She opened her eyes—smiled again into his—
"Hold me—tight!" she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms.
The story was ended.
At last he set her down and was instantly back to the business in hand.
He shouted an order at the staring men and cleft the silence with a blast on his whistle that brought the others racing in.
"All right, Sergeant-Major—send the scouts off—this way! Follow up with the rest—follow me!"
Mason, the innocent cause of Moon's death, came running up with the horses, recalling to Hector's mind—Loud Gun.
Then, once more, but for the last time, the astonished trumpeter heard his leader ripping out most fearful oaths.
"I'll settle him! By God, I'll settle him!" he ended.
Savagely spurring his horse, he put himself at the head of the scouts and flashed off on the trail the rebels had taken.
VIII
Broncho was en fête—spreading herself. The uprising was over—every spark of revolt completely quenched. That afternoon, there was to be an official 'welcome home' to the city's heroes.
At the head of the column forming for the march to the platform was Hector and his cavalry—a rejuvenated troop, happy as larks.
But Hector was more serious than the men had ever seen him.
"C.O. got the hump? Just look at him!"
His mind in a turmoil, Hector obeyed the order to march off. The Broncho band, of citizens of all ages, uniform caps their only regalia, burst into semi-harmonious strains and led the way through the crowd.
And the crowd—looked at the bronzed young officer on his noble horse, remembered his record—and worshipped.
Hector heard their Hosannahs thundering to the sky, saw men, women, children, all madly excited, swirling round him, waving innumerable handkerchiefs, flags, hats—and still floated in a world of dream.
They were grouped round the platform now. The Lieutenant-Governor of the Territories and his party appeared; 'God Save The Queen'; a salute; hysterical cheering!
Colonel Stern, a wonderfully handsome figure, with his keen face, hooked nose and long moustaches, came riding up with his staff. Passing Hector, he smiled kindly; then joined the Lieutenant-Governor, who began a speech in his praise.
Bursts of cheering! The Lieutenant-Governor shifted to a new theme. Hector, still in a daze, caught snatches of these remarks.
"The dashing young leader ... officer of the gallant and well-beloved Mounted ... spearhead of the advance ... exposed himself recklessly throughout ... when the time came, swept fiercely in pursuit ... engaged them finally at ... where they were caught between the lake and ... could not escape ... though greatly outnumbered, smashed the rebels utterly ... captured not only the remnant ... but their leader ... head of the whole revolt ... himself ... thus single-handed bringing ... campaign ... swift and glorious conclusion ... yes, Inspector Adair!"
Then a wonderful thing happened. The impatient crowd broke its bonds and instantly filled all the space about the platform. It rushed round Hector. He found himself suddenly walled in by a field of exultant faces and dimly realized that they were cheering him ... cheering him....
Over this heaving mass a voice suddenly threw a roaring word, hailing Hector by the name long given him by the Indians and sometimes by the civilians, in token of the strength and fearlessness which they considered him, the embodiment of himself:
"Manitou-pewabic!" shouted the voice. "Manitou-pewabic!"
Instantly the crowd took the cue and roared the name, sometimes the translation of the name, in one great tumult of sound:
"Manitou-pewabic!"—"Spirit-of-Iron! Spirit-of-Iron!"
For a moment, then, coming out of the clouds, Hector felt, for the first time in his life, the tremendous exultation of wide fame and brilliant success. This crowd, these cheers, were his. That name, that wonderful name, they had given him. In their way, those people represented all Canada. The whole country was applauding him. Destiny had given him greatness. He was no longer struggling to advance. He had advanced!
"Spirit-of-Iron!" thundered the crowd. "Spirit-of-Iron!"
Afterwards, those who had seen him returning their salutes, remarked that he had not once smiled.
If they had known the reason why! ... They did not know.
The fact was that, the first wave of exultation past, the intoxicating drink turned to gall on Hector's lips, became a curse and a mockery.
Just before falling in for parade that afternoon, an orderly had handed him a sheaf of letters, his first mail since leaving Broncho to fight the rebels. Among the letters was one which brought his heart to his mouth. It was his letter to Frances—returned 'dead' after wandering over half America.
On the envelope was stamped 'Address unknown.'
In the hour of success, Fate, after her playful manner, had kicked him off his pedestal and crushed him like a beetle.
The laurels had developed spines that lacerated his hands.
He had lost Frances, utterly lost her.
What did he want with this cheering?
But still the crowd yelled on tumultuously and the great moment lingered—the moment of universal acclamation—mocking him—glorifying him——
Spirit-of-Iron!
IX
Autumn dawned. The epic railway lay completed from sea to sea. Its last spike had been the last nail in the coffin of the Old Order. The dead heroes of the little war, who had made that victory possible, slept peacefully, heedless of the thunder of the vast tide of humanity now bearing down upon the plains for which they died—the tide which was the first wave of the iron-spirited nation to come.