All of the tales have appeared in magazines and journals—namely, ‘The National Observer’, ‘Macmillan’s’, ‘The National Review’, and ‘The English Illustrated’; and ‘The Independent of New York’. By the courtesy of the proprietors of these I am permitted to republish.
G. P.
HARPENDEN, HERTFORDSHIRE, July, 1892.
THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS
“He’s too ha’sh,” said old Alexander Windsor, as he shut the creaking door of the store after a vanishing figure, and turned to the big iron stove with outstretched hands; hands that were cold both summer and winter. He was of lean and frigid make.
“Sergeant Fones is too ha’sh,” he repeated, as he pulled out the damper and cleared away the ashes with the iron poker.
Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette smoke into the air, tilted his chair back, and said: “I do not know what you mean by ‘ha’sh,’ but he is the devil. Eh, well, there was more than one devil made sometime in the North West.” He laughed softly.
“That gives you a chance in history, Pretty Pierre,” said a voice from behind a pile of woollen goods and buffalo skins in the centre of the floor. The owner of the voice then walked to the window. He scratched some frost from the pane and looked out to where the trooper in dog-skin coat, gauntlets and cap, was mounting his broncho. The old man came and stood near the young man—the owner of the voice—and said again: “He’s too ha’sh.”
“Harsh you mean, father,” added the other.
“Yes, harsh you mean, Old Brown Windsor—quite harsh,” said Pierre.
Alexander Windsor, storekeeper and general dealer, was sometimes called “Old Brown Windsor” and sometimes “Old Aleck,” to distinguish him from his son, who was known as “Young Aleck.”
As the old man walked back again to the stove to warm his hands, Young Aleck continued: “He does his duty, that’s all. If he doesn’t wear kid gloves while at it, it’s his choice. He doesn’t go beyond his duty. You can bank on that. It would be hard to exceed that way out here.”
“True, Young Aleck, so true; but then he wears gloves of iron, of ice. That is not good. Sometime the glove will be too hard and cold on a man’s shoulder, and then!—Well, I should like to be there,” said Pierre, showing his white teeth.
Old Aleck shivered, and held his fingers where the stove was red hot.
The young man did not hear this speech; from the window he was watching Sergeant Fones as he rode towards the Big Divide. Presently he said: “He’s going towards Humphrey’s place. I—” He stopped, bent his brows, caught one corner of his slight moustache between his teeth, and did not stir a muscle until the Sergeant had passed over the Divide.
Old Aleck was meanwhile dilating upon his theme before a passive listener. But Pierre was only passive outwardly. Besides hearkening to the father’s complaints he was closely watching the son. Pierre was clever, and a good actor. He had learned the power of reserve and outward immobility. The Indian in him helped him there. He had heard what Young Aleck had just muttered; but to the man of the cold fingers he said: “You keep good whisky in spite of the law and the iron glove, Old Aleck.” To the young man: “And you can drink it so free, eh, Young Aleck?”
The half-breed looked out of the corners of his eyes at the young man, but he did not raise the peak of his fur cap in doing so, and his glances askance were not seen.
Young Aleck had been writing something with his finger-nail on the frost of the pane, over and over again. When Pierre spoke to him thus he scratched out the word he had written, with what seemed unnecessary force. But in one corner it remained:
“Mab—”
Pierre added: “That is what they say at Humphrey’s ranch.”
“Who says that at Humphrey’s?—Pierre, you lie!” was the sharp and threatening reply. The significance of this last statement had been often attested on the prairies by the piercing emphasis of a six-chambered revolver. It was evident that Young Aleck was in earnest. Pierre’s eyes glowed in the shadow, but he idly replied:
“I do not remember quite who said it. Well, ‘mon ami,’ perhaps I lie; perhaps. Sometimes we dream things, and these dreams are true. You call it a lie—‘bien!’ Sergeant Fones, he dreams perhaps Old Aleck sells whisky against the law to men you call whisky runners, sometimes to Indians and half-breeds—halfbreeds like Pretty Pierre. That was a dream of Sergeant Fones; but you see he believes it true. It is good sport, eh? Will you not take—what is it?—a silent partner? Yes; a silent partner, Old Aleck. Pretty Pierre has spare time, a little, to make money for his friends and for himself, eh?”
When did not Pierre have time to spare? He was a gambler. Unlike the majority of half-breeds, he had a pronounced French manner, nonchalant and debonair.
The Indian in him gave him coolness and nerve. His cheeks had a tinge of delicate red under their whiteness, like those of a woman. That was why he was called Pretty Pierre. The country had, however, felt a kind of weird menace in the name. It was used to snakes whose rattle gave notice of approach or signal of danger. But Pretty Pierre was like the death-adder, small and beautiful, silent and deadly. At one time he had made a secret of his trade, or thought he was doing so. In those days he was often to be seen at David Humphrey’s home, and often in talk with Mab Humphrey; but it was there one night that the man who was ha’sh gave him his true character, with much candour and no comment.
Afterwards Pierre was not seen at Humphrey’s ranch. Men prophesied that he would have revenge some day on Sergeant Fones; but he did not show anything on which this opinion could be based. He took no umbrage at being called Pretty Pierre the gambler. But for all that he was possessed of a devil.
Young Aleck had inherited some money through his dead mother from his grandfather, a Hudson’s Bay factor. He had been in the East for some years, and when he came back he brought his “little pile” and an impressionable heart with him. The former Pretty Pierre and his friends set about to win; the latter, Mab Humphrey won without the trying. Yet Mab gave Young Aleck as much as he gave her. More. Because her love sprang from a simple, earnest, and uncontaminated life. Her purity and affection were being played against Pierre’s designs and Young Aleck’s weakness. With Aleck cards and liquor went together. Pierre seldom drank.
But what of Sergeant Fones? If the man that knew him best—the Commandant—had been asked for his history, the reply would have been: “Five years in the Service, rigid disciplinarian, best non-commissioned officer on the Patrol of the Cypress Hills.” That was all the Commandant knew.
A soldier-policeman’s life on the frontier is rough, solitary, and severe. Active duty and responsibility are all that make it endurable. To few is it fascinating. A free and thoughtful nature would, however, find much in it, in spite of great hardships, to give interest and even pleasure. The sense of breadth and vastness, and the inspiration of pure air could be a very gospel of strength, beauty, and courage, to such an one—for a time.