"Say, Grey, the O. C. wants you."
At these words the man addressed straightened himself up to his full height of six feet with a sudden jerk, while his dark piercing eyes flashed questioningly from beneath the broad brim of his Stetson hat. A deep silence now pervaded the room; the poker chips ceased their rattle; the rustling of the newspapers stopped; the man behind the bar stayed his hand in the act of pouring a glass of ginger beer, and even pipes were allowed to go out.
It was the quiet after supper hour in the Big Glen Barracks of the "X" Division of the North West Mounted Police, in the far-flung Northern Yukon Territory, and the work of the day was done. The few prisoners had been marched silently back to their lonely cells in the stout log guard room; the flag had fluttered slowly down from its tall staff in the centre of the big Square; the bugle had rent the air with its quivering notes, and the guards had been changed. Everything had been done speedily and systematically. It was the daily routine. Each man knew his duty, and did it.
The Canteen was the regular place of meeting, and here a score of constables and corporals, tested guardians of a lone land, were gathered, to drink the customary glass of ale or beer, read the newspapers, discuss the affairs of the day, and play a few friendly games of cards. The click of billiard balls in the adjoining room could be distinctly heard, whilst from the open door of the Sergeants' Mess came the sweet strains of a violin.
"Where's the O. C. now? In the office?" It was Grey's voice which broke the silence as he looked hard at the Orderly.
"No, he's in his house. You had better hustle."
Grey glanced down at his clothes. He was dressed as he had come off guard of the prisoners. A belt filled with cartridges encircled his waist, and his revolver sheathed in its leathern holster hung at his hip. His appearance at that moment was sufficient to win both respect and admiration from the most indifferent. Of this his companions were not thinking, but of that summons to meet the Commanding Officer. Well did they know the startling news which was agitating this northern town, causing strong men's eyes to moisten, and mothers to clasp their children closer in their arms. Had not prominent citizens hurried in and out of the O. C.'s office all the afternoon, and did not the air hang heavy with expectancy as to what move would be made and who would be chosen for the difficult undertaking? Now it was no longer uncertain. Grey was the first to be called, and all realised that the choice had been a good one.
"Grey's got a difficult job ahead of him," remarked a tall, slim constable after the former had left the room.
"He's the man for it, though," replied another, deliberately sipping his beer.
"He'll do the job if anyone can, for he fears neither man nor devil. Don't you remember how he stood up before 'Twisty' Parker and his gang in Big Gulch Road House, cowed the whole bunch, and got his man?"