The man paused in his demonstration and for a moment or two stood in amazed silence. The audacity of the youngster appeared to paralyse his powers of speech and action.
“Put it down there, my man. Do you hear?” The voice was still smooth, but through the silky tones there ran a fibre of steel. Still the desperado stood gazing at him. “Quick, do you hear?” There was a sudden sharp ring of imperious, of overwhelming authority, and, to the amazement of the crowd of men who stood breathless and silent about, there followed one of those phenomena which experts in psychology delight to explain, but which no man can understand. Without a word the gambler slowly laid upon the table his gun, upon whose handle were many notches, the tally of human lives it had accounted for in the hands of this same desperado.
“What is this for?” continued the young man, gently touching the belt of cartridges. “Take it off!”
The belt found its place beside the gun.
“Now, listen!” gravely continued the youngster. “I give you twenty-four hours to leave this post, and if after twenty-four hours you are found here it will be bad for you. Get out!”
The man, still silent, slunk out from the room. Irresistible authority seemed to go with the word that sent him forth, and rightly so, for behind that word lay the full weight of Great Britain's mighty empire. It was Cameron's first experience of the North West Mounted Police, that famous corps of frontier riders who for more than a quarter of a century have ridden the marches of Great Britain's territories in the far northwest land, keeping intact the Pax Britannica amid the wild turmoil of pioneer days. To the North West Mounted Police and to the pioneer missionary it is due that Canada has never had within her borders what is known as a “wild and wicked West.” It was doubtless owing to the presence of that slim youngster in his scarlet jacket and pill-box cap that McIvor got his men safely away without a hole in his back and that his gang were quietly finishing their morning meal this shining April day, in their camp by the Bow River in the shadow of the big white peaks that guard The Gap.
Breakfast over, McIvor heaved his great form to the perpendicular.
“How is the foot, Cameron?” he asked, filling his pipe preparatory to the march.
“Just about fit,” replied Cameron.
“Better take another day,” replied the chief. “You can get up wood and get supper ready. Benoit will be glad enough to go out and take your place for another day on the line.”