The Blackguard

by Roger Pocock

CHAPTER XV

Since the Blackguard's time had nearly expired, the Colonel sent for him.

"Sit down, La Mancha; I want a few words with you."

"Thank you, sir." The Blackguard removed his forage cap, and sat down on a camp-stool just within the tent.

"The Sergeant-Major tells me that you do not wish to 'take on' again. We have served together some years now, La Mancha."

"And jolly good years they were, sir."

The Colonel smiled. "Well, I don't grudge them—we've had a good mistress to serve, besides fine work to do for her, breaking in this rough young country; but perhaps it's just as well to think of the future."

"I hear, sir, that you've bought a big ranche near Macleod."

"Yes, I hope to serve as a citizen for the rest of my time. If ever you come that way I can promise you a welcome."

"Thank you, Colonel; I shall remember that."

"You see, La Mancha, all my best men have left me one by one. Two of them fell during the Rebellion, one shot himself, Peters died of mountain fever at Battleford, Buster Joe is ranching in Montana, Jones the Less writes to me from London, where he is doing well, and—but you know. One can't take such an interest in the recruits—shave-tails, you call them, and so forth; and now that things are settling tamely down, we're not so necessary as we were. New times, new manners—I don't blame you for taking your freedom. What are your plans, La Mancha?"

"First, I'm going to marry."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir, the Burrows girl up at the Throne. At first I hope to do something at breaking horses, then take land down the valley. Her life won't be rougher than it is now."

The Colonel smiled, because at last he knew the secret of La Mancha's reformation.

"May I congratulate you? I do most heartily, for I'm told that she's the nicest and prettiest girl in Kootenay."

"Will you come to the wedding, sir, on the twenty-fifth, at the Mission? The Padre says he'll be ready for me at noon."

"I would like to come very much," said the Colonel; "but among other details—mind I know you well—have you the young lady's consent?"

"She says I'm not half good enough for her—that looks all right, sir,—eh?"

The Colonel laughed. "I'll be there if I can."

"And give the bride away, sir?"

"But how about Burrows?"

"Hang Burrows—he'll have take a back seat."

"One thing more, La Mancha. In this particularly risky business has it occurred to you that you ought to have steady employment?"

"I'll have to turn 'road agent' otherwise."

"Rather than that, I'll give you a note to my friend General Buster, who, I know, is looking out for a good man. Ride down and see to-morrow, and while you're about it take a two weeks' furlough up to the date of your discharge. Why, that's the twenty-fifth, your wedding-day!"

"It's awfully good of you, sir."

"Don't mention it. I'll send you the letter by the Orderly Corporal. Ask him to step this way."

"Oh, you poor devils," said the Blackguard, lying at ease on his blankets, to half a dozen men at work in the tent cleaning their accoutrements for to-morrow's muster parade. "Sweat, you poor workers; ram your button-sticks down your throats for coolness."

One of the boys heaved a boot brush at him, which he caught deftly. "Now I'm richer," he said "by a brush. Gentlemen, this brush of solid squat root, bristled out of the Quartermaster's private beard, heavy with valuable blacking,—how much am I offered for this brush?"

"Damn you and your brush."

"One damn for the brush. Gentlemen, I am offered one for this priceless object of virtue—one damn I am offered,—going at one—going—going—positively thrown away!" and he flung it at the owner's head, making a bull's-eye.

The victim had not time to be resentful, but, wiping his eye with the back of the brush, went on polishing his boot-tops vindictively.

"Lick, spit and polish," laughed the Blackguard. "Every day has its dog; but I'm a free nigger to-morrow. No more parades, no more pack-drill, no more guards, no more cells, no more 'fatigues' save this bed-fatigue, which suits my temperament. I'm a free wolf, and it's my night to howl; I come from Bitter Creek—the higher up the worse the waters—and I'm from the source. Go it, you pigeon-livered shave-tails; clean your harness, you poor-souled recruities, you pemmican-eaters, you ravenous pie-biters, you ring-tailed snorters. This is my song of victory after five years without beer—five years h—l without benefit of clergy, five years everybody's dog on Government rations!

"The Blackguard was taken young and raised on hard tack, was full of skilly, beans, and sow-belly; sweated on parade, rode hell-for-leather after horse-thieves; but now he's going to have a good time being alive, and don't you forget it!"

By this time missiles were flying at him from all directions, but the Blackguard wriggled away, rolled out under the flap of the tent, and went off to chaff Dandy Irvine.

"Look here, Dandy," he burst into the next tent, but his chum was not there.

"Not there. Lord, how I shall miss him," thought the Blackguard, strolling miserably towards the river. "Ah, there he is, sitting just where we sat the night before I turned good. What a fool I was to do it."

He sat down beside the little Corporal.

"Did the Colonel give you a letter for me?"

"Yes—here it is. You have two weeks' leave from to-night."

La Mancha told him all that the Colonel had said.

"You're in luck, old chap."

"Now, don't you get mawkish," said the Blackguard roughly. "The Colonel was bad enough, but I won't stand any rot from you. After all these years,—ye gods, what a wrench it is! I'm as weak as a kitten, and all my bones feel sick. Come over to the lines—I'm going to take my horse these last two weeks, whether they like it or not."

"There'll be an awful row," said Dandy anxiously.

"So much the better. Trouble and I are twins, but I'll have my horse."

"I guess I can stand the racket," said Dandy, as they walked to the lines.

Last post was sounding while La Mancha saddled, and in the midst of his work he turned on Dandy.

"Don't look at me like that! It's all your fault for making me turn respectable. It's against Nature. What would the civilians think if all of you turned into brass-mounted saints like me? Why, they would be sending their sons into the Force for convent training, and adulterate the grandest cavalry in the world. There"—he loosed his horse and flung himself into the saddle. "Cut it short," for Dandy could not let go his hand. "Say good-bye to the boys for me. Good-night—good-bye, and be hanged to you."

So he rode out of the camp at a headlong gallop; but half a mile away drew rein, for "Lights out" was sounding. He took off his hat, and brushed his sleeve across his eyes, because there seemed to be a mist between him and the tents, while through his mind there swept the music of an old-time song which belongs to the Mounted Police—

"The sentry challenged at the open gate,
Who pass'd him by, because the hour was late—
'Halt! Who goes there?'—'A friend'—'All's well.'
'A friend, old chap!'—a friend's farewell,
And I had pass'd the gate.
And then the long last notes were shed,
The echoing call's last notes were dead—
And sounded sadly as I stood without
Those last sad notes of all: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out!

Good-bye, you fellows! We have side by side
Watch'd history's lengthen'd shadows past us glide,
And worn the scarlet, laughed at pain,
And buried comrades lowly lain,
And let the long years glide;
And toil and hardship have we borne,
And followed where the flag had gone—
But all the echoes answ'ring round about
Have bidden you to sleep: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out''

And never more for me the helmet's flash,
The trumpet's summons—Oh, the crumbling ash
Of life is hope's fruition: Fall
The wither'd friendships, and they all
Are sleeping! Fast away
The fabrics of our lives decay,
And change unseen and melt away—
Ay, perish like the accents of a call,
Like those last notes of all: 'Lights out!' 'Lights out!'"