"What's on at this hour, Cockney?"
The big rancher straightened furiously.
"Say! Some day I want to get somewhere where a bunch of interfering red-coats aren't dogging my steps."
The Policeman laughed. "I'm afraid you'll have trouble doing that in this country."
"Then I'll go back home, where a man's his own boss."
"It didn't seem to suit you so well when you were there."
"What do you mean?" Cockney's tone was almost a bellow.
"Sh-h!" soothed the Policeman. "Everyone's in bed but ourselves. I suppose if you'd liked England so well you'd have stayed there. No one in Canada sent for you, did they?"
Cockney wheeled about and stalked up the Provincial steps, the Policeman watching him until the door closed behind him.
Cockney Aikens hated the Mounted Police. In all his life nothing had so roused the depths of hatred usually dormant in his big body. If one came within sight he swore beneath his breath—or aloud, according to the company. He thought and spoke the worst of them, and his unqualified dislike was unwilling to accord them any credit, would grant no conceivable purpose they fulfilled. On the trail he passed them without so much as nodding, and the very few patrols that wandered at long intervals to the vicinity of the H-Lazy Z avoided the sullen hospitality of its owner.