The Luck of the Mounted

The Luck of the Mounted

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Luck of the Mounted, by Ralph S. Kendall
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Title: The Luck of the Mounted A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police
Author: Ralph S. Kendall
Release Date: May 30, 2005 [eBook #15940]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LUCK OF THE MOUNTED***
E-text prepared by Al Haines

THE LUCK OF THE MOUNTED
A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police
by
SERGEANT RALPH S. KENDALL
Ex-Member of the R.N.W.M.P.
Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York
1920

This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt, That truest of adages--"Murder will out!" In vain may the blood-spiller "double" and fly, In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try: Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by He'll be sure to be caught by a Hue and a Cry! --THE INGOLDSBY LEGEND

TO
MY OLD COMRADES
PRESENT, AND EX-MEMBERS OF THE
R.N.W.M. POLICE
THIS WORK IS DEDICATED WITH EVERY KIND THOUGHT

CHAPTER I
_O sing us a song of days that are gone-- Of men and happenings--of war and peace; We love to yarn of "th' times that was" As our hair grows gray, and our years increase. So--revert we again to our ancient lays-- Fill we our pipes, and our glasses raise-- "Salue! to those stirring, bygone days!" Cry the old non-coms of the Mounted Police._ MEMORIES
All day long the blizzard had raged, in one continuous squalling moaning roar--the fine-spun snow swirling and drifting about the barrack-buildings and grounds of the old Mounted Police Post of L. Division. Whirraru!-ee!--thrumm-mm! hummed the biting nor'easter through the cross-tree rigging of the towering flag-pole in the centre of the wind-swept square, while the slapping flag-halyards kept up an infernal "devil's tattoo." With snow-bound roof from which hung huge icicles, like walrus-tusks, the big main building loomed up, ghostly and indistinct, amidst the whirling, white-wreathed world, save where, from the lighted windows broad streamers of radiance stabbed the surrounding gloom; reflecting the driving snow-spume like dust-motes dancing in a sunbeam.
Enveloped in snow-drifts and barely visible in the uncertain light there clustered about the central structure the long, low-lying guard-room, stables, quartermaster's store, and several smaller adjacent buildings comprising "The Barracks." It was a bitter February night in South Alberta.
From the vicinity of the guard-room the muffled-up figure of a man, with head down against the driving blizzard, padded noiselessly with moccasined feet up the pathway leading to the main building. Soon reaching his destination, he dived hastily through the double storm-doors of the middle entrance into the passage, and banged them to.
Flanking him on either side, in welcome contrast to the bitter world outside, he beheld the all-familiar sight of two inviting portals, each radiating light, warmth, and good fellowship--the one on his right hand particularly. A moment he halted irresolutely between regimental canteen and library; then, for some reason best known to himself, he steadily ignored both, for the time being, and passing on began slowly to mount a short flight of stairs at the end of the passage.
Sweet music beguiled each reluctant step of his ascent: the tinkle of a piano accompaniment to a roaring jovial chorus from the canteen assuring him with plaintive, but futile insistence just then, that--
_Beer, beer! was glorious beer, etc_.
Reaching the landing he paused for a space in an intent listening attitude outside the closed door of a room marked No. 3. From within came the sounds of men's voices raised in a high-pitched, gabbling altercation.
Turning swiftly to an imaginary audience, his expressive young countenance contorted into a grimace of unholy glee, the listener flung aloft his arms and blithely executed a few noiseless steps of an impromptu war-dance.
"They're at it again!" he muttered ecstatically.
Some seconds he capered thus in pantomime; then, as swiftly composing his features into a mask-like expression, he turned the handle and entered. On the big thermometer nailed outside the Orderly-room the mercury may have registered anything between twenty and thirty below zero, but inside Barrack-room No. 3 the temperature at that moment was warm enough.
Two men, seated at either end Of a long table in the centre of the room, busily engaged in cleaning their accoutrements, glanced up casually at his entrance; then, each vouchsafing him a preoccupied salutory mumble, they bent to their furbishing with the brisk concentration peculiar to "Service men" the world over. As an accompaniment to their labours, in desultory fashion, they kept alive the embers of a facetious wrangling argument--their respective vocabularies, albeit more or less ensanguined, exhibiting a fluent and masterly range of quaint barrack-room idiom and invective.
Both were clad in brown duck "fatigue slacks," the rolled-up sleeves of their "gray-back" shirts