Spirit-of-iron (Manitou-pewabic)

by Harwood Steele

Chapter III

I

"Look here, Adair," said the Commissioner, "what lies between you and that fellow Molyneux? Ever since your arrival in the Broncho district, a campaign has been going on against you in the papers and under the surface. The preliminary business over Demon George was a case in point. Then, afterwards, Molyneux slated you unmercifully over the death of that man Humphries. In his papers, I mean. Just now, in Ottawa, he concentrates on you again and every Eastern paper is printing his speeches. I've got a copy of Hansard here with that last outburst of his—the duel between himself and the Prime Minister. During the debate on the estimates, Molyneux grabbed the opportunity to attack the Force—apparently his favourite game. Of course, we were stoutly defended and I don't think the House took Molyneux seriously. But the papers print what he says and, because he's a Westerner, well—the people, in the East at any rate, take it for Gospel. Have you seen the reports?"

"Yes, sir," said Hector. "I've a cousin editing a Toronto paper."

"Then you know what they've been saying. Pretty severe—and talkative, eh?"

"Yes, sir. But you were going to read Hansard."

"Oh, yes. Let's see—'the Honourable member'—ah, here we are: 'And here's another case of inefficiency,'—This is Molyneux speaking—'Not long ago, early in the summer, out there, we had a notorious bad man, who came into my constituency from the United States. The man was encouraged into defiance by being permitted to walk round town a free man, terrorizing the citizens. When finally the Police officer in command took action after repeated protests, he ordered a single constable to carry out the arrest. This young fellow—a brave lad, of good English family—attempted to arrest the man without drawing a weapon, in accordance with instructions expressly given and was, of course, shot dead. None but a fool would have ordered such a thing. That bad man should have been arrested as soon as he crossed the boundary. The arrest should have been made by several men and there should have been no monkey business of not drawing weapons. That young man was just deliberately sacrificed!"

"Now here's a smart one from the Prime Minister, Adair—right off the bat: 'I beg to differ. That young man was a hero. He died doing his duty in accordance with one of the noblest traditions of the North-West Mounted Police—using no unnecessary force and no provocative measures.' Then comes Molyneux again: 'Yes, that's consolation to the bereaved parents! You can't arrest Western outlaws, sir, as you would naughty boys. And please remember, I speak for my constituents. They were up in arms about that case—and are now.' By the way, of course you wrote——"

"Yes, sir," Hector smiled at his chief's look of concern, "I wrote to his father. The old gentleman answered that it was the finest piece of news concerning his son he'd ever had and that he was prouder of him dead than ever, since—these were his words—his son had done his duty like a man and a Hardisty."

"Jove! Fine, fine! Too bad the Prime Minister hadn't those words to fling into Molyneux's teeth. What do you think of the other statement—here: 'I speak for my constituents. They were up in arms about that case—and are now'?"

"To a certain extent that's true, sir. Molyneux has the support of many people; but I think the majority still trust me. I'm certain they would not agree with Molyneux's remarks."

"I believe you're right," responded the Commissioner. "But his power is growing. It's a bad thing to have such publicity given these matters as is given by the Eastern press. Then, out here, there's more underhand work than ever. I've had people trying to get you pushed out of the district—Molyneux's friends, I suppose. You know that?"

"I've suspected it."

"Mind you, he's not attempting to climb to power over us, Adair. We're only a side issue. He's getting ahead by graft, slickness, brains. Like an octopus, he has a lot of tentacles and they're all fastening on something. Mark me, that fellow will be a big man in the West before long—and a dangerous enemy."

"Yes, sir," said Hector.

He knew that the Commissioner was working up to something.

"In view—er—of all this, and Molyneux's attitude towards you especially, Adair, I was wondering if—for your own good, y'know—you'd care to be transferred——"

His purpose stood revealed at last. To save Hector from Molyneux, he was offering to transfer him to another district.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the thought very much. But—well, I doubt if it would do much good, after all, sir; and it would look rather like a victory to our friend—and as if I'd turned my back to the enemy. So, I'd rather stay here, for the present, anyway."

The Commissioner obviously liked Hector's fighting spirit but seemed a little regretful.

"Is that your final decision?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, thank you."

"All right." The Commissioner threw away his cigar and prepared to go. "You may regret it, Adair. However—oh, wait a minute! You've not told me what lies between you and Molyneux. Can't you confide in me?"

Hector had once inclined towards revealing the truth to the Commissioner—to tell him that the hostile M.P. for Broncho was Welland, his purpose inspired by the incidents of fifteen years and more ago. But what was the use? He had scoured the Continent for proofs and could find none. Without proofs, to lay such charges against Molyneux would be idle.

"There's nothing to confide, sir. The man's taken a dislike to me for some reason unknown. Perhaps he's the tool of someone else. Who knows?"

"You've nothing against him?"

"I never met Molyneux till I came to this district, sir."

The Commissioner pondered.

"Queer! But there are strange men in this world. And if you ever change your mind about the transfer——"

"Thank you, sir. I don't think I will. Don't worry about me, sir. I've lots of stout-hearted friends. I'm not afraid."

"Don't forget you can count on me, too. Though, in a case like this, Adair, my hands are tied, very tied——"

"I know, sir. But, so long as I satisfy you, sir, I don't care a tinker's curse——"

"Good man, good man! It will be a hard fight, though! He's raised quite a storm, Adair—a growing storm—growing!"

They went back to the mess together.

II

The Commissioner's promise of support increased Hector's confidence in his ability to deal with his enemy. He had always known, of course, that this support was to be relied on. When it was a matter of defending one of his officers against an unjust assault, the Commissioner's course was plain. Still, it was pleasant to hear, from his chief's own lips, that the powerful weight of headquarters was behind him.

But the real danger lay in Welland's influence with others. He could so stir up the public against Hector, who was unable to make a move to defend himself, that he might at last be forced to resign. Or Welland might, with the assistance of his political colleagues, compel the Government to remove the Superintendent at Broncho. No justification would be offered—he would simply be told that his services were no longer required. Such things had often happened, the victim being invariably damned in the eyes of the public, who knew nothing of the facts. A third possibility—and most dangerous—was that Hector, through no fault of his own, might fail the public in some big crisis and be removed, at Welland's instigation, as inefficient.

But against this, as he had told the Commissioner, he could gather hosts of friends, old stagers who knew him actually for what he was, not to be shaken by every changing wind, strong men, true as steel. Hector, on account of his position, could not, and in any case, would not, ask their aid; but they had watched the summer's developments, and come forward voluntarily to lend their aid.

Welland's attitude regarding the affair of Demon George and the Marquis had been particularly effective in bringing Hector recruits. The Eastern papers might have thought less of the politician's claim to represent Western public opinion had they witnessed the enlistment of, say, Jim Jackson, now among the biggest ranchers of the Territories.

Jim Jackson came in specially from his ranch, a long journey by the C.P.R., to tell Hector just what he thought of Molyneux.

"Represents the people, does he? I wonder! Which d'you thinks likely to have the backing of the West, eh? This fly-by-night Mr. Nobody from God-knows-where, or Superintendent Adair, who came into the country with the early birds and has grown up with it to what he is today?"

"He's very strong, Jim," said Hector, smiling a little.

"Never mind, Hec'. The ranchers will back their Manitou-pewabic to the last ditch."

"Thanks, old man," said Hector.

At the other end of the scale was Tom Williams, Editor of the Broncho Branding-Iron. Tom was eminently respectable, but, for business purposes, assumed the air of a hardened sinner, in order to be in keeping with his paper, which he had founded when 'up against it' several years before. The Branding-Iron was a weekly and relied for sales on an unfathomable fund of scandalous stories, directed against the great and would-be great, plus a marvellous array of rejuvenated bar-room jokes of very doubtful character. The public taste being captured, Tom's paper was regularly sold in every corner of Canada. Its influence was greatly strengthened because it never assailed any man without just cause but went out of its way to 'brand' every crook and grafter in the Dominion. The support of such a champion was not to be sneezed at. It was a drunken roysterer but could use its rapier; and its thrust went home.

So Hector had powerful allies at both ends of the ladder.

Then there were the men—behind him to a man. Let Corporal Savage's room stand for an example. One afternoon, in the worthy Corporal's absence, a group of them got together over the Branding-Iron containing Tom's latest tirade.

There were present in this gathering of mighties the red-headed and hideous York, constable under Cranbrook in the days when they had arrested the gambler Perkins, and likely to remain so till promoted to non-commissioned angel; Mason, Hector's trumpeter ten years before, also a constable today; Dunsmuir, son of a Canadian millionaire, driven to enlist by boredom; and Constable Kellett, once a Colonel in the British Army, with a dazzling breast of ribbons, driven to enlist by necessity.

They were perhaps a little prejudiced in Hector's favour but were none the less representative on that account.

Dunsmuir, with a drawl suggestive of Toronto University, read extracts aloud:

"'This so-called representative of Broncho and district ... a beard that reeks crime and a nose that suggests whiskey.... We have heard a story about him from a dear old bar-keep friend of ours which takes a lot of beating.... I blush to print it, but Justice ... Now this is the man who is heaving bricks at the Big Chief Manitou-pewabic ... the kind who kicks a man when he is down and hits him when his hands are tied ... everybody knows to whom belongs our contemporary with the John the Baptist title, which purports to be an unprejudiced ... everybody knows that the Superintendent cannot speak ... and, in the Humphries affair, all hands in the Police are aware that Humphries followed the best traditions of the Riders of the Plains ... Who is likely to be trusted by the people, the man who has been a national and well-loved figure for twenty years or ... If it came to a showdown. who will stand by the big fellow? Why the ranchers, the Indians, the punchers, the citizens, the ... and behind the other chap? Why, the hoboes, the bums, the politicians ... We are certain a libel action will be started by our distinguished enemy for this; but one can wear off the effects of liquor in jail as well as elsewhere and we would feel quite at home, anyway...'"

"I think that calls for ringing cheers," remarked Kellett, as Dunsmuir laid down the paper.

"Huh, listen to him stick up for 'Spirit-of-Iron'!" sneered York.

The ex-Colonel flushed, squaring his broad shoulders. He had good reason to support the man who had taken him in, though over age, after his ranch had crashed, leaving him destitute.

"York, my lad!" he said gently, "I shall be forced to mould your unpleasant face with my boot if you use that tone again."

"That's right, Uncle!" Mason cut in. "Give him hell! It's coming to him."

"What'll we do to him?" demanded Dunsmuir, preparing to attack York.

"Oh, shur'rup," said York. "That fellow Williams can hand it out, can't he, eh?"

"Sure can. I guess he'll get brought up for libel, all right," said Mason.

"Not him. He's too poor to make it worth while," Dunsmuir asserted.

"Don't chuck your confounded money in our poverty-stricken faces," Kellett adjured. "I like the description of Molyneux. It's dead right."

"Well, no one ever sues for libel unless there's money in it," persisted Dunsmuir. "Yes, he sure has. That bit about kicking a man when he's down and his hands tied is just it. And every time he kicks the Chief he kicks us, too."

"Let him kick," Kellett said. "The Chief's too big to care."

"Ho, is he?" questioned York. "Think he's not got feelin's, like the rest o' us?"

"Have you feelings, insect?"

"Damn right. Keep off 'em. 'Course we can't do nothin', so he goes on. But, by Gor, a touch o' tar an' feathers from the boys...."

"Stow it," said Kellett. "You're the sort that would give him a real handle to work on. Let him talk."

"I guess the Marquis was a better man than you are, York," said Dunsmuir.

"You do, eh? Well, I guess so. Still, I've done my job when it's been given me."

"That's right," said Mason. "We've not forgotten the road-agent at Golden, old man. But you've got to stick by 'Spirit-of-Iron' in this thing; and he'd be the first to jump on any monkey business like tar and feathers."

"Right, youngster," Kellett agreed. "The chief helped make this outfit and his ideas go. Best way we can help is by doing our little job o' work and following in father's footsteps. Eh?"

"You bet." The answer was unanimous. "Nose to croup, this outfit's behind Papa!"—a sentiment but mildly expressing all the men felt in the matter.

There was one other whose views, though stronger than most, rather coincided with the men's. That was Mrs. MacFarlane. In common with every woman in Broncho, she was ready to defend the rip-snorting Superintendent with teeth and claws. Mrs. MacFarlane was prepared to go further than any.

Her admiration for Hector had steadily increased and by this time—in the fall—she did not in the least care who knew it. In fact, she rather enjoyed showing it, especially to MacFarlane, who had gradually arrived at a pitch of fierce but smouldering jealousy. He reminded her of a slumbering furnace and she loved to prod the terrific heat to life. In his outbursts, he was amusing. The possibility that the outbursts might badly scorch the prodder did not seem to occur to her. So she went gaily on.

Meanwhile, she began to think that she had melted the heart of ice, which no woman was ever known to have affected before. She had a physical allurement few men could resist; she knew it very well. She believed that it had made itself felt on the mighty demigod whom admirers called 'Spirit-of-Iron.' Once she had told him, 'Pretty women and handsome men are made for one another.' She was a pretty woman; he a very handsome man. She thought the fact had sunk in by this time—that she could read it in his voice and eyes. Soon, now, she would find out if she were right.

And MacFarlane?—Where did he come in?

But he was a poor, uninteresting creature, anyway. Too bad she'd married him! He couldn't bring the blood to a woman's cheeks, her heart to her mouth. Whereas ...

Mrs. MacFarlane had sympathy for Guinevere.

III

The first blizzard of the winter descended upon Broncho. At midnight, in the haven of his own den, while the rest of the barracks slept, and the Superintendent sat writing a report, the patient Blythe, in the next room, waited to put his chief to bed.

Trailing a desperate bandit from page to written page, Hector did not hear the gentle knock at the front door.

But it roused him at last. He crossed the room into the passage and opened the door—

Opened it on a woman muffled in furs, covered with snow, whose wild eyes stared over her stole and were shadowed by gleaming hair.

"Mrs. MacFarlane!"

Trained as he was to stern self-control, he could not quite hide his surprise.

"Let me come in! Let me come in!" she gasped.

Seeing that something was wrong, he suppressed a desire to ask questions, stood aside and shut the door.

She swayed in the passage.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"Oh, yes—I—think so."

And she tottered forward.

"I—I—you'll just have to help me——"

"I thought so!" he said quickly.

Half shyly, after the manner of men unaccustomed to intimacy with women, he put an arm round her. She clung to him, marvellously appealing in her helplessness.

Intent on her welfare, he brought her to an arm-chair and pulled it up to the big stove, she murmuring little gasps of thanks.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I went—to the dance at the—Quadrille Club—with a—party from town. I told them—I could get across—the parade-ground—alone. But all the lights are out—and you can't see a thing—for the snow. I—got lost. I must—have—wandered round for hours. I'm all tired out—and nearly—frozen! If it hadn't been for your light, I—don't just know—"

Nervously overwrought, she was beginning to cry.

"All right—all right!" he said hastily. "Soon put you right. Let's see your face."

She obeyed, anxiously. What a pretty, appealing little face it was! She wondered how she looked in the role of heroine in 'Out of The Storm.'

"No frost-bite," he remarked to himself. "You must take your hat and coat off, though, till you get over this. Your gloves, too. Absurd little gloves for this country! Must get gauntlets! Mac should have told you."

The intimate 'Mac,' establishing a bond between them, she liked and the implied censure of her absent husband she fancied even more.

"Should he?" she asked, smiling woefully. "Mac doesn't take the care of me he ought."

He felt her hands. Did he—she wondered—feel the thrill which then went through her?

He did not answer the smile.

"They aren't cold," he said thoughtfully.

"They were," she answered.

"Well, it's safe to warm you up, which is a good thing. You won't lose any fingers this time. Come, off with that hat and coat. I've some brandy somewhere."

She stood up and removed her wraps. He assisted her with a grave, courtly grace such as MacFarlane could never show, for the reason that it was not in him.

"Fire now," he exclaimed.

Stoking and poking up the glow, he soon produced a first-class blaze.

"O-o-h!" she sighed rapturously, holding her little white hands to the warmth. She shot him a grateful and admiring glance—each glance meant to kill. "O-o-h, that's lovely."

"I'll get the brandy," he said.

She watched his tall, soldierly figure in its smart mess dress as he delved into a little cupboard. While he searched, she surveyed the room with eager interest. It was terribly bare, to her view, rigidly severe, eloquent of the hard, cold, lonely life the man led. She knew what it lacked—the feminine touch!—to make it a home! She would have filled it with gew-gaws and knick-knacks tied with scented pink ribbon.

One thing she noted, with peculiar satisfaction—there was not one photo of a young or fairly young woman to be seen.

He had found the brandy. Turning, he looked at her a moment. She read admiration in his eyes and suddenly felt that she must look adorably attractive—smiling wistfully in return, so small in the big chair, hair aglow, eyes very soft, white arms drooping, lustrous pink ball-dress spread out like the train of a Queen all round her.

She was the reincarnation of the original Eve, with the voice of the serpent in her ears—the serpent had a voice in Paradise.

So for a moment, neither moved nor spoke. Then he broke the little spell.

"Good stuff, this." He moved to the table and poured out a full-sized whack. "Drink it up."

She obeyed, loving it. He watched her calmly. Gasping a little, and blinking, she presently paused.

"This is really very good," she said—then, for the first time, became more personal. "I don't know what I'd have done without you. But I'm awfully afraid I disturbed you."

"Not at all," he said politely. "I'll finish when you've gone. But don't go till you've quite recovered."

"You're dying to get rid of me!" she pouted.

"Oh, no," he said. "I'm not often honoured so charmingly."

She smiled, with a little bow, and sipped the brandy again.

"I wonder," she said suddenly, "what—people would think if they knew we were alone, here—at this time of night—and——"

She laughed excitedly and looked at him with bright eyes.

"And Mac away?" he finished for her. "Well, of course, if they didn't know the circumstances, they might talk."

"Yes," she agreed. "But no-one need—er—will know. And I wouldn't care if they did," she concluded, with a taking little air of bravado. "Do you think I'm very shocking?"

"Not very," he answered.

She laughed again.

"Do you know—this is the first time I've been in a bachelor's quarters?" she jerked to a new tack, setting down the glass. "I've often been tempted——"

"You've not missed much."

"Er—no." Her look was distinctly disapproving. "It's so bare—so terribly priestly. It lacks something. Oh, I know what it is!"

She had been planning this ever since the idea first struck her.

"And that is?" he asked—falling—or walking—into the trap.

"Surely you know? A woman's hand, Major, eh? Little touch here, little touch there, eh?"

"Perhaps," he answered.

She disregarded his seeming indifference.

"I'd love to straighten it out for you some time—fix it up. Ah—would you let me?"

"I think—Blythe would object."

"Oh, yes—your servant. Nasty thing." Off again, in another direction. "You know, Major, I can't understand why you've never married."

Though he did not move a muscle, she felt instinctively that he shrank into his shell. She did not notice that one hand, resting on the table, was trembling.

"Never met a woman who would have me," he answered evasively.

"Oh, that's nonsense. Why, any woman—any woman would be proud——"

"Thank you," he bowed a little stiffly, though with an amused twinkle. "Feeling better?"

"Much! But I think—a little more brandy."

So they went on talking, she doing the leading, he following lamely. She sipped at the brandy. The conversation became increasingly intimate. Several times she touched him caressingly with her hand. He was restless—anxious, perhaps, for her to go—quivering for the conventions. But she lingered on, now quite at home, and radiating with a physical magnetism.

She was the embodiment of the woman whose indiscriminate favours crossed men's swords in other days.

Bit by bit, she unwrapped her true self from its manifold coverings and bared it to his eyes.

Till then, in spite of the curious intimacy she had built up during many months, he had never seen her as she really was.

The climax came in due time. She put down her glass.

"I s'pose—I really must go—now," she laughed. "I'm—all right now. But—" she yawned, stretched herself luxuriously, exactly like a cat, and smiled at him through drooping lids. "I really—don't want—to go. Why should I go—at all?"

She stood up languidly. From his lounging attitude, he straightened himself, too, and faced her, very stern, both hands at his side and clenched a little.

The situation—of which she had dreamed and which she had schemed for—had arrived. She felt that she had him fast—the great man whose life was Duty—had melted the heart of ice, hitherto invulnerable. Her vanity was on the point of being satisfied. She moved to satisfy it.

"Hector—" she whispered, "I'll—stay as—long as you like!"

And, both hands upon his shoulders, she tilted up her face and, very close, looked into his.

They stood there motionless, in a silence like death.

The strong face did not alter its expression. If any struggle was going on behind it, no sign of it was visible.

Yet her soul was naked before him.

The truth was that he had read her purpose almost from the start.

For a short time, she had deceived him, when she entered his room. But one glance at her face, one touch of her hands, had instantly told him that she was neither cold nor exhausted. The snow on her coat had not been blown upon it by the wind. He suspected that she had rolled on the ground before knocking at his door.

The discovery had shaken him a little. Plunged always in his work, and with the natural modesty that was his strongest characteristic, he had never regarded her as more than a harmless flirt or possessed of any real feeling for him other than sincere friendliness. She had been an amusing little doll, though capable, now and then, of touching something in him which stirred him uneasily. He fully understood how great an influence she might have on other men; but the idea of anything bordering on an intrigue between them had never entered his head.

Then—suddenly—he found her in his room—the room she rightly described as bare, cold, priestly. She had talked to him intimately, of things he had kept locked away for twelve long, dreary years, lighting up the whole place with her dainty beauty, goading his starved, strictly disciplined soul into thoughts that had lain dormant for what seemed ages, feeding fires that he wanted to keep low, offering him all that Life might have given him, but had not given him, all that might have been and was not. For the past half-hour, there had been hot flames in his blood, fierce throbbings in his brain. She had undoubtedly melted the icicle as no woman had ever done since long, long ago.

She had hammered incessantly at his heart. But—this would have astonished her and crushed her had she only known it—the refrain which her hammering had brought into his head was, not her name, but this one, endlessly repeated:

"Frances! Frances! Frances!"

Always, over and over again, maddeningly:

"Frances!"

The sweet purity that he had lost was tearing at him——

Not the evil clinging to him now.

To him this woman's naked soul was what it was—contemptible, dirty, miserably small and mean, without strength, governed only by two things: vanity and passion.

Yet she had stirred him more than she could possibly guess.

Her eyes were beautiful—like Frances' eyes; she was graceful and pretty—like Frances—with a mouth that invited desperately——

Both lived years while she rested her hands on his shoulders and gazed upwards and he stood there, utterly impassive.

Then he placed his hands on hers, gently put them down——

She laughed, thinking this his last struggle.

"The temptation of St. Adair!" she said slowly. "Take me."

He held her hands in a grasp that gave her agony.

"You forget," he said, very quietly and distinctly, "that MacFarlane is my friend—and a brother officer."

This was defeat. For the first time she, too, saw him for what he was—'Spirit-of-Iron.'

Before she quite realized what he was doing, he pushed her gently into the big chair and called:

"Blythe!"

Suppressing a yawn, bringing back the sound, easy atmosphere of everyday life to the room, Blythe appeared.

"Yessir?"

"Mrs. MacFarlane missed her way in the blizzard. I want you to escort her home. Then you can go."

She allowed him to put on her wraps. She was still dazed.

"Good-night," he said pleasantly, extending his hand, "Pleased to have been of service."

His manner gave Blythe no inkling of what had happened.

"Good-night," she murmured, mechanically giving him her hand.

She knew herself, now, just as well as he did. He had shown her plainly enough, yet in the gentlest manner.

A moment later he was alone—agonisingly alone.

IV

Mrs. MacFarlane's white hands had set an avalanche going.

None had been more affected by Mr. Molyneux's propaganda than Mrs. MacFarlane's cook. Molyneux had laid the death of the Marquis at Hector's door. Alice loved the Marquis. She relied implicitly on everything she saw in print. The Prophet blamed Hector; accordingly, she hated him.

On the night when Mrs. MacFarlane visited Hector's quarters, the cook saw her go in and come out. Alice knew that her mistress was at least 'taken' with the Superintendent. She put two and two together and found her chance to hurt her enemy—as she regarded him.

When MacFarlane returned, Alice told him of what she had seen.

The avalanche started.

MacFarlane, desperately jealous, desperately in love, found excuses for his wife, none for Hector. In spite of all the evidence of his senses, he decided that Hector was to blame.

To trust his old comrade, who had never failed him yet—to put his suspicions before him, man to man, and abide by the result: this, the happiest solution, strangely, never occurred to him.

Besides, he wanted to finish him!

But how? Openly? Impossible! Then, secretly—under cover. He must find some means of disgracing Hector, some subtle way of hurting him which would be worse than death.

Hector, while MacFarlane was scheming, had no idea of impending treachery. MacFarlane hid his resentment well. Hector thought he knew nothing.

Then, one day, came enlightenment, through a paragraph published by his old enemy, the Prophet:

'An interesting story anent a prominent gentleman frequently dealt with in these columns has just reached us through an unimpeachable medium. It will come as no surprise to many of our readers, but will enlighten others who do not know the real character of the individual placed in a high position of authority in this district by an unmerciful Providence and an inefficient Department. This individual poses as one whose feet have always walked in the straight way. It appears that the pose is far from genuine. The plain truth is that when he first came to the country, in the early days, he carried on a liaison with a pretty little squaw, the daughter of a chief. This understanding (we use the mildest word) continued for several years until the gentleman—his status entitles him to be thus spoken of—apparently tired of it and dropped the matter. But Nemesis arose. During the suppression of certain disturbances of a decade ago, in which he played a leading part, the lady reappeared, only to die in his arms. One story states that, fearing embarrassment, he shot her himself; another, that he owes his success in the operations to the information she gave him. Be that as it may, the romance (again we omit an uglier word) ended there. So runs the tale—which we know to be true. A man of this type, who looks no higher than an Indian girl and carries on an intrigue of this character, is not fit to hold the position he does. His chief has long protected him; but we look to his colleagues to insist that one who so blots the fair name of their organization is sent to the obscurity whence he came.'

Hector at once saw that this outburst referred to himself. The woman in the case was, of course, Moon. Someone had told Welland, lately back from the East, of her infatuation and death. Welland had recognized the opportunity of wounding him with the most deadly weapon he could employ, putting the worst construction on the story, and giving just enough information to enable the curious to identify the villain of the piece if they took the trouble.

The refined ingenuity of the assault was extraordinary. Hector could not silence the story, because that would be an admission of his concern in it. He could not deny it for the same reason. All he could do was to suffer in silence, while it went the round and his name was connected with it and he was made the victim of every slander men could lay tongue to. That was the terrible part. He could have faced anything physical, something he could fight, without a qualm.

And then would come Moon's degradation. For Moon, though she was 'only an Indian,' he would have battled against any odds, because she had served and loved him. To save her from intolerable libel he would have given his life. He could do nothing.

He wondered if his intimacy with Moon had been preordained so that, in time, it might be in the instrument to strike him down. It seemed so, for Welland could have found no more effective weapon.

One hope remained. The story might not gain ground. If it gained ground, he would be forced to resign.

He searched for the traitor in his mind and suddenly recognized him—MacFarlane. The traitor was his friend—his friend—whose honour he had protected under a temptation which might well have been irresistible.

MacFarlane was the only man who knew of his first relations with Moon; from the men who had witnessed her death, he had learned the rest. MacFarlane had twisted facts into a hideous, lying brand and placed that brand in the hands of his worst enemy.

Hector did not have far to seek for his motive.

The treachery of a trusted friend is the bitterest treachery any man can face.

Hector had to face it.

And he could not even clear himself in his friend's eyes, for that would show up Mrs. MacFarlane in her true colours and break MacFarlane's heart.

He felt himself suddenly deserted, standing up alone under a rain of blows, blows from behind as well as from in front—blows from behind—crushing——

And set his teeth to endure.

V

"Mac," said Hector, "come over to my quarters and smoke a pipe. I want a word with you."

MacFarlane could not well refuse. He followed his chief through the snow.

"Now, Mac"—when they were comfortably seated—"we'll talk a certain matter over, man to man."

MacFarlane, under heavy, frowning brows, searched his face. Hector was pale, with shadows under his eyes, as if he had not slept well for several nights. MacFarlane sensed vaguely the gist of what his chief was going to say.

"All right, Hec'," he said, striving to be thoroughly at home. "What is it?"

"You've seen this?"

Hector pushed over a folded newspaper—the Prophet, containing the story of Moon.

Despite himself, MacFarlane could not quite conceal his uneasiness. After a moment he pushed the paper back.

"Well?" he challenged.

"Do you know to whom that paragraph refers? No? It refers to me. The girl is Moon-on-the-Water, daughter of Sleeping Thunder, of the Assiniboines. You remember her, of course?"

"Perfectly."

"The story in outline is true. The details are false. There never was anything between that woman and me. She was accidentally shot by my trumpeter in the uprising. She told me the way the rebels had taken, and died—I suppose, in my arms. I did owe a great deal to her, because of that information. I never pretended that I did not. You know that, Mac."

MacFarlane stared fiercely at the floor.

"Mac, the Indians, at least of those days, had fine principles. Among other things, they believed in purity—their women took an oath of purity and the penalties for those who broke it were very heavy. Our superior white people have nothing like that oath or law. They don't take a public vow of that kind; they don't suffer as the Indian woman suffered when she overstepped the law. That poor Indian girl, who knew nothing of the refinements of civilization, so called, was as good as gold—far better than many white women."

MacFarlane clenched his fists restlessly. Every word drove into him like a driven nail.

"Mac, that story's a lie!" Hector's hand crashed suddenly to the table. "Never, never, never was there anything between that girl and me. I know I can't prove it. I know that twenty papers have taken up the yarn and if the man who printed it had his way it would be all over Canada, with the names filled in—the gossips have coupled us with it now, as it is. That's the hell of it—I can't fight it—can't prove what I say or speak a word in defence of either of us. But it's a lie! Now, listen, Mac. The only man who knew of my earlier relations with Moon sits in this room at this moment. You gave that story to Molyneux—my worst enemy—and I thought you were a friend of mine."

MacFarlane had never suspected that Hector would guess. But now, when cornered, he made no attempt to deny the charge—though it marked him as a traitor.

"Mac—why did you do it?"

Hector's voice came quietly to him. Then the thought of his fancied wrongs flamed into his brain.

"You know why I did it, damn you—you know! How in God's name can you sit there and ask me 'Why'?"

He pounded the chair with his fists.

"Yes, I do ask you 'Why.' Mac, this thing has tortured me for many nights now. I suspected you and I can't rest till you tell me the truth. And you don't leave this room till you do."

MacFarlane uttered a tremendous growl, rose heavily and stamped furiously 'round the room.

"Christ!" he almost shrieked, wheeling suddenly to glare at Hector, chest heaving, face aflame. "Do I need to tell you? My soul, you've got gall! What happened in this room while I was away?"

It was out now!

He expected to see his companion flinch; but, except for the slightest tightening of the jaw, Hector's face gave no sign. Instead, he rose slowly and walked over until he was face to face with MacFarlane, looking down on him.

"You ask, 'What happened?' I'll tell you. Your wife lost her way returning from the Quadrille Club. Wandered 'round until exhausted. Finally stumbled on my quarters, the only place showing a light. She was nearly frozen. I gave her brandy and warmed her up. Then my servant, Blythe, took her home. If you wish to descend to such evidence"—this was a two-edged shaft, though Hector did not know it, and it seared MacFarlane's soul—"you can ask him if this isn't so. Or ask your wife."

MacFarlane seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

"Surely, Mac, you can trust me. You've known me twenty years and never have you had cause——"

"No, I don't trust you! I can't trust you! Haven't I eyes, ears, senses? I don't believe you! I know what passed in this room. Your excuse is a lie—do you hear?—a lie!"

"Mac, you call me treacherous—in effect, you do—a false friend—the lowest animal on earth. And yet you've no proof. On the other hand, you admit treachery to me. How can you reconcile the two?"

"How can I? Because you've given me cause for treachery, as you call it, by your own treachery. An eye for an eye, my lad! I told Molyneux that story and I think I'd good reason for it. And if it breaks you, well and good. You and your virtuous In'juns! Pah! Moon-on-the-Water better than many white women——"

"Be careful, Mac; be careful!"

Hector's face was paler now than ever, and at mention of Moon's name he seized MacFarlane by the shoulders in an iron grip.

But MacFarlane wrenched himself away and raved on.

"Hell! You're no saint! You're just a man, like the rest of us! The story's true! You can have a taste of what I've put up with, now! And you can do what you please."

"Mac, is that your last word?"

"You're damn right it is!"

"Very well. If this thing finishes me, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I'm not the first man who's had a friend named Judas. Some day, Mac, you'll realize the truth. And then I hope you'll have regret for what you've done and said. Please close the door as you go out."

Two days later MacFarlane and Mrs. MacFarlane were suddenly transferred to Edmonton.

VI

Hector was surprised to receive this letter from MacFarlane:

'MY DEAR ADAIR:

'This is going to be the hardest thing I ever wrote. Two months ago, you remember, you told me some day I'd realize the truth. The day has come. The Commissioner put me right. When he was up here last week, I went to him like a skunk to try and help the Prophet story along; but it didn't work. The Commissioner's too strong a man and too good a friend of yours to listen to gossip. Then he told me that you'd arranged my transfer here and indicated that he had guessed why. You had told him nothing of what had passed between us, he said. He also pointed out to me just how you would have acted had you been the hound I said you were—sending me away on duty and that kind of thing, as is sometimes done in the Services. Take this from me, Hector, I know where I am now and what I've been—a blind fool and a swine. God knows if I can ever save you from the consequences of what I did; but I'm going to do my best. The Commissioner thinks the story will die a natural death. I hope so, if I can't kill it myself. I can't ask your pardon—I don't deserve it. But love is blind—and sometimes crazy. I know I was. Keep a good heart, Hector. You're too good a man to be downed by a story of that kind anyway.

'Yours, &bnsp;&bnsp;&bnsp;&bnsp;&bnsp;&bnsp; Mac.'

So MacFarlane had come to earth at last!