CHAPTER I

"Think of your sins, What made you a soldier a-serving the Queen: God save the Queen, And God save the duffer who thinks of to-morrow. God save the man who remembers his sorrow, God save the man who can think of the past, Sundown at last: Here's rest for the past, and here's hope for the morrow!"

That is exactly what the bugle said to a man who was sitting on the edge of the bench-land in the evening calm. He was a very big man, dressed in a grey woollen undershirt, worn-out riding-breeches with a two-inch yellow stripe down the legs, and jack-boots. By his side lay a broad grey slouch-hat, such as cowboys wear; on his knees a bath-towel—dry; and in his neighbourhood lingered a faint aroma of stables. The man's bare arms were like the thighs of an average sinner, his shoulders, thighs, breast, neck, all of gigantic strength and beauty, a sight that would have appealed to any athlete as beyond the loveliness of women.

The setting sun just touched his wavy, crisp, black hair with a lustre of metal. Again, his face, still, strong, silent, had an odd suggestiveness of a bronze statue, that of something Greek but uncanny, a faun, perhaps, or a satyr. The hair, sweeping low over his brows, might almost conceal incipient horns; his ears might have been tufted; his features defying all the rules—stuck on anyhow; the subtle devilry of his deep black eyes, the ugly fascination, the whimsical dignity; the bearing lofty, defiant, almost magnificent; and again, an air, indefinite enough, of sorrowful majesty;—how well everything about the man fitted one name—the Blackguard.

That was La Mancha's name, by consent of the five troops of the Mounted Police; and somehow the common use of it conveyed no sense of reproach but rather of endearment. From the Commissioner down to the smallest recruit the whole five hundred were half-afraid of him, except one man; yet no civilian ventured to speak ill of the Blackguard, or he would have had his head punched. To say bad things about the Blackguard was to slight the Force.

And the one man who did not fear this latter-day satyr, who ruled him as mind rules matter, was a certain little Corporal, who, with a neat briar pipe well alight, was picking his dainty way over the gravel—coming down from the camp in the evening calm. This was Corporal Dandy Irvine, with a sunburnt face, a neatly-pointed moustache, the buttons of his scarlet jacket glowing like gold in the light, whose clothes always fitted, whose forage-cap was correctly poised on three hairs, whose boots and spurs were always brilliantly polished. And now he just touched the Blackguard to show that he was present, and sat down beside him without any remarks whatever. So, for five minutes, the two looked gravely out over the valley like Dignity and Impudence, both too lazy to speak.

They were looking across the Kootenay Valley—the upper Kootenay, from a tongue of the bench-land made by the deep gulch of Wild Horse Creek where it came down from the mountains. At their backs rose the huge timbered foothills of the Rocky Mountains; opposite, across the vast Kootenay trench, rose the still mightier foothills of the Selkirks, and high above the deepening purple of the forests soared the clear cool azure of the snows up into the silence of those sharp-cut Alps, reaching away forever and forever to north and south against the roseate translucent afterglow. Down yonder the river wandered crimson through misty prairies, where the trees stood in clusters pointing up, as the sentinel stars came one by one on guard.

"Dandy," said the Blackguard, without stirring, "lend me five dollars."

Without comment the little Corporal took from his breast-pocket a slender roll of notes, one of which he surrendered.

"Five dollars." The Blackguard took the crisp paper, spreading it out upon his knee. "I was wondering whether there was anybody in the world who cared five dollars for me. Here, take it back—I don't want it."

"Stick to it, Blackguard,—stick to it. You've been fined a month's pay every month since last December; and I guess you'll keep up the motion every month till your time's out—stick to it."

"I'll keep up the motion," said the Blackguard vindictively. "I'll get drunk to-night. They fine me because they can't spare me off duty, and because they've jolly well proved that there isn't a guard-house in the Territories strong enough to hold me over night."

The Corporal chuckled. "How about number five cell at Regina?"

"Number five cell be ——. It was nine months last time."

"Look here, La Mancha. That nine months sticks in my gizzard. I ought to have been punished, not you."

"Take off your serge!" By taking off the serge jacket which bore his double chevron as corporal, Dandy could surrender the protection given by his rank, and become a plain trooper like the Blackguard. The summons was a challenge to fight.

"I'll keep on my serge," said Dandy; "you're too big, Blackguard."

"Then don't talk rot about number five cell. Here's Pup La Mancha, my brother, deserting, and you and me and that fool Pocock overtaking him at Lane's stopping-place. Suppose you let him go, Shifty Lane reports you at headquarters. Suppose you don't let him go, you get my brother, the Pup, a year in the cells. Suppose I let him escape and take his place, I get nine months. After all, what's nine months? I shall be blazing drunk to-night, and maybe get it again!"

"Why can't you behave yourself?"

"Why should I, Dandy? Now you've got a mother, Dandy, who gets a letter from you every week.

"'Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on.'

She's the kindly light, I suppose, but mine went out. And you've got a girl, Dandy, who believes you're a brass saint with a tin halo, which you're not, and who loves you except when she happens to love some other Johnny, which is all the same thing. I've been in love, too, with heaps of girls, two or three at a time generally, hating each other like so many Antipopes. I have a photograph-album—you've seen it in my kit-bag—of all the girls I ever really loved, except a small collection which got burnt up in a hotel fire. I tried to be good, more or less, for each of them, except when they liked me bad; and even now I could be tolerably straight, with an occasional holiday to let off steam, if I had somebody who cared."

"I care," said Dandy moodily.

"Oh, you don't count. You're only a whiff, a spit, and a damn like a Russian cigarette."

"But you have people—your family."

"Yes, I've got a brother in London, an awful snob,—also a sister."

"La Mancha, I saw the name in some paper—the Duke of—Duke of Something—Spanish Ambassador to the Court of St. James'—but, Blackguard!"—

"Well?"

"Is that your"—

"Yes, that's the Snob."

"But from what I saw he must be an awful bad lot."

The Blackguard's eyes flashed ominously. "Drop that. If you talk bad about my people I'll have to chuck you into the river. Then you'll get wet."

"And you'll be sorry. Are all your people such swells?"

For answer the Blackguard drew from beneath his undershirt a crucifix which hung from a slender chain of gold about his neck. "That's from one of my relations,"—he kissed it reverently,—"Isabella—God bless her—of Spain."

"Why, Blackguard, are you of the Blood-Royal—a prince?"

"Not quite that,—I suppose in English I should be Lord So-and-so. Regimental Number 1107, Constable La Mancha, my lord—ahem—you are charged with having, on the night of the 18th instant, been drunk, and assaulted the guard; also with having, on the night of the same instant, set the guard-room on fire; also with having, on the same night, et cetera.— Sounds well,—eh, Dandy?"

The Corporal laughed. "We've been together four years now, and this is the first time you told me a word about yourself. We have lots of gentlemen in the ranks—I suppose I'm a gentleman myself if it comes to that, but"—

"A fat lot of use it is, eh?"

"That's so. What were you doing all those years in England?"

"Military attaché at the Legation until I had my last big row with the Snob. You see, I met a woman at a Foreign Office reception—a regular cat—and found her out for a she-spy in the secret service of—let's say Russia. When the Snob took to fooling around after her, I warned him; but he only thought I was jealous, and called me names. So we had a row, and I gave him a black eye, Eton style. Then I had to give him another to make it even. After that, of course, all was over between us. I took some keys off him, plundered the safe, told him what train I should catch, the name of the steamer—gave him every chance if he wanted a public scandal. He didn't want a scandal—might have cost him his job, so now he's the Ambassador and I'm the Blackguard. That's all."

"Poor devil!"

"Yes, poor devil," yawned the Blackguard cheerfully, as he stood up to stretch himself. "Anything fresh?"

"Nothing much." The Corporal was brushing some dead grass from his breeches. "There's a civilian at the officers' mess, came from Golden City by the 'Duchess' and rode over from Windermere. He's bound for the Throne Mine."

The Blackguard looked across the valley and saw one glimmering light far up on the mountains—the light of the Throne Mine.

"Well," he said, "I'm off to the canteen."

"Don't be a fool! Come and play poker in my tent."

"What's the use?" The Blackguard laid his hand on Dandy's shoulder. "You're a good fellow. I know jolly well what you mean, but I've got a devil—Good-night—and an appointment with Mother Darkie."

Then the Corporal turned sorrowfully away.

CHAPTER II

"Women and wine and war! War and wine and love! With a sword to wear, and a steed to ride, And a wench to love—give me nought beside, But a bottle or so at the eventide: Women and wine and war!

Women and wine and war! War and wine and love! Oh, war's my trade, and wine's my play, Wine crown the night, and war the day— With a kiss or so in a casual way: Women and wine and war!

Women and wine and war! War and wine and love! Here's a broken head, and a drunken spree, And the blue-eyed wench deserted me, Go! lecture the woman, and let me be: Women and wine and war!"

So sang the Blackguard, while all his riotous gang roared out the chorus, and Mother Darkness, perched on the bar with my Lord of Misrule's big arms about her waist, rocked to and fro, crying "Lordy! Lordy!" at intervals.

"Boys," said the Blackguard, "who wouldn't be a soldier at fifty cents a day and die for a living!"

"Shut yer jaw! Can't you drink, Blackguard, without making speeches? Why, the smell of a cork sets you off. You'd talk the legs off a brass monkey!"

"What I say is," shouted Mutiny Saunders, in hot argument with his chum, Tribulation Jones,—"what I sez is, when a man's got an 'orse and looks after that 'orse, and grooms that 'orse, and gits to like 'is 'orse, and some 'alf-breed hofficer wants to take that 'orse away from 'im, and 'e bucks stiff-legged,—what I sez is, 'air on 'im!"

"Camp on 'is trail!" suggested Tribulation,—"make 'is life a burden to 'im. Oh, my Gawd, tear a bone out of 'im! What do you say, Blackguard?"

"Oh, keep it till the break of day.

"'Women and wine and war!'

Eh, Mother Darkness? Come and be Mrs. Blackguard. Boys, celebrate our nuptials, dance at our wedding, for Mother Darkness is to be Queen of the May—and share my Government straight, and pay my debts, and take in washing, and be my wife."

He kissed her ugly black face, while she rocked to and fro muttering "Lordy! Lordy!"

"I'll take a scarecrow in—I'll have a bally scarecrow for my wife!" shouted Billy Boy out of a corner. "Send round the poison, Blackguard."

"Yes, and to the blazes with poverty. Mother Darkness, my last dollar for the drinks—for now I'm clean-busted."

So while the drinks went round once more the Blackguard snatched up his guitar, and caught the lilt of some grand old Andalusian dance—

"Sing with me, Carita; Dance with me, Carita, Let the mad world sing the lilt of our gladness! Dance with me, Carita; Merrilie, Carita, Let the glad earth catch the lilt of our madness!"

The log-cabin allowed but space to swing a cat, as the saying is—although nobody had ever swung cats in it since its erection a month ago. Kept by a motherly negress, enterprising in the matter of illicit whisky, this shanty served as a canteen for the camp, levied half the available pay of D Troop, occasioned more trouble than all the Red Indians in Kootenay, and generally played the very deuce with public morals. As to the men who sat on soap boxes and barrels round the walls, or perched on the bar, giving cheek to Mother Darkness, well, of course, they should have been in bed long ago, and certainly they ought to have abstained from the trash which passed current at a shilling a drink for whisky; but then—the shanty was by proclamation "out of bounds"; to be found in it meant a heavy fine; to be caught beyond the limits of the camp after "lights out" meant punishment, and to drink illicit liquor was officially accounted worse than all the deadly sins; so, according to the natural history of man, there was every inducement for a roaring night. And the men? To the stature and

strength of an English Life Guardsman add the intelligence, courage, and impudence of a Black Watch veteran, and you have the prescription for a constable of the North-West Mounted Police. There is not in all the Empire a more splendid corps than this widely-scattered regiment of irregular cavalry, in time of peace hare-brained, half-mutinous, almost beyond the power of human control; in many a time of instant danger approved for stern endurance, utter loyalty, and headlong courage. These men in the shanty, waking the night with song and chorus, had each of them done great deeds of arms, for which nobody in authority or otherwise had given as much as a "Thank you." The tale has been told at many a camp fire, how a constable was sent once to track down a mad Indian who had killed and eaten his children. Months afterwards the Officer Commanding at Fort Edmonton was interrupted in the midst of a muster parade by a bearded civilian in rags, who walked up to him and halted at three paces with a correct salute.

"What the deuce do you want?" said the Officer Commanding.

"Come to report, sir."

"Who the devil are you?"

"Constable Saunders, sir,—got my prisoner in the guard-room."

That was Mutiny Saunders, who had tracked his victim fearlessly into goodness knows what awful recesses of the northern forest, who had been struck off the strength of the Force as "missing," but who never deigned to report himself alive until he carried out an almost impossible order and vindicated the majesty of British Justice by making the most extraordinary arrest in all the annals of the Empire.

Tribulation Jones, now arguing with Mutiny about a horse, was one of the seventy-five men who took part in the "Poundmaker Racket," when Crozier's Troop, confronted by thousands of armed Indians, charged, rode them down, wheeled, charged again, scattered them and carried off a necessary prisoner, and all without a single shot being fired.

Billy Boy, now howling out the chant of "Old King Cole," once drove a team two hundred and ten miles in two days without killing his horses, and in the darkest days of the North-West Rebellion carried despatches right through the enemy's lines.

Mackinaw Bob, leaning back against the shanty wall very drunk, was one of the thirty men who in Fort Walch defied for three days the largest Indian army ever raised, to wit, the Sioux forces of Sitting Bull, when they came to Canadian territory triumphant after the massacre of General Custer's 7th Cavalry.

The Blackguard? But the Blackguard's story is the purport of this present writing. He had taken up the bad old song called "Limerick," of many naughty verses, strung to an idiotic tune—

"Ho, there was a non-com. at Macleod Who got so infernally proud That he busted his vest With the swell of his chest, And they bore him away in a shroud.

Yah, there was a recruit at headquarters Who loved all the officers' daughters, But he couldn't choose which, So occasioned a hitch, And broke all the girls' hearts at headquarters."

"Boys, who's this Tenderfoot they've got at the officers' mess?"

"I found the duffer," said one of the boys just in from Windermere patrol,—"he'd strayed like a something Maverick—didn't know who he was or where he belonged to—lost his led horse with all his dunnage. I rounded him up and headed him in towards camp. His name's Ramsay."

"Is he any good?"

"No. Puts on enough side for a Governor-General, called me my good fellah—the blawsted Henglish jumped-up, copper-bottomed, second-hand, brass-bound swine."

"Where is he going to sleep?"

"Colonel's tent, I guess, unless the old man turns up unexpected; but he's still at the mess with a brandy-and-soda and two blanked adjectived Inspectors. I want to know what we've done that he should be palmed off on a white man's camp instead of old Isadore's Reserve, the rat-tailed, lop-eared, pigeon-livered son of a"—

"Boys, Providence has sent him here to be kicked, and shall we dispute the wisdom of Providence? I'll see to it, you fellows; and now, unless somebody's got credit with my future wife for the drinks, let us close the exercises by singing in a loud voice the words of that venerable summons known as the 'General Salute.'"

So the boys took up the goodly measure to a strenuous accompaniment of beaten pans in an uproar worthy of Pandemonium—

"Now here comes the Gen-e-ral, all venom and spleen, And he rides like a sack, with a string round the middle, Oh His head's full of fea-thers, and his heart's all woe, So 'present' while the band plays 'God save the Queen!'"

CHAPTER III

"Soldier, soldier, where are your breeches, pray? Soldier, soldier, get up and dust; Where the deuce have you hidden your brains away? Soldier, soldier, get up and dust. Busted the bugler? Send him to hospital; Can't you shut up that confounded row? Show a leg, and no damned profanity— Get out and sweat for a shillin' a day."

When the bugle had concluded making these remarks, when the echoes of the hills were calling back their greeting, the valley stirred under its blanket of mist, the Alps blushed red to the sun's first kiss, and the shadows of night ran to covert among the scented pines. The bugler was raking up a fire in front of the guard-tent with a view to his morning coffee, the picket was lounging drowsily home from the horse lines, and from every tent came sleepy execrations.

"Show a leg there! Get a move on you! Who the —— told you to tread on my legs! Réveille! Oh, give us a rest; who said Réveille?"

The bugler sounded "Dress!" and there was a further stirring as though half the tents would be overthrown. One by one the canvas flaps were thrown open, as men came out with their towels in search of tin basins generally mislaid. Then, it seemed but a few minutes afterwards, the bugler set the brazen tormentor to his lips to call stables—

"Oh, come to the stables and water your horses, And groom them a little and give them some hay, Groom them damned little and give them bad hay, Government grooming and Government hay; For if you don't do it the Colonel will know it, Then orderly-room—and the devil to pay."

At that the troop fell in, each man with his curry-comb and brush, some in canvas jackets, some without, one or two in deer-skin coats, all with long boots, and otherwise compromising their civilian appearance with traces of uniform, except the Orderly Sergeant, who wore correct undress. He had to bring parade to attention and call the roll, then, after a smart numbering off, to give the "Fours right, quick march!" which sent the column briskly away to the horse lines. Half an hour sufficed to water horses, clean up bedding, groom and feed, then the beasts were left in charge of a picket detailed to herd them to pasture for the day. The parade was dismissed, and the men strolled home to their tents thinking audibly on the subject of breakfast.