“Inspector Dickson,” sharply commanded the Commissioner, “find out the man that sold that whiskey and arrest him at once!”
Cameron was profoundly impressed with the whole scene. He began to realise as never before the tremendous responsibilities that lay upon those charged with the administration of justice in this country. He began to understand, too, the secret of the extraordinary hold that the Police had upon the Indian tribes and how it came that so small a force could maintain the “Pax Britannica” over three hundred thousand square miles of unsettled country, the home of hundreds of wild adventurers and of thousands of savage Indians, utterly strange to any rule or law except that of their own sweet will.
“This police business is a big affair,” he ventured to say to the Commissioner when the court room was cleared. “You practically run the country.”
“Well,” said the Commissioner modestly, “we do something to keep the country from going to the devil. We see that every man gets a fair show.”
“It is great work!” exclaimed Cameron.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” replied the Commissioner. “We don't talk about it, of course. Indeed, we don't think of it. But,” he continued, “that blue book there could tell a story that would make the old Empire not too ashamed of the men who 'ride the line' and patrol the ranges in this far outpost.” He opened the big canvas-bound book as he spoke and turned the pages over. “Look at that for a page,” he said, and Cameron glanced over the entries. What a tale they told!
“Fire-fighting!”
“Yes,” said the Commissioner, “that saved a settler's wife and child—a prairie fire. The house was lost, but the constable pulled them out and got rather badly burned in the business.”
Cameron's finger ran down the page.
“Sick man transported to Post.”