Christmas Day came. People said that the fiercest night, since the blizzard day of 1863, had been passed. But the morning was clear and beautiful. The sun came up like a great flower expanding. First the yellow, then the purple, then the red, and then a mighty shield of roses. The world was a blanket of drift, and down, and glistening silver.
Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a smile as only springs to a thankful woman’s lips. He had given his word and had kept it; and the path of the future seemed surer.
He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him. Plans for coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many voices filled the house. The ne’er-do-weel was clothed and in his right mind. In the Hunter’s Room the noblest trophy was the heart of a repentant prodigal.
In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted, announcing, with such technical language as is the custom, that Sergeant Fones was promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted Police Force of the North West Territory. When the officer in command sent for him he could not be found. But he was found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with a warm hand, touching the glove of “iron and ice” that, indeed, now said: “Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you!” he gave no sign. Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his horse, beside a stunted larch tree. The broncho seemed to understand, for he did not stir, and had not done so for hours;—they could tell that. The bridle rein was still in the frigid fingers, and a smile was upon the face.
A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones!
Perhaps he smiled that he was going to the Barracks of the Free—
“Free among the Dead like unto them that are wounded and lie in the grave, that are out of remembrance.”
In the wild night he had lost his way, though but a few miles from the barracks.
He had done his duty rigidly in that sphere of life where he had lived so much alone among his many comrades. Had he exceeded his duty once in arresting Young Aleck?
When, the next day, Sergeant Fones lay in the barracks, over him the flag for which he had sworn to do honest service, and his promotion papers in his quiet hand, the two who loved each other stood beside him for many a throbbing minute. And one said to herself, silently: “I felt sometimes”—but no more words did she say even to herself.
Old Aleck came in, and walked to where the Sergeant slept, wrapped close in that white frosted coverlet which man wears but once. He stood for a moment silent, his fingers numbly clasped.
Private Gellatly spoke softly: “Angels betide me, it’s little we knew the great of him till he wint away; the pride, and the law—and the love of him.”
In the tragedy that faced them this Christmas morning one at least had seen “the love of him.” Perhaps the broncho had known it before.
Old Aleck laid a palm upon the hand he had never touched when it had life. “He’s—too—ha’sh,” he said slowly.
Private Gellatly looked up wonderingly. But the old man’s eyes were wet.
GOD’S GARRISON
Twenty years ago there was trouble at Fort o’ God. “Out of this place we get betwixt the suns,” said Gyng the Factor. “No help that falls abaft tomorrow could save us. Food dwindles, and ammunition’s nearly gone, and they’ll have the cold steel in our scalp-locks if we stay. We’ll creep along the Devil’s Causeway, then through the Red Horn Woods, and so across the plains to Rupert House. Whip in the dogs, Baptiste, and be ready all of you at midnight.”
“And Grah the Idiot—what of him”? asked Pretty Pierre.
“He’ll have to take his chance. If he can travel with us, so much the better for him”; and the Factor shrugged his shoulders.
“If not, so much the worse, eh”? returned Pretty Pierre.
“Work the sum out to suit yourself. We’ve got our necks to save. God’ll have to help the Idiot if we can’t.”
“You hear, Grah Hamon, Idiot,” said Pierre an hour afterwards, “we’re going to leave Fort o’ God and make for Rupert House. You’ve a dragging leg, you’re gone in the savvy, you have to balance yourself with your hands as you waddle along, and you slobber when you talk; but you’ve got to cut away with us quick across the Beaver Plains, and Christ’ll have to help you if we can’t. That’s what the Factor says, and that’s how the case stands, Idiot—‘bien?’ ”
“Grah want pipe—bubble—bubble—wind blow,” muttered the daft one.
Pretty Pierre bent over and said slowly: “If you stay here, Grah, the Indian get your scalp; if you go, the snow is deep and the frost is like a badger’s tooth, and you can’t be carried.”
“Oh, Oh!—my mother dead—poor Annie—by God, Grah want pipe—poor Grah sleep in snow-bubble, bubble—Oh, Oh!—the long wind, fly away.”
Pretty Pierre watched the great head of the Idiot as it swung heavily on his shoulders, and then said: “ ‘Mais,’ like that, so!” and turned away.
When the party were about to sally forth on their perilous path to safety, Gyng stood and cried angrily: “Well, why hasn’t some one bundled up that moth-eaten Caliban? Curse it all, must I do everything myself?”
“But you see,” said Pierre, “the Caliban stays at Fort o’ God.”
“You’ve got a Christian heart in you, so help me, Heaven!” replied the other. “No, sir, we give him a chance—and his Maker too for that matter, to show what He’s willing to do for His misfits.”
Pretty Pierre rejoined, “Well, I have thought. The game is all against Grah if he go; but there are two who stay at Fort o’ God.”
And that is how, when the Factor and his half-breeds and trappers stole away in silence towards the Devil’s Causeway, Pierre and the Idiot remained behind. And that is why the flag of the H. BC still flew above Fort o’ God in the New Year’s sun just twenty years ago to-day.
The Hudson’s Bay Company had never done a worse day’s work than when they promoted Gyng to be chief factor. He loathed the heathen and he showed his loathing. He had a heart harder than iron, a speech that bruised worse than the hoof of an angry moose. And when at last he drove away a band of wandering Sioux, foodless, from the stores, siege and ambush took the place of prayer, and a nasty portion fell to Fort o’ God. For the Indians found a great cache of buffalo meat, and, having sent the women and children south with the old men, gave constant and biting assurances to Gyng that the heathen hath his hour, even though he be a dog which is refused those scraps from the white man’s table which give life in the hour of need. Besides all else, there was in the Fort the thing which the gods made last to humble the pride of men—there was rum.
And the morning after Gyng and his men had departed, because it was a day when frost was master of the sun, and men grew wild for action, since to stand still was to face indignant Death, they, who camped without, prepared to make a sally upon the wooden gates. Pierre saw their intent, and hid in the ground some pemmican and all the scanty rum. Then he looked at his powder and shot, and saw that there was little left. If he spent it on the besiegers, how should they fare for beast and fowl in hungry days? And for his rifle he had but a brace of bullets. He rolled these in his hand, looking upon them with a grim smile. And the Idiot, seeing, rose and sidled towards him, and said: “Poor Grah want pipe—bubble—bubble.” Then a light of childish cunning came into his eyes, and he touched the bullets blunderingly, and continued: “Plenty,