Pierre And His People | Page 7

if it was something that both you and the Patrol
would be the better for, you couldn't object, Sergeant." But the
Sergeant only saluted, looking steadily into the eyes of the officer. That
was his reply. Private Gellatly, standing without, heard Sergeant Fones
say, as he passed into the open air, and slowly bared his forehead to the
winter sun:
"Exactly."
And Private Gellatly cried, with revolt in his voice, "Divils me own, the
word that a't to have been full o' joy was like the clip of a rifle- breech."
Justice in a new country is administered with promptitude and vigour,
or else not administered at all. Where an officer of the Mounted Police-
Soldiery has all the powers of a magistrate, the law's delay and the
insolence of office have little space in which to work. One of the
commonest slips of virtue in the Canadian West was selling whisky
contrary to the law of prohibition which prevailed. Whisky runners
were land smugglers. Old Brown Windsor had, somehow, got the
reputation of being connected with the whisky runners; not a very
respectable business, and thought to be dangerous. Whisky runners
were inclined to resent intrusion on their privacy with a touch of that
biting inhospitableness which a moonlighter of Kentucky uses toward
an inquisitive, unsympathetic marshal. On the Cypress Hills Patrol,
however, the erring servants of Bacchus were having a hard time of it.
Vigilance never slept there in the days of which these lines bear record.
Old Brown Windsor had, in words, freely espoused the cause of the
sinful. To the careless spectator it seemed a charitable siding with the
suffering; a proof that the old man's heart was not so cold as his hands.
Sergeant Fones thought differently, and his mission had just been to
warn the store-keeper that there was menacing evidence gathering
against him, and that his friendship with Golden Feather, the Indian

Chief, had better cease at once. Sergeant Fones had a way of putting
things. Old Brown Windsor endeavoured for a moment to be sarcastic.
This was the brief dialogue in the domain of sarcasm:
"I s'pose you just lit round in a friendly sort of way, hopin' that I'd
kenoodle with you later."
"Exactly."
There was an unpleasant click to the word. The old man's hands got
colder. He had nothing more to say.
Before leaving, the Sergeant said something quietly and quickly to
Young Aleck. Pierre observed, but could not hear. Young Aleck was
uneasy; Pierre was perplexed. The Sergeant turned at the door, and said
in French: "What are your chances for a Merry Christmas at Pardon's
Drive, Pretty Pierre?" Pierre answered nothing. He shrugged his
shoulders, and as the door closed, muttered, "Il est le diable." And he
meant it. What should Sergeant Fones know of that intended meeting at
Pardon's Drive on Christmas Day? And if he knew, what then? It was
not against the law to play euchre. Still it perplexed Pierre. Before the
Windsors, father and son, however, he was, as we have seen, playfully
cool.
After quitting Old Brown Windsor's store, Sergeant Fones urged his
stout broncho to a quicker pace than usual. The broncho was, like
himself, wasteful of neither action nor affection. The Sergeant had
caught him wild and independent, had brought him in, broken him, and
taught him obedience. They understood each other; perhaps they loved
each other. But about that even Private Gellatly had views in common
with the general sentiment as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The
private remarked once on this point "Sarpints alive! the heels of the one
and the law of the other is the love of them. They'll weather together
like the Divil and Death."
The Sergeant was brooding; that was not like him. He was hesitating;
that was less like him. He turned his broncho round as if to cross the
Big Divide and to go back to Windsor's store; but he changed his mind
again, and rode on toward David Humphrey's ranch. He sat as if he had
been born in the saddle. His was a face for the artist, strong and clear,
and having a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deepset and
watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the short
upper lip, to which the moustache was clipped close--a good fit, like his

coat. The disdain was more marked this morning.
The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the second part
by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him was one of
apprehension for Young Aleck and those of Young Aleck's name. She
knew that people spoke of her lover as a ne'er-do-weel; and that they
associated his name freely with that of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She