Chapter V

In Hector's view, the biggest man, mentally or spiritually, in Black Elk Territory, was Northcote—by this time one of his closest friends.

With the approach of the long winter night and the slowing down of the wheels of Black Elk activity, Hector saw more of Northcote than ever. The clergyman liked to talk to the Superintendent, whom he ardently admired. Hector liked to talk to the clergyman, because Northcote knew Life as few men know it, was charitable and merciful, friend of the fallen, rarely criticising, never condemning—no pink-tea preacher, shivering at the sight of sin, but a great knight wielding a mighty lance in the heart of the dark fight. So Hector liked him.

From Northcote—though the clergyman did not know it—Hector learned much.

Northcote had several favourite themes. And, reclining in his chair, pipe in mouth, feet on the stove, he would ramble on in his deep, quiet voice, from one theme to another, as the spirit moved him, while Hector sat content to listen.

Men open their hearts to each other in that way.

"Came across a queer case today—" Northcote would begin; he always ruminated on these occasions; never preached—"a boy here who struck it fairly rich this summer; and he wants to buy a claim to work next year—a big claim, that will make his pile for life. But his mother, in Nova Scotia, is dying. Her only chance is to get to Florida or some mild climate. To send her there will cost the boy most of his summer's takings. And that means—no claim next year. He's got to choose between his claim and his mother—a nasty situation for an ambitious lad—a nasty situation.

"Well, I converted him to the right way of thinking. Gave him a little sermon on Sacrifice, gilding the pill. This boy is the type which hates anything churchy. So I left out the biggest sacrifice of all. But I told him about Nelson, going back to sea, maimed and dog-tired of it as he was, to blockade Cadiz in his uncomfortable little ships and, eventually, to win Trafalgar. I tried to show him how there's not a really successful business man who hasn't had to make great sacrifices to achieve success. He was interested in learning what our early explorers endured to open up the country. In the end, he realized, I think, that all big things, everything worth while, is won by sacrifice. 'And usually,' I said, 'there comes a time, at least once in every man's life, when he must make one big concrete sacrifice. Sydney made it,' I said, 'when he gave that cup of water to the dying soldier. He wanted that water so badly himself. But he gave it up. Once in every man's life,' I said, 'the time of his great sacrifice comes. Your time has come to you now.'"

"And the boy—?" asked Hector.

"Is sending off the money by tomorrow's mail."

The words stuck in Hector's memory: 'Everything worth while is won by sacrifice.' 'Once in every man's life, the time of his great sacrifice comes.'

Of one thing he was certain: everything he had achieved, thus far, had been won by grim, fierce sacrifice—the sacrifice of self to state. But had the time of his great sacrifice come—or was it still upon the way?

He could not answer that question—yet.

In the crisis rapidly approaching, Hector, on whom so much depended, was conscious of great moral support.

First, he saw that the level-headed old-timers were with him. They were not numerous and their influence was small. But individually each man of them was worth any two of the clamourous adventurers among whom discontent was flourishing.

Then there was the great moral support of the Commissioner. In those anxious days when the temper of the crowd was sweeping towards its climax, he often recalled the Commissioner's encouraging farewell on his transference to the gold area: 'It's the last bit of true pioneering this country will see, Adair.... It will be a big job—one of the biggest we've ever done, ... but it will be a splendid thing in the way of a crowning achievement to all you've done already. Make it a credit to yourself and Canada.' These words were to him a tremendous driving force, a great source of inspiration. Remembering them, he could feel that, though thousands of miles lay between him and headquarters, though Black Elk Territory was cut off from the rest of Canada, there was still at headquarters a keen, strong personality, watching his every move intently, pouring bright rays of faith and power and confidence in his direction.

Greater than all this, however, was the moral support lent him by the people of Canada—the real Canada, beyond the mountains. He knew that its weight was behind him. With each mail he received letters and papers telling him that this was so. Politicians—Welland's political tools and henchmen—might be against him. But the people, the great, long-suffering, oft-deluded and victimised people, whose hearts could not betray them—from coast to coast they knew that in Superintendent Adair they had a man. They recognised his strength and integrity, and they trusted him to see that the dignity of Canada was maintained, the law of Canada enforced, in Black Elk Territory. With such support, Hector felt that he would gladly stand against the world.

One item in particular, clipped by Hugh from a powerful Eastern paper, voiced the general feeling well. Hector had read it, wavering between amazement and humility. It was high-flown nonsense, of course; but, with the storm fast closing upon him, he found much comfort in the memory of its sentiment.

'In Superintendent Adair'—it ran—'the Canadian people have a worthy representative. He is a fighter, born and bred, son of a veteran of the Peninsula and Waterloo. So he is a living link with the Empire's great traditions, with the blood of British heroes in his veins. Adair was brought up for an officer; and to those who know him he is the personification of the best type of British officer, whose soul is in his corps, who thinks only of the steep and narrow path of Duty. But he is more than that. Fate killed his prospects of an early Commission. Nevertheless, being determined to serve, he joined the original North-West Mounted Police and fought his way up through ten strenuous years to commissioned rank. And he has continued to advance ever since. Today he is looked upon in the West as the embodiment, in one individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted Police. And the comparison is apt, for we find in Adair all those high qualities of devotion, ability, firmness, strength and determination which we have learned to expect of the Mounted Police. Some even speak of him as the embodiment of Western Canada. And this too, is apt, for he has grown up with the country, kept up with and done much to aid its advance. And the qualities we attribute to Western Canada, once more, are Adair's. Out there, they call him by the name the Indians gave him—Manitou-pewabic—a tribute to his personality, for the phrase means 'Spirit-of-Iron.' Surely this is the spirit which has made not only the man, but the Force to which he belongs and the country which is its environment—Spirit-of-Iron!

'This is the man today responsible for maintaining the Queen's authority in Black Elk. He has a desperate job on hand. We have heard of the unrest sweeping the Territory from end to end—unrest which may end in serious trouble. Cut off from the rest of Canada and with only a handful of men, Adair is sitting on a powder-barrel. That the disgruntled cut-throats returning from the country are so loud in their abuse of the Superintendent, however, is the greatest possible tribute. Adair has handled many such in his time and none has ever beaten him.... Whatever may yet happen in Black Elk, Adair may rest confident that Canada looks to him. And, on their part, the Canadian people may rest confident that the country's honour is absolutely safe in the care of this modern Lion of the North.'

'The personification of the British officer ... and of the Mounted Police ... and of Western Canada ... this modern Lion of the North'! Rubbish! Nonsense! But there was more truth in this article than Hector would recognize. At any rate, with the words before him, he was resolved humbly to do his best to serve these people, resolved firmly to see that, while life remained to him, whatever lay ahead, he would not fail them.

III

The exodus of miners from the creeks to the towns was now reaching alarming proportions. It was known to all men that the unrest and discontent was risen almost to high-water mark. No violence had been preached. The law-abiding element, from the Lieutenant-Governor down, had no idea that there was organisation in it all and still less that the real purpose of those secretly behind the movement was swift—perhaps bloody—revolution. But they sensed a menace vaguely—like horses in a field, restlessly switching tails and ears when a tempest is in the air.

From the Lieutenant-Governor down, they placed their confidence in one man—Spirit-of-Iron. The Lieutenant-Governor, among many others, had, in fact, told him so.

"They're going to spring something, Adair," he had said. "Nothing extreme. But they're going to ask for my resignation. They don't trust me. But you can handle them. Adair, I'm afraid it will be up to you."

Then, with stunning suddenness, came the news—terrible news to the law-abiding element, glorious news to the rest—that Spirit-of-Iron was ill, perhaps upon his death-bed! The Lieutenant-Governor felt that the solid rock on which he stood had melted away.

Blythe, stammering, white-faced, brought the news to Dr. Quick, who hurried over. All the twinkle went out of the doctor's eyes when he saw Hector.

"He would go round the infectious wards with me!" the doctor groaned, cursing himself. "It's typhus!"

It was easy to isolate the patient. But to keep the news from the lawless crowd was impossible. Within twenty-four hours the whole Territory knew that the one man the malcontents really feared was hors de combat.

There was a waitress in Discovery, known to every soul in town as Seattle Sue. Her face was painted, her hair dyed, her language unfit for drawing-rooms, but she had that rare physical phenomenon, a heart of pure gold. In the early days of the rush, when the temporary hospitals were full, this girl had volunteered to nurse in her spare time—no small sacrifice, since her duties as a waitress occupied twelve hours daily. Today, Seattle Sue was the best nurse in Discovery.

"We'll get Seattle Sue!" said Dr. Quick. "We must save him!"

Here it was, too, that Nita Oswald showed the mettle of her pastures. Appreciating what it all meant, she was at Hector's door, offering her services, before the doctor had finished his preliminary examination.

With Blythe and the doctor, the two women made a powerful quadruple alliance. But the stake was tremendous. It would tax them all to the utmost to pull Hector through.

Outside, day after day, the crowd clamoured for bulletins. The men of the Force threatened mutiny if they, at least, were not kept informed. But Lancaster would allow no bulletins. It was better that the malcontents should not know that the great chief was dying.

The delirium, the worst feature of the case, came on in a few days. At times the Superintendent was quite calm, whispering, muttering, sighing, smiling; then they guessed, from phrases here and there, that he thought himself a boy again or at home. At others he talked violently, shouted, gave orders, laughed; then they knew that he was living through his daily life in the Force, as he had lived it twenty years, or fighting over many of his desperate battles. At other times—most frequent—he became a raving lunatic, at grips with some awful menace, struggling against terrific odds, crying bitterly over his physical helplessness, making desperate efforts to get up and rush outside. They did not know that at these times he was dealing with the local crisis.

In sane moments, as he insisted, they kept him informed of the situation.

To Hector, his illness was a mad jumble of mental pictures, sometimes awful, sometimes pleasant; interspersed with lapses of clear sanity, when the agony of his position reached its height. And it went like this:

He saw himself a small, brown-headed boy, on the lakes and in the woods of his old Ontario home. He saw himself fighting his first fight in the cause of chivalry, for Nora; and suddenly his opponent became Welland, whom he fought furiously, though why he could not say. Then Sergeant Pierce, long and tanned and solemn, came and stood before him, as vividly as if he were alive and in the room. But they were not in the room. They were in the stable-yard, at home. The Sergeant was giving him advice—the old slogan: 'Fight, little master, till the last shot's fired!'

'Till the last shot's fired!' Yes, he must fight till ... but against what? And why? Suddenly he remembered and, remembering, wept, cursing his great weakness and the Fate that held him helpless at the crisis of his life.

Then his father came to talk to him—out of the air. He saw the fine old gentleman in the library at Silvercrest with a small boy at his knee. He was telling stories—stories of days long past, of Adairs who had been mighty fighters, nobly serving King and Country, each in his time. As he talked, he took the small boy up to the coat-of-arms on the mantelpiece and made him touch it and the motto beneath:

'Strong. Steadfast.'—'Strong. Steadfast.'

He heard his father's voice: 'The Adair motto for centuries, Hector. An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.'

'An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.' And surely strong and steadfast now—now—when the crisis was upon him. 'Strong. Steadfast.' And here he was, helpless in bed, while the trumpets sounded for battle and he was not there!

Sometimes his mother came—sweet-faced, white-haired—smiling—touching his face with gentle fingers. He took her in his arms and kissed her. As their lips touched, she became suddenly young and beautiful—became, not herself, in the days of her youth—but Frances. He was in Arcady with Frances. He heard himself making his humble confession—thrilled to her reply—gave a glad, wild cry of joy and swung her off her feet, kissing her madly. A hand came out then, from nowhere, tearing her away—her father's hand. No, not her father's—Welland's. Why Welland's? Why? She was gone—his arms were empty. And he knew himself back in Discovery, weeping for her whom he had lost fifteen dreary years ago.

Nita Oswald and Seattle Sue heard that name, 'Frances! Frances!' many, many times. Afterwards, while they wondered what it meant, they swore never to betray the secret the Big Chief had unwittingly revealed.

Sometimes he fancied himself making his first arrest—the arrest of Red-hot Dan. He saw the whiskey-trader at his door—but the face was Welland's. Welland came out, shot at him, missed. Hector ran to his horse—galloped away—with Welland after him. His enemy required no horse but pursued on foot, travelling like the wind. Hector rode at a furious pace, over hill and dale, for hundreds—thousands—of miles, until it seemed he had been riding months and years—but still Welland followed him, tirelessly. Then he found himself on the ground, half-stunned, his horse beside him, Welland bending over him, pointing a rifle, grinning hideously. And Moon came out of thin air to thrust herself before the murderer. Hector struggled to his feet and called her. She stretched out her arms. He stepped to meet her—and found—Mrs. MacFarlane. For some unfathomable reason, he hated her. Thrusting her aside, he fronted Welland once more. And yet it was not Welland—but Whitewash Bill. He advanced, without a weapon, to meet him—advanced—and the outlaw became a trumpeter, sounding the Reveille.

Gone, instantly, were all Hector's hates and fears. Enwrapt, he heard the clear call soaring to the stars—soar and die, quivering, to merge into the 'Fall in.' Before the call finished, the trumpeter had vanished. But the magic notes went on and drifted into other calls, till he had heard them all, the calls that were the very voice of the Service he loved. Then came wonderful sights—long dear to him—the far-crying trumpet playing perpetual accompaniment. He saw the old Force riding westward—westward—on the first march to the Rockies; saw the sentry at Broncho, smart as a Russian prince in fur coat, cap, gauntlets, burnished bandolier; saw his old division drilling—glorious 'J'—a mounted parade—saw the long scarlet line circle and wheel, heard the tremendous thunder of innumerable hoofs; and still the trumpet sounded. The thunder of hoofs swelled to roars of applause. The packed hall at Broncho rose before him and the Marquis, appearing from the dead, bowed and began to sing, over and over again, the chorus of a song about himself, sung by the men of the Force everywhere for their love of, and pride in, him:

Hi, you bad young Nitchie, there is someone goin' to git ye;
Hi, you bad old outlaw!—An' he's never known to fail.
He's the soul of Law and Order, so you'd better cross the border,
When Manitou-pewabic's on the trail!

His heart went out passionately towards these men. Suddenly, there was a change. Darkness came over the hall. The trumpet, which, somehow, had all the while been sounding, changed its tune to some ominous, terrible call—the 'Last Post'—symbolical of the end—and of Death—the funeral call! A Union Jack at the end of the room, growing suddenly to gigantic proportions, was torn to shreds. Lightning and thunder stormed around it. The trumpet call died, shuddering. There came a noise like a mighty whirlwind and through the shreds a two-headed monster thrust itself—its faces the faces of Welland and Molyneux—one and yet not the same. Hector awoke, in an agony.

Then, in moments of lucid thinking, he realised his weakness to the full and saw the situation in all its horror. He saw the great crisis, not definitely, but as a vague, impenetrable menace, coming upon him—Welland, somehow, mixed up in it—and could do nothing to divert it. Lancaster had told him, at one time, that the miners, seeking to take advantage of his illness, were planning a great meeting at which they proposed to present their demands. Knowing this, he strove to overcome his weakness, strove piteously and failed. No other officer in Black Elk could deal with the approaching menace. He felt that; but could not fathom it, while he felt it. Again, since his illness, a terrific blizzard had come up—one of the worst ever known. The telegraph lines were down, Hopeful Pass was blocked and all communication with the outside world was cut off. Antoine had not returned. Even he could not return in the blizzard. Suppose he did not return before the meeting—what then? What then? Again and again, Hector asked for Antoine and received from Lancaster the hopeless answer, 'He has not come back.' This drove him, time without number, to try to reach the window, to see if Antoine had returned or the blizzard moderated and, that effort thwarted, kept him tossing in despair upon his bed.

In his agony, he saw a crash, himself utterly disgraced, all his twenty-odd years of service gone for nothing, the trust of his men and of his country turned into a mockery. This was the end of his dreams.

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.

He felt like that other of the Bible, helpless in his cot, while Fate shrieked in his ear: 'The Philistines are upon thee, Samson!'

The spark of his great courage, which had won for him his tribal name, 'Spirit-of-Iron,' struggled fiercely in those terrible hours—struggled, but flickered and burned low——

"I'm afraid we're going to lose him," said Dr. Quick, blinking behind his big round glasses.

Outside, consternation held the law-abiding element.

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.

Through Blythe, Hector eventually turned the corner. He awoke one night to find himself suddenly calm, self-possessed and comfortable, though as weak as ever. At first, having no idea of what had happened to him, he stared childishly 'round the room, struggling for light. Then gradually he made out a man, wrapped in a blanket and lying at the foot of the bed.

"Who's that?" he asked. "Who's that?"

He thought he spoke loudly. Actually, his voice was little better than a whisper.

But the man in the blanket sat up, discovering the wan, intensely woe-begone face of Blythe.

"Did you call, sir?"

"Who's that? Is that——"

Try as he would, he could not remember the name of his own servant!

"Blythe, sir."

"Oh, yes, Blythe. Why aren't you in bed, Blythe?"

"Bed, sir? Why—why, sir—the fact is"—a suspicious huskiness crept into Blythe's voice and his dismal face quivered—"they said as you was dyin', sir——"

"Dying?"

"Yes, sir. The doctor gave you up tonight, sir. An' Miss Oswald—an' that Seattle Sue—they was dog-tired. So—I wanted to be near, sir—when you—pegged out—an' I told 'em to take a rest, an'—an'——"

Here words failed the faithful and tender-hearted Blythe and he began to blubber miserably.

"Why, Blythe! You idiot—you fool, I'm all right! Stop it at once—and turn up the lamp."

Hector was actually laughing at Blythe, with a touch of his old humour. The sight of that doleful face, combined with the assertion that he was dying, had brought back the Big Chief from the edge of the Great Divide.

Blythe, delighted, jumped up, turned up the lamp and hastened out, returning in a moment with Dr. Quick.

"What's this? What's this?" said the doctor, twinkling. "Blythe told me to come quick, because you're coming 'round. I'm Quick, Major, at all times, but never quicker than I've been now."

The familiar pun brought another smile to the wasted face.

"Thank God," said the doctor, solemnly, after investigation, "you'll do."

Then he gave Hector a sleeping draught.

When Hector awoke again, it was to find Lancaster at his bedside. Never had he seen a man in a state of greater thankfulness. And behind him were the doctor, Nita and Seattle Sue.

"We've decided," said Lancaster, "that it will be best for Discovery City generally to remain ignorant of your recovery—for the present. Meanwhile, Major, you must keep quiet and get well."

"I agree as to the first remark and also as to getting well. But I can't keep quiet," said Hector.

"You must," the doctor insisted.

"I can't," Hector asserted. "If you want me to get well quickly, you'll relieve my mind. Mr. Lancaster, I must see you alone—now."

The Lieutenant-Governor reluctantly signed to the others to leave the room.

"What time is it?" asked Hector.

"Three o'clock in the afternoon."

"And the date?"

Lancaster told him.

"How long have I been ill?"

"Twelve days."

"Good God! Twelve days! My God, what time I've lost!"

"There's a chance for you to play your part yet. The blizzard has postponed the big meeting for a week. The miners from the outlying camps couldn't travel."

"Thank God for that! I've a week in which to recover—and prepare. We must keep the change secret, as you said just now. Surprise is the first element of success."

"It is. No-one will know you've turned the corner."

"Has Antoine returned?"

The Lieutenant-Governor's face grew serious.

"No. He must have been held up. I doubt, now, if he can get here in time."

"He must!" Hector struggled to sit up in bed. "So much depends on it. He must get through. He cannot fail us, surely——"

The Lieutenant-Governor put out a hand.

"Don't excite yourself, Adair. Take it quietly, man; take it quietly."

The Superintendent fell back exhausted.

"Has the blizzard died down?"

"Yes. There's still a chance."

"Well, we must get ready."

"But you're really not fit."

"Nonsense. You told me once you were looking to me."

"God knows that's true—but——"

"Well, I'm better now."

Lancaster stared at the emaciated face, set in its iron-hard lines, and gained a deeper sense of the man's indomitable will.

"You must rest now. Promise me," he said.

"On one condition: that you send Forshaw to me tonight."

"You're really not fit——"

"My God, Lancaster," Hector groaned in an agony; "how can I rest with this thing before me? You must do as I ask."

The Lieutenant-Governor silently pressed the sick man's hand, trying to express in that simple action all he felt.

"I'll send him, Major," he said.

When Lancaster left him, Hector lay gasping. The effort of the interview, short as it had been, had completely played him out. The realization wounded him bitterly. The man whose physical strength was proverbial was, he had discovered, at this crisis, as incapable of action as a baby. He revolted madly against it, but the fact remained. As with his body, so with his brain. Fiercely as he tried, now, to form some plan, he found himself utterly unable to do it. His penetration, his self-control and powers of concentration were all gone. He could not get Antoine out of his mind. The man's absence tortured him, shut out everything else. Through the coming days, this was to dominate his thoughts, jeering, like a fiend, at his helplessness.

Exhaustion brought him rest at last.

Blythe awakened him some hours later, with a collation prepared from eggs. Hector took the glass, astonished. Eggs were as rare as women in Black Elk.

"You bin havin' 'em ever since you got sick, sir," said Blythe proudly.

"I have, eh? A dollar apiece! This will ruin me financially, I see that."

"No 't'won't, sir," exclaimed Blythe quickly.

He watched his chief drink the mixture with intense satisfaction.

"How's that?"

"Well, sir—" Blythe became hesitant. "Fact is—Sergeant Savage, he said he'd break my neck if I told you—the boys passed 'round the hat, sir—seein' you were ill, it was all they could do——"

"You mean—" said Hector slowly, "that the men bought these eggs for me, out of their pay?"

"Yessir," said Blythe, now shamefaced, feeling himself a traitor. "You've had six or seven dozen, sir."

Hector put down the glass. Tears welled up in his eyes. Blythe looked desperate.

"I'm not ashamed of them, Blythe," said Hector thickly. "God bless the boys—God bless 'em."

Finishing the drink, he felt better. And, somehow, Blythe's confession had helped him wonderfully. The collective strength of the men seemed to pass into him.

"What's the time, Blythe?"

"'Bout seven, sir."

"Right. Finish your job and clear out. Inspector Forshaw will be here soon."

With Blythe's departure, Hector gathered himself together for the great effort facing him. His brain was working more freely, but his physical weakness filled him with panic.

"God, but this illness must have pulled me down," he thought, and with the thought resolved to see if it was so.

Against all orders, he got out of bed and put his slippers on. The effort was stupendous. The room swam before his eyes and he thought himself about to faint. But he set his teeth, calling all his tremendous will-power to his aid, feeling that inestimable things depended on his success or failure now. Then, clutching at the bed, the chair, the table, for support, he made a tragic and heart-breaking pilgrimage on his trembling legs across the narrow space to the shaving mirror by the lamp. Sweat streaming down his face, his heart pounding furiously, he looked into the mirror—received a stunning shock——

His face had shrunk to livid whiteness and was as thin as a knife. Two black hollows showed 'round his eyes, two in his wasted cheeks. His bloodless lips were set tight and his hair—almost in a night—had become streaked with grey.

That grey hair was the price of the mental torment he had endured. That face was the face of the man on whom depended everything in Black Elk, that raw skeleton actually all that stood between Lancaster and his enemies. Then God help Lancaster!

Exhausted, he turned back to bed. How he reached it he never knew.

Presently came Forshaw's knock.

He braced himself to fight his great fight.

"Come in!"

A moment later he found himself haltingly dictating orders to the little Adjutant.