Chapter VI

Old problems were disappearing now in the North-West Territories, new problems cropping up, old crimes and criminals dying away, new crimes and criminals upon the increase. During the two years which had passed since Hector first met Moon, he had been constantly dealing with these matters, old and new, under desperate conditions. Sheer bull-dog grinding in the face of gigantic difficulties; days and weeks of ceaseless exposure to the cruel cold of mid-winter, the fierce heat of midsummer, drenching rain, stabbing blizzard, rivers in flood-time, trails knee-deep in mud; innumerable arrests, when, single-handed he dragged the wanted man, fighting like a mad dog, from under the very wings of death, in the face of regiments of carbines; other arrests, quiet, subtle, efficient; cases which took inexhaustible patience to bring to a conclusion; cases which leaped from nowhere, demanding instant decision and unhesitating action; and all these cases and arrests, trackings, traps and desperate fights requiring at one time or another, the tip-top pitch of courage, zeal, determination and diplomacy—these things had been Hector's life in those stirring years.

The whiskey-smugglers, haling their stuff across the border for the consumption of Indians and whites, still occupied much of his attention. These were old hands, dealing in old crimes. The worst of the new enemies of the law were the cattle-rustlers, who came in with the ranching industry. Some were whites, most were Indians.

Hector had gradually come to the conclusion that—in the Macleod district at least—the whiskey-runners and cattle-rustlers were operating hand in glove from some central headquarters. Some clever criminal, or group thereof, had organized the two activities into one gigantic business. So far he kept these suspicions to himself, because he had not yet enough evidence to lay before the Inspector. In the meantime, he worked away steadily and in the working gained a reputation for physical strength, courage, determination and a high sense of duty among the officers and men, the settlers and the Indians which was worth far more than any King's ransom.

In the autumn following the receipt of Father Duval's letter he was re-transferred to Fort Macleod. There occurred an incident which nearly wrecked his reputation for all time.

"We've got a shipment here for you, Sergeant Adair," announced Randall, the keeper of the Weatherton Company's store at Fort Macleod. Hector walked over to the counter through the crowd of Indians, settlers and policemen.

The trader, when he reached him, was busy with a customer and Hector had to wait. He passed the time in talking to Welland, who was lounging at his elbow—Mr. Joseph Welland now, keener, sprucer, more cordial and certainly more prosperous than ever.

"Well, Hec'—how's the whiskey-running? Putting it down any?" Welland began, while he carelessly picked his teeth with a bit of match.

The question was delivered in a low tone, implying caution.

"So-so," Hector replied vaguely.

Experience had taught him to trust nobody.

"But they're a cunning crowd behind it," he added.

"So they are," Welland agreed emphatically. "Not a doubt of it. That bunch in the Calgary country, now—"

"Is there a bunch working in the Calgary country?" asked Hector innocently.

"You know there is." Welland twinkled. "Guileless angel, ain't you? But, talking of whiskey—"

"Talkin' o' whiskey, are yah?" The trader's oily voice cut in suddenly. "You'll be able to talk o' whiskey for a long time, Sergeant, when you've signed this invoice!"

He winked meaningly at Welland, whose face for one moment betrayed surprise, then became intensely vigilant.

"What's this? What's this?" he exclaimed, half in jest, half in earnest, while his eyes flashed swiftly to the invoice.

Hector read and signed the piece of paper, which told him that Mr. John Adair, of Blenheim County, Ont., had recently shipped to him through Weatherton's chain of stores, evidently as a Christmas gift, one case of Scotch whiskey.

"Well, I'm shot!" Welland remarked. "I'll come an' see you when you've opened it, Hec'. How'll you get it into barracks?"

The last demand, with its veiled insinuation, irritated Hector. But he snubbed Welland by showing no concern.

"Bring it to my quarters next time you're over that way, Randall," he told the store-keeper.

"You're on, Sergeant," Randall leered, rolling his bleary eyes. "An' I hope to drink your health."

"You'll do it in water, then," Hector said quietly. "This whiskey goes to Mother Earth and no-one else."

"Wha-a-t?" Welland cried, amazed. "You're not—?"

"Yes, I am." Hector gathered up his whip and gloves. "I'm going to spill the lot of it, in Randall's presence, too. Nobody's going to say I'm a wholesale drinker myself and down on everyone else drinking."

"But Hec'! It came in a perfectly honest, legal way—"

"Can't help that. Shouldn't have come at all. I can take a drink with others, on the square or in the mess. But I'm not going to stock it myself. I've got too many people ready to take a crack at me and I won't run any chances."

"But Hec', it's a crime to waste—"

"No!" said Hector, real determination in the negative.

Welland drew back, defeated, shrugged his shoulders, and looked at the trader with a sneer.

"Hell!" he exclaimed audibly. "'Course he wants it for himself. That goody-goody stuff is bluff. That's the way with these zealots—no liquor, no! But that just applies to you—not me!"

The tone surprised Hector. He had not expected this thrust from Welland.

"Will you come over and see me get rid of that whiskey?" he flashed.

But Welland only laughed derisively.

"Well, Randall will be witness enough," Hector declared. "Think what you please, and be damned!"

With that, he clanked fiercely out of the store.

The trader exchanged glances with Welland, his florid face growing redder with suppressed delight.

III

Though John had sent the whiskey in a perfectly legitimate way, Hector could not use it, for the reason that, to do his work properly, he must keep up his reputation as an incorruptible enemy of liquor. If he gave way, his enemies would certainly adopt the cynical attitude that Hector, being able to get whiskey for himself whenever he pleased, had nothing to gain by winking at the operations of those less fortunate and so was zealous where he would otherwise have been slack. A better course than destroying the whiskey would have been to ship it straight back to John in Welland's presence; but Hector failed to think of this at the time.

In the late afternoon, Randall drove his sleigh into barracks.

"I got the case outside, Sergeant," he said. "Will I bring it in?"

"No," said Hector. "Dump it on the parade-ground."

Hector took an axe. They went out together.

"Why, Sergeant!" exclaimed Randall, in great alarm. "Yah ain't really goin'—? Ah, say, don't, Sergeant, don't! It's a sinful waste o' the gifts o' Providence, Sergeant—Ah!"

His voice rose to a shriek as Hector reduced the case to a pulp of splintered wood and broken glass.

"Now you tell anyone who ever mentions it what I do to private stock, Randall," said Hector, as he pitched the wreckage into the sleigh. "You understand. You've got to tell the truth. Savvy?"

"A'right, Sergeant, a'right!" Randall shrank back in alarm. "But it's an awful waste o' good Scotch!"

He drove off lamenting.

Hector's mistake had been in securing only one witness to the destruction of the whiskey. He was to pay for it later.

Soon after this, Hector noticed a distinct falling off of the respectful regard held for him by the officers, the men, the civilians. They did not force the change upon him but they hinted at it in a thousand ways.

At a loss for an explanation, he did the wisest thing possible—ignored the change and went on his way in silence.

One day came light, when Inspector Denton summoned him and revealed the truth in a private interview.

"You sent for me, sir?" said Hector, entering the Inspector's sitting-room and saluting smartly.

Inspector Denton was a big man, much inclined to fatness. He had a ruddy face eloquent of good living, a drooping, luxuriant moustache, and an eye-glass which he hardly ever used. Ignorant recruits, judging by appearances, took him for a brainless martinet. As a matter of fact, the strength of a lion, the heart of a Viking and the endurance of a grizzly were hidden beneath his deceptive exterior and when action demanded those who doubted it were rapidly disillusioned.

The Inspector, as Hector entered, was seated by the stove, his tunic open, his feet in gaudy carpet slippers.

"Ah, Adair!" exclaimed the Inspector. "Er—just close the door, will you?"

Hector obeyed.

"I've been—ah—hearing tales about you, Adair," the Inspector began, composedly. "I don't like 'em. My advice is—er—if they're true—stop! I find it difficult to believe 'em, Adair. So I thought I'd talk it over quietly with you—er—alone."

"Tales about you!" Hector saw in a flash that the causes of the mysterious change were about to be revealed to him.

"Very good, sir," he said; and eagerly waited.

"Are they true?"

"I don't know what they are, sir."

"You don't, eh? Umph!"

The Inspector pondered. Then he looked at Hector again.

"Like me to tell you? Well—er—fact is, Adair, they say you're doing a lot of secret drinking, on cases sent from the East an' so on. Very foolish, Adair, if so. Must drink openly or not at all. Ah—makes your work in suppressing the traffic look so—so hypocritical, y'know—besides bringing the Force into disrepute. It's rather hard to explain what I mean but—er—you understand, eh?"

Hector's face crimsoned with passion.

"It's a lie!" he rapped fiercely. And he told the Inspector everything.

"I see!" said Denton thoughtfully. "I see! Well, we must kill this lie—er—immediately, Adair. It's done you a lot of harm—shaken people's confidence in you—er—considerably, very considerably. Even I was—er—-a bit affected. Now let's see. How can we kill it, eh? How can we kill it?"

"I'll kill it, sir!" said Hector decidedly. "I'll kill it, all right!"

"Right you are, Adair! Good example, eh? Even stricter attention to duty—if that were possible—eh? But no violence. Anyway, that's all about it, s'far as I'm concerned. Damn' glad it wasn't true, Adair. Er—settle it quietly, eh? Damn' glad, Adair. Close the door, er—will you, when you go out?"

So this was the cause of the change in feeling! Obviously, it was the work of Randall or Welland, who must at least have started the rumour, whatever their part in its subsequent growth may have been! The story must be killed, the Inspector had said. Well, he would kill it, there and then!

Conscious of his innocence, Hector, for the first time since joining the Police, lost that crowning attribute, self-control.

On fire to avenge his honour, he left the Inspector's and went rapidly over to Weatherton's.

The door of the store was dashed open. Fifty startled men, settlers, constables, Indians and half-breeds, turned together towards it, leaving a lane to the counter.

Sergeant Adair came in. They all knew him—but not this Sergeant Adair. The quiet, friendly yet sternly restrained N.C.O. was gone and in his stead was a passionate giant, fists clenched, eyes like knives, lips set and cheeks aflame.

A hush fell on the crowd. It remained for Joe Welland to break it.

The rancher, in a big buffalo coat, was smoking a cigar at the counter. Turning with the rest, he looked at Hector coolly, though with genuine concern, and his voice cut evenly through the silence:

"What's the matter, Adair?"

Hector gripped himself before replying. He was joyfully conscious of the presence of many of his friends, assembled, as if by preordainment, to witness his vindication. There was MacFarlane, staring open-mouthed; Sergeant-Major Whittaker, by the stove, motionless in the act of pulling on his gloves, alert as a bird; Jim Jackson, master of ceremonies at the first Christmas celebration at the fort years before, pausing as he buttoned his fur coat for the trail; Martin Brent, seated on a sack of flour, pipe in mouth, stoically viewing the proceedings; Cranbrook—Corporal Cranbrook now; and a dozen others. For a moment Hector marshalled his words. Then he stepped swiftly into the centre of the room, the silent crowd shrinking before him.

"This is the matter!" he burst out furiously. "Which of you two started these lies about me—you—or you?"

And he pointed an accusing finger, first at Welland, then at Randall.

Deathly silence came again. Men looked at one another. Welland gaped.

"What d'you mean, Hec'? No-one's——

"Oh, yes, they have! Someone's been spreading tales that I've been getting secret whiskey from the East. Don't deny it! I know positively the story's gone 'round for weeks. Am I right, boys?—am I right?"

He flung the appeal to the crowd. They growled assent.

"That's right—that's true."

"Do you hear them?" Hector cried. "There's proof, isn't it? Now, which of you two began it? You know, Welland, that I had a case sent unexpectedly from the East. Randall knows it. You know I said I was going to destroy it. Randall saw me smash it with an axe that same afternoon. Now, no one else in the world knew that whiskey had come to me! Then, which of you spread the story? That's what I want to know."

The crowd waited breathlessly.

Welland calmly flicked the ash from his cigar and smiled.

"Say, you can take this as straight," he asserted. "I've said nothing. If anyone's told any yarns, it's Randall there, not me."

And he glanced with stern contempt at the store-keeper.

Randall started, staring with alarm and consternation.

"Well, say!" he shrilled. "For God's sake, Welland——"

"You shut up!" flashed Welland. Then, quietly, to Hector: "That's your man, Adair."

Hector turned quickly to the crowd.

"Did this man start the rumour?" he demanded, pointing at Randall.

For a moment no-one answered. Fear of a tempest held them silent.

"Did he?"

"I heard it first from him, Sergeant."

The voice, pleasant, careless but assured, was Cranbrook's.

That broke the spell. A chorus of "So did I," "I did, too," rolled solemnly through the crowd.

Hector's fury broke.

MacFarlane raised a husky shout as a dozen bystanders threw themselves on Hector:

"What'you going to do? What'you going to do?"

Jim Jackson rushed into action, shouting, "No, Adair—no!"

Then came a babble:

"Hold him! Hold him!" and a storm of curses——

At the stove Whittaker still stood motionless but smiling quietly——

And Hector burst out of the crowd like a lion from a thicket of spears, grim, silent, deadly. He tossed Jackson and MacFarlane aside with a great sweep of his arm—the powers of twenty men added to his own giant strength in that moment. The trader's frenzied shriek, "Sergeant—for the love of Christ!" he did not heed at all. Seizing Randall in a grip that brought a scream to his lips, he dragged him swiftly across the counter. The scattered crowd closed in. Seeing them, he swung the trader like a flail through the air, dashing them off their feet. In the cleared space, he shook his victim as if he were a sawdust dummy.

"You dog! You dog!" they heard him crying.

Once more the crowd rushed, to save Hector from murder.

"Get back, damn you! He's mine!" Hector roared, pinning the maddened Randall against the counter and staving them off.

"Say you're a liar, you cur! You swine!" he gasped, "Say it or I'll kill you—I'll kill you——"

"I am! I am!" sobbed Randall. "Sergeant—Sergeant——"

"Let him go, Hec'! Let him go!"

MacFarlane's voice gave Hector back his sanity. But, shifting his grip, he tossed the trader, screaming, above his head and held him there, his eyes roving furiously 'round the room.

Then, taking ten great strides, he hurled him crashing but unhurt into a pile of hardware.

"I could kill you!" was in his mind. But instead he said, "Lie there, you dog; lie there!"

Ignoring the crowd utterly—it parted in his path with awed silence—he went to the door, flung it wide open.

The crash of the heavy portal slamming to aroused the crowd to tumult.

Within twenty-four hours the whiskey rumour was as dead as a last year's calendar and Hector was back upon his pedestal.

Mention of his name thenceforward produced this invariable comment:

"Play straight with Adair. He's an easy-goin' bird, but a ring-tailed devil when he's roused!"