CHAPTER XIII
Down by the American boundary a stream called Eagle Creek has cut a ravine two hundred feet deep in the plateau at the base of the Rockies, carving the banks into a medley of grotesque and isolated mounds strewn with boulders, nearly void of grass, whose eccentric shapes give the view from the bottom a most singular and impressive contour. The stream itself had dwindled under the autumn heat, leaving only a string of miry ponds, whose stagnant waters fed the few fruit-laden shrubs upon their margins, and beside them was half an acre left of pleasant grass. Here were round patches, traces of camp-fires, by which many travellers in that lonely way had been wont to rest. How waggons got down the trail to the bottom without accident is one of the many wonders of the West.
The sun was set behind the Selkirks, the wind was sinking, the air had a blue dryness blown from some forest fire; heavy, sultry enough to make all nature sulk. Foxes were dodging about from cover to cover, a crane stood melancholy in the untroubled water, meditating on one leg, hopeless of even a desultory minnow by way of supper. A cloud of dust arose behind the southern boundary of the ravine, the crane flapped sorrowfully away, hearing a distant tramp of horses, and presently a mounted man in bright cavalry uniform rode to the edge of the hills, standing out against the deepening sky a beautiful silhouette, motionless as a statue. Then, two by two, came twenty mounted men, each with a rifle poised on the horn of his Mexican saddle, and many a glittering point of brass and steel about his harness. At a word of command they dismounted to advance, leading their horses down the slope; while behind them appeared five waggons, each carrying two men, and a rear-guard of two, who lingered a bit to be clear of the dust which arose in clouds from the groaning wheels of the transport. Some of these riders wore canvas clothes adorned with brass buttons, some buckskin suits, or blue flannel shirts, or old red jackets, according to the pleasure of the wearers. All had riding-boots, spurs, leather belts carrying a row of brass cartridges, and big revolvers with a lanyard buckled to the butts, and passing over one shoulder.
Reaching the level land at the bottom, the mounted men formed up in line, and the waggons drew up behind them, forty feet apart; a rope was stretched along the waggon line, then, leaving his saddle at the dismounting point, each trooper had made his horse fast to the rope before ever the teams were unharnessed. Meanwhile three men from the transport had selected a spot by some bushes where an iron bar was set on uprights five feet apart; and, before the sound of axes had ceased in the bush behind, three full camp kettles swung over a roaring fire. A bell tent was pitched for the officer in command, Inspector Fraser Gaye; the horses were watered, groomed, fed with a liberal ration of oats; then, at a last merry call from the bugle, there was a general dash to the waggons for plates and cups, and knives were whipped from belt or bootleg, ready for an astonishing slaughter of fried pork and hard tack, mitigated with lashings of scalding tea. The meal was followed by an uplifting of delicate grey smoke toward the clouds, and a lively fire of chaff in most of the British and American dialects.
At times the whole crowd would turn upon one or two who dared to converse in their native French-Canadian patois, "A wuss Nitchie! Can't you talk white? Get away back to your reserve, or behave like a white man, you mongrel!"
But all this was silenced presently, because the horses must be hobbled, or picketed out for the night, and a guard of three men was detailed to watch by turns until sunrise. Blankets were being spread out along the saddle line, and in and under the waggons; first post sounded, last post sounded, then the third of the bugle melodies.
"That's all, boys. Dream of the girls you've lost. Lights—out!"
So the last sad notes echoed away along the sterile hills, and there was silence under the starlight.
The horses were pulling at the grass, or roving about with a quick, sharp clank of the hobbles, the man on duty gliding ghostlike among them, speaking to one or another lest they should fear him in the silence. All seemed well with the tired beasts, so the "picket" strolled back to the dying fire, drank a little tea, lit his pipe, and stood thinking. His body seemed gigantic against the light, his face borrowed something of satanic dignity from the glare, the light glimmered upon the points of his harness, while he kicked lazily the backs of smouldering logs till the flames leaped up again. Poor Blackguard! His thoughts were bitter that night; memories of the innocent-seeming child he had grown to love, and still trusted lovingly, until under the girl's frank laugh he had seen the woman's flirting. She was a woman—playing fast and loose—Miss Violet the Vixen, irresponsible. The Blackguard's heart was too great for her understanding, a wonderful spirit of passionate tenderness, compassionate forgiveness, and large tolerance. The surface of him was all humour and quaint devilry, the depth of him hid much love and curious wisdom. She had tried to play with him the game of cat and mouse; so, smiling inly at her mistake, he had gone away, sending no word or giving any sign. When the cat wanted her mouse again, when she longed for him and could not do without him, she would send him a sign. If not—the Blackguard sighed over his pipe.
Perhaps he had been good through these summer months to no purpose; a lot of genuine religion had very likely, it seemed, been wasted, desperate efforts after wealth and respectability all thrown away. In that case, a couple of weeks hence, when his five years expired, he would spend the money he had made and saved in giving the "boys" a lively night or two, then re-enlist and be as bad as he pleased. But yet, if she would send a sign.
He looked up, hearing the crackle of a twig.
"Halt—who goes there?" he cried.
"All right!" came a shaky voice out of the darkness.
"Advance, and be recognised!"
"Eh?"
"Advance, or I fire!"
"Oh, give us a rest."
These were the war challenges, and the Blackguard had only used them to scare an evident stranger who did not know enough to say "Friend."
"All right," he said. "Advance, and be damned. Who are you?"
"Hello, Blackguard! The very man I want—I'm Long Leslie."
"Sit down, old chap. Help yourself from the tea kettle. Well, how are things?"
"I'm fencing for General Buster," said Leslie,—"got to earn our winter grub at the Tough Nut."
"How's the claim?"
"Ripping. Came on a splendid pay streak up at the hanging wall. These contact propositions are always worth assessments, anyway. Shorty and me are both working at Buster's, and when I heard your bugle calls I thought I'd stroll over. Come up from Tobacco Plains?"
"Yes, bound north again."
"I guessed you were with this outfit."
"Thanks, old man."
"I hear that Arrapahoe Bill is in trouble up at the bull pasture on Throne Creek."
"What's the old tough gaoled for this time?"
"Not that. He seems to have been having a scrapping match with a grizzly bear, but I haven't heard if he'll live."
"Poor devil! Any other news?"
"Oh yes, that Tenderfoot of yours is making the fur fly."
"What fur?—the Burrows girl?"
"Yes; they're to be married before the month end, according to the Lunatic. By the way, I've got something of yours. She asked me to hand it over if I met you. Here."
A Mounted Police button dropped into La Mancha's hand, but he said nothing.
"The bush fires are bad this fall on the upper Kootenay."
"Yes, and on the Mooyie. Bitt's was burned out last week."
"Serve him right for a good-for-nothing greaser. Well, I must be getting home. Long day to-morrow. Kind regards to the boys. Good-night, old chap."
"Good-night."
When the time came the Blackguard kicked his relief awake, and the relief in due course kicked another chap whose turn was the morning watch. The stars were doing a very poor business that night on account of the pungent dry smoke from burning woods, but when they gave up their half-hearted twinkling as a bad job, the dawn mist rising from the meadow was cool and ghostlike as usual; full of dream-faces, if one could only have seen them, ghosts of nice children, pretty girls, and respectable parents, who had come to call on the Mounted Police while they were off duty.
Startling all the echoes, making the keen ear tremble, waking the summer world, and losing coherence in the distant hills, reveille rang out clear and sharp, a burst of triumphant, unexpected music—and the night was gone.
Then, to successive bugle calls, blankets were rolled, waggons loaded, the horses carefully tended, breakfast was eaten, and almost before the sun had lighted the deep ravine the mounted party began to toil up the hillside, and the waggons followed groaning across the meadow.