Stationed in a new district, he was naturally chary of placing himself under obligation to anybody; so, cogitating over his predicament, he watered, fed, and groomed Johnny and, after fixing up the wounded foot in a hot poultice for the night, he retired into his own domain to cook some supper.
The detachment, originally a ranch dwelling, was a square, solid-looking, log-built structure, with a commodious stable in the rear, and a corral and a fenced-in pasture. A huge, bleached buffalo skull, with its stubby black horns—a relic of bygone years—frowned down from over the main entrance, and a faded, weather-flapped Union Jack hung from a short flag-staff at one pinnacle of the roof. With whitewashed stones, the letters R.N.W.M.P. were formed in the earth banking on the front side of the dwelling. The interior bespoke its occupant’s tidiness and orderly habits.
One entered directly into a moderate-sized room that was severe in its sparsely furnished simplicity. A long, bench-like table, covered with a tartan police rug, on which were some neatly piled blank legal forms, and books, a Bible, and writing materials. A plain oak arm-chair for the said table, and several smaller ones, with a couple of form-seats, were ranged around the walls, and immediately facing the magisterial bench a strongly-built cell with a barred door and aperture was partitioned off. A few enlarged framed photographs of old-time police and legal celebrities and a green baize-covered board decorated with an assortment of brightly burnished leg-irons and handcuffs completed the adornment of the chamber. Nevertheless, in spite of the room’s simple aspect, one instinctively guessed that here, as occasion occurred, the solemnity of the Law was upheld with no less a dignity than in the highest court of justice.
A door at one side of the cell opened into a larger apartment, evidently used as a combined living and bedroom which, with its strange collection of interesting objects, was typically significant of its owner’s tastes and personality. A comfortable, bachelor-like abode this, yet slightly regimental withal too; for the blankets at the head of the cot were strapped into the regulation neat roll with the sheets in the center, whilst above, on a small shelf, were the folded spare uniform and Stetson hat, on either side of which stood a pair of high, brown Strathcona riding-boots with jack spurs attached. On pegs underneath hung the “Sam Browne” belt and holster containing the heavy “Colt’s .45” Service revolver, together with a bridle, a head-rope, and a slicker. Two or three easy chairs were scattered around and some tanned calf-skin mats covered the floor. A table stood in the center littered with periodicals and other reading matter, and a plain slung bookshelf held a well-worn selection of classical and modern works of fiction. The walls were relieved with varrious photographs, clever pen-and-ink sketches, and unframed copies of famous pictures, among which were several examples of Charles Russell’s and Frederick Remington’s works of art. A tent-pegging lance, standing in a corner, supported a gaudy, feathered Indian headdress on its point, while behind the door hung a set of boxing gloves.
Five years of Benton’s wandering life having been spent on the veldt—two of them passed in the Chartered Company’s service—accounted for the curious South African trophies that were noticeable here and there. A stuffed meerkat crouched half raised, like a gigantic gopher, and that ugly bald-headed vulture, known in the Taal as an aasvogel, looked down with unpitying eyes. Two magnificent leopard skin karosses were flung over the armchairs, and a Zulu oxhide war shield was suspended in an angle of the walls, flanked crosswise with its companion weapons—a heavy knob-kerrie and a short, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai, whilst above hung those one-time sinister symbols of authority north of the Vaal—a rhinoceros-hide sjambok, a Mauser rifle, and a captured “Vierkleur” flag. Adjoining this room were the kitchen and a small compartment used as a storehouse.
His supper finished, and the daily diary, mileage report, and “monthly returns” made out, the Sergeant lit a pipe and lay back in one of the armchairs, lazily scanning the various criminal photographs in the last copy of The Detective he had brought with him from the Post, until drowsiness overcoming him, the paper fluttered to the floor and his head sank back against the leopard skin. The rays of the lamp shone full on the strong, moody face, with the pipe still held clenched between the teeth, and the athletic frame which, even in repose, contrived somehow to convey in its posture an impression of instinctive, feline readiness for sudden action.
Indeed, the man’s whole appearance seemed to fittingly bear out the many strange stories that were current of his strenuous and eventful past.
CHAPTER V
The elder was quelled,
But the younger rebelled;
So he spread out his wings and fled over the sea.
Said the jackdaws and crows,
“He’ll be hanged I suppose,
But what in the deuce does that matter to we?”
—Henry Kingsley
The second son of an English cavalry officer holding a high rank, young Benton’s life up to the age of fifteen—with the exception of a few escapades at Shrewsbury—which were due more to an ingrained hardihood than viciousness, had passed very much the same as that of any other well-bred public school boy.