Sometimes he fancied himself making his first arrest—the arrest of Red-hot Dan. He saw the whiskey-trader at his door—but the face was Welland's. Welland came out, shot at him, missed. Hector ran to his horse—galloped away—with Welland after him. His enemy required no horse but pursued on foot, travelling like the wind. Hector rode at a furious pace, over hill and dale, for hundreds—thousands—of miles, until it seemed he had been riding months and years—but still Welland followed him, tirelessly. Then he found himself on the ground, half-stunned, his horse beside him, Welland bending over him, pointing a rifle, grinning hideously. And Moon came out of thin air to thrust herself before the murderer. Hector struggled to his feet and called her. She stretched out her arms. He stepped to meet her—and found—Mrs. MacFarlane. For some unfathomable reason, he hated her. Thrusting her aside, he fronted Welland once more. And yet it was not Welland—but Whitewash Bill. He advanced, without a weapon, to meet him—advanced—and the outlaw became a trumpeter, sounding the Reveille.
Gone, instantly, were all Hector's hates and fears. Enwrapt, he heard the clear call soaring to the stars—soar and die, quivering, to merge into the 'Fall in.' Before the call finished, the trumpeter had vanished. But the magic notes went on and drifted into other calls, till he had heard them all, the calls that were the very voice of the Service he loved. Then came wonderful sights—long dear to him—the far-crying trumpet playing perpetual accompaniment. He saw the old Force riding westward—westward—on the first march to the Rockies; saw the sentry at Broncho, smart as a Russian prince in fur coat, cap, gauntlets, burnished bandolier; saw his old division drilling—glorious 'J'—a mounted parade—saw the long scarlet line circle and wheel, heard the tremendous thunder of innumerable hoofs; and still the trumpet sounded. The thunder of hoofs swelled to roars of applause. The packed hall at Broncho rose before him and the Marquis, appearing from the dead, bowed and began to sing, over and over again, the chorus of a song about himself, sung by the men of the Force everywhere for their love of, and pride in, him:
Hi, you bad young Nitchie, there is someone goin' to git ye;
Hi, you bad old outlaw!—An' he's never known to fail.
He's the soul of Law and Order, so you'd better cross the border,
When Manitou-pewabic's on the trail!
His heart went out passionately towards these men. Suddenly, there was a change. Darkness came over the hall. The trumpet, which, somehow, had all the while been sounding, changed its tune to some ominous, terrible call—the 'Last Post'—symbolical of the end—and of Death—the funeral call! A Union Jack at the end of the room, growing suddenly to gigantic proportions, was torn to shreds. Lightning and thunder stormed around it. The trumpet call died, shuddering. There came a noise like a mighty whirlwind and through the shreds a two-headed monster thrust itself—its faces the faces of Welland and Molyneux—one and yet not the same. Hector awoke, in an agony.
Then, in moments of lucid thinking, he realised his weakness to the full and saw the situation in all its horror. He saw the great crisis, not definitely, but as a vague, impenetrable menace, coming upon him—Welland, somehow, mixed up in it—and could do nothing to divert it. Lancaster had told him, at one time, that the miners, seeking to take advantage of his illness, were planning a great meeting at which they proposed to present their demands. Knowing this, he strove to overcome his weakness, strove piteously and failed. No other officer in Black Elk could deal with the approaching menace. He felt that; but could not fathom it, while he felt it. Again, since his illness, a terrific blizzard had come up—one of the worst ever known. The telegraph lines were down, Hopeful Pass was blocked and all communication with the outside world was cut off. Antoine had not returned. Even he could not return in the blizzard. Suppose he did not return before the meeting—what then? What then? Again and again, Hector asked for Antoine and received from Lancaster the hopeless answer, 'He has not come back.' This drove him, time without number, to try to reach the window, to see if Antoine had returned or the blizzard moderated and, that effort thwarted, kept him tossing in despair upon his bed.
In his agony, he saw a crash, himself utterly disgraced, all his twenty-odd years of service gone for nothing, the trust of his men and of his country turned into a mockery. This was the end of his dreams.
The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.
He felt like that other of the Bible, helpless in his cot, while Fate shrieked in his ear: 'The Philistines are upon thee, Samson!'
The spark of his great courage, which had won for him his tribal name, 'Spirit-of-Iron,' struggled fiercely in those terrible hours—struggled, but flickered and burned low——
"I'm afraid we're going to lose him," said Dr. Quick, blinking behind his big round glasses.