In a minute or two he was singing a jibing song beloved by the Force, that band of happy warriors who would not take things seriously:
So pass the tea and let us drink
To the guardians of the land.
You bet your life it's not our fault
If whiskey's contraband!
When he sighted Welland's place, where he planned to spend the night, his roving fancy clicked sharply back to roost and turned to Welland.
The friendship between them, though it had prospered in the years now gone, had never reached real intimacy. But Welland's fortunes had been amazingly strengthened during recent times. Prosperity seemed to come to him unsought There was something almost strange in it. Probably he had money invested elsewhere. As men count wealth in other places, he was not yet a Crœsus, of course, but a great improvement was palpably evident. Several new sheds and stables; acres of cultivated ground; cattle and horses; two wagons in the yard; the shack extended and freshly painted—these were obvious additions to the real and personal property owned by Welland when the Police first came to the country. Had he fallen heir to Aladdin's lamp? How, otherwise, had he acquired all this so easily?
As Hector rode slowly down upon the homestead through the velvet dusk, a strange thing happened. From the house he heard an awesome, chilling sound—dull, measured, heavy,—like blows on raw beef. And this sound was punctuated by several low screams, each whimpering, one by one, into a moan. Completely baffled, he dismounted near the stables, raised the 'long yell' that common courtesy demanded, and waited.
Welland came out, peering through the gloom.
"It's me, Joe," Hector called. "Adair!"
"Oh, that you, Hec'?" Welland responded with genuine pleasure. "Good boy! What brings you here this time o' night?"
Hector told him, still wondering——
"Leave, eh? Going down to Milk River, eh? Fine! Fine! Of course you'll spend the night here, and feed, too. Come on! I'll take your horses."