Читать книгу Downey of the Mounted - James B. Hendryx - Страница 6

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SO it was, that, upon that hot, eventful day Cameron Downey stood in the doorway of his father’s store and listened for the sound of wheels. Then, he caught it—the sound for which he had been listening. But—he knew every creak and groan of the ramshackle wagon upon which he had helped to load the bepatched and gaudily painted row boat. This was a different sound—a rattle of lighter wheels, and a staccato of hoofbeats that by no stretch of the imagination could be ascribed to Old Bill, the venerable buggy horse of Banker Warring. There was something sinister in this sound,—a forboding—a premonition of evil. The sound grew louder. A team of young horses rounded the corner and drew up before the hitch rail of the store.

The boy scowled as he watched fat Mrs. Hunnish climb wheezily from the seat of the spring wagon and snap the hitch rope into the bit-ring of the off horse. The boy particularly disliked Mrs. Hunnish, wife of the “king” of the Hungarian colony that had taken up many broad acres of land a few miles to the southward. The Hungarian trade was a growing factor in the cosmos of the little western town and there was keen rivalry between Angus Downey and Bjone, his Norwegian competitor, to curry favor with Hunnish. They were a clannish folk—these Hungarians, and where Hunnish traded, all traded. The scowl deepened as the boy’s eyes rested upon a tub, and various crates that filled the box of the spring wagon.

The woman was on the sidewalk confronting him, her greasy fat face bestreaked with perspiration and the grey dust of the road, and her thick hands resting upon her ponderous hips. She looks big, and hot, and horrible, thought the boy, as he eyed with disfavor the white woolen stockings that overbulged the tops of the thick cow-hide shoes showing below the hem of the shapeless skirt which hung high above the sidewalk before, and all but swept it behind.

“Vat iss eggs?” demanded the woman, in a harsh, toneless voice. “Unt, vat iss budder?”

Eggs and butter! The boy’s heart sank as his glance shifted from the woman to the crates, and from the crates to the iced car that stood upon the siding near the depot. Summer eggs, dozens and dozens of them to be carefully candled. And, Mrs. Hunnish’s butter always had to be worked over and shipped. The local trade demanded good butter. All morning long he had toiled over rancid butter. No other iced car for a week, and Mrs. Hunnish’s eggs and butter must be on that car in time for the evening train to pick it up.

A thought leaped into the boy’s brain. He could name a price that would send Mrs. Hunnish to Bjone’s in high dudgeon. But—his father might lose the Hungarian trade that was just beginning to swing his way. He played for time.

“How much you got?”

“Seexty dossen eggs, unt t’irdy pound budder.”

“Your butter will all be melted, drivin’ in on a day like this,” objected the boy.

“Nah—dot iss not! Ve got it ice. Iss ice in de tub. Dot budder, he is goot.”

Across the street the gate latch clicked and Angus Downey stepped briskly toward them. The boy’s heart sank, for almost at the same moment Old Bill appeared walking sedately down the street drawing the rickety wagon with three boys perched proudly atop the load. Their farewell shouts were plainly audible as the outfit passed the bank where Mr. Warring stood in the doorway and waved his hat. Then the shouts were drowned by the voice of Angus Downey:

“Come, now! Ye’ve no time to stand idly by. Agin ye get the eggs candled an’ the butter worked over it’ll be train time an’ no iced car for a week!” The man turned and followed the Hungarian woman into the store.

The street blurred, the spring wagon became a swimming mountain of egg crates, and from some mysterious distance came the voices of the boys: “Come on, Cam! We’re off!”

Cameron gulped at the great lump that had risen in his throat, blinked his eyes to rid them of the tear-mist, and shook his head: “I can’t go. Anyway, not today. I’ve got to work.”

“But, yer dad promised, didn’t he?”

“Yes—but——”

“You bet, if my dad promised an’ then went back on it, I’d go anyway!”

“Come on, Cam, go anyway!”

“He can’t no more’n lick you when you get back.”

“An’ two week’s campin’s worth a lickin’ any day!”

“Jump on. We can be clean out of town before he knows yer gone!”

For an instant the boy hesitated—took a step toward the wagon, and then turned back to the egg crates. “No—I’ll stay. I can walk out tomorrow—or tonight, if I ain’t too tired.”

“It’s eighteen miles!”

“That’s all right. My granddad can walk further than that in just a little while.”

“Yer ’fraid of a lickin’, that’s all! I wouldn’t be ’fraid of no lickin.’ All right fer you! We don’t care whether you come or not. We don’t want no ’fraid cat! Giddap, Bill!”

From the doorway of the bank, Warring saw the wagon stop, and then saw it drive on, and for several minutes he watched the boy who didn’t go unload egg crates from the spring wagon. When he stepped into his office and sat down at his desk it was to mutter unmentionable words to the discredit of Angus Downey.

Late in the afternoon, the boy looked up as a form darkened the doorway of the hot little back room where he was candling eggs. The boy eyed the trim, red-coated figure with distinct approval: “Hello, Sarg! What you doin’ down this way?”

Sergeant Costello of the Royal North-West Mounted Police answered with a wry grin: “Sure, there’s other places Oi’d raythur be thin here. But, orders is orders, an’ Costello’s a slave to jooty.”

A fast friendship had grown up between the fifteen-year-old boy and the Sergeant of police whose patrol frequently brought him to the little town in the rapidly settling community. It was the officer’s wont upon these occasions to put up his horse at the livery stable, and take lodgings in the small room over Angus Downey’s store. And many an evening the boy had listened for hours on end to the Sergeant’s tales of long patrols, by canoe, and by dog-sled in the far North, and on horseback in the provinces. There were tales of starving Indians, of disaster, of hardship endured and conquered, and of death. There were tales of man-fights, and of fights against fire, and flood, and snow, and ice, and pestilence, and the seething waters of the unmapped rapids of rivers. From the tales of his grandfather, and of Sergeant Costello the boy had builded a wondrous fabric of dream-existence, which was his very own—unshared even by his mother, or by the boys who were his closest associates. The fact of his humdrum existence in school and in his father’s store was a mere incident to be endured until such time as he could free himself and seek, in fact, the road to high adventure which he so often trod in fancy.

“There’s other places I’d rather be than here, too,” answered the boy, and the officer noted the disconsolate tone in his young friend’s voice.

“Sure, an’ Oi’m bettin’ ye wud. Who the divil wud be candlin’ aigs fer the fun av ut?” The Sergeant seated himself on a nail keg, leaned comfortably back against the door, and proceeded deliberately to fill his pipe. “Be the sound av yer words Oi take ut, there’s wan place in particular ye’d rayther be at the moment. ’Tis the same wid meself. So, be way av passin’ the toime we’ll onboozum ourselves an’ howld a two-handed wake over the corpse of our lost disappointmints. Out wid ut—where wud ye rayther be?”

The boy answered the officer’s grin with a half-hearted smile: “I’d rather be campin’ out in the Hills with the boys. They went this afternoon. I was goin’, too—but just at the last minute that fat old greasy Mrs. Hunnish drove in with these eggs an’ all that butter, an’ I had to stay here an’ get it ready to go in the iced car.”

The officer nodded his sympathy; “Well, now, that’s too bad entoirely. Mrs. Hunnish, ye say. Ut’s Hunnish is king av the Hunkies down to the colony. ’Tis a serious charge ye’ve laid agin her, but onfortunately ut ain’t in the manual. Oi’ll bear ut in moind though, an’ if she iver chops up her man wid an ax, or commits any loike misdemeanor agin the peace an’ dignity av Saskatchewan, loike thim ferriners admires to do, Oi’ll lock her up good.”

The half-hearted smile expanded into a real laugh: “All right, Sarg. Now it’s your turn. Where would you rather be than here?”

“Ye should know, then, that the bank at Yorkton was robbed the other night. ’Twas done be men who knew their business. Divil a thing did anyone know about ut till marnin’, whin they opened the bank to find the big iron vault door standin’ open an’ all warped an’ twisted be some high explosive—yet not a sound was heard by anyone doorin’ the night. ’Twas a good job altogether, an’ they was well paid fer their work, what wid the money pilin’ up in the banks agin the comin’ harvest. They’re the kind av min, thinks Oi, when Oi hurd ut, that ’twill be a pleasure an’ a privilege to have a hand in their capture. They’ll hit south, thinks Oi, fer the States, an’ Oi was goin’ over in me moind the lay av the land whin a rooky comes in wid the Inspector’s compliments an’ he wants to see me. Oi reports an’ salutes—official. The Inspector he looks me over. ‘Oi’ve a daytail,’ says he, ‘that rayquires a man wid experience an’ discretion.’

“ ‘Oi think, sor, they’ve hit south,’ says Oi.

“ ‘Who?’ says he.

“ ‘Why, the bank robbers,’ says Oi.

“ ‘Doubtless,’ says he, ‘we’ll pick ’em up in a day or two. They’ll niver reach the line. Ye’re to ride west an’ investigate these complaints’. An’ wid that he up an’ hands me a bunch av complaints, an’ here they are.” The officer drew a small sheaf of papers from his pocket and stared at them sadly. “Oi give him a look, an’ saluted—official. Then, onofficial, Oi speaks out, man to man—fer he’s a good fellow, Inspector McDonell—none finer. ‘Oi take notice,’ sez Oi, ‘the list av horrible crimes ye’ve give me to investigate incloods, sellin’ stray sheep, wife beatin’, insultin’ language, trespassin’ on railway, false pretences, an’ beatin’ a board bill. ’Tis too bad,’ sez Oi, ‘that no wan has spit on a sidewalk between here an’ Saskatoon. Oi’d admire fer some real rough work now an’ thin, mixed in wid me jooty.’

“The inspector he grins—unofficial. ‘Git on wid ye,’ says he. ‘ ’Tis the handlin’ av complaints loike these that calls for rare dayplomacy an’ sound judgment. ’Tis no job for a rookie, an’ well ye know ut. ’Tis the proper disposal of such matters that kapes a sweet taste in the mouths of the inmates av the glorious province of Saskatchewan,’ sez he, or words to that effect.

“ ‘ ’Tis proud Oi am to have rose to the dignity av a cud av molasses an’ git daytailed to kape a sweet taste in the mouth av the Hunks, an’ the Wops, an’ the Persians, an’ Dookabores that’s lyin’ the Governmint out av its claims,’ sez Oi, an’ salutes, official, an’ departs wid a grin on the faces av both, though there’s no grin in me heart as Oi goes to the stables an’ saddles up an’ watched Corporal Tyne ride south wid a bunch av rookies that don’t know be lookin’ ut in the face whether the ind av a gun is round er square.”

“Gee! I’d like a chance to go after the robbers! I bet you hate that Inspector!”

“No, no, bye! Ut’s all in a loifetime. ’Tis a poor man thot grumbles at the daytail he draws. An’ a worser wan yet that nurses a grudge agin his superior. ’Tis only a fool that grumbles at the breaks av the game. Things evens up in the long run. An’, next toime it’ll be me ridin’ off on the trail av a real job, an’ Tyne drawin’ maybe it’s a sick Injun daytail.”

“Guess it’s about the same, in the police, or out of it,” said the boy, “but it’s pretty tough on a fellow, sometimes.”

“Sure, an’ ut is,” agreed the Sergeant. “But ut’s the tough jobs that makes tough min. ’Tis the same wid the muscles an’ wid the mind. A tough-minded man hangs to the job—an’ if he’s likewise tough muscled, he’ll finish ut. ’Tis no good to be tough-minded an’ flabby muscled, an’ worser yet to be tough muscled an’ flabby minded. ’Tis what they call co-ordination, an’ ut means that a taykittle is a domned poor tool unless you’ve got water to bile in ut.” The Sergeant knocked the dottle from his pipe and refilled it. “There’s an owld sayin’ to the effec’ that jooty has uts own reward. An’ the funny part about it, it’s true. Take me, now—today. Oi rides up to the farm av Nick Goryk, an Austrian. Ut was rayported he’d beat up his wife at a dance in the schoolhouse. They was both down be the barn an’ Oi seen at a glance her face showed signs av raycent combat. There was a red blotch in the white av wan av her eyes, an’ the skin around ’em looked loike ut was just comin’ out av the black. Oi dismounts, an’ begun readin’ the riot act to um, loosin’ soight av her as Oi got more interested in me sermon, when—blam! The she-divil sneaks up behind me an’ knocks me clane off me feet wid a whack over the head wid a fork handle. Oi gits up reelin’ dizzy, an’ raycovers me hat an’ then Oi makes her a bow, polite loike. Ave Oi do say ut myself, ’tis few Oirishmen ye can hit over the head wid a fork handle an’ have um raytort wid a bow. Oi’m glad Oi wasn’t a rookie, an’ come back at her wid me fist or the toe av me boot—t’would of done no good at all, an’ give the police a black eye in the community. So Oi bows, an’ Oi says to her: ‘A darlint blow, Mrs. Goryk—but futile entoirely.’ Then Oi climed onto me horse, fer Oi didn’t know how much English she had, an’ Oi turned to Goryk who stud starin’ loike he expected thim both to be executed on the spot be due process av law. He’d been in the country long enough to savvy somethin’ av the nature av an assault on the person av an officer of police. He was scairt to a pale green. Oi looks him square in the eye. ‘Goryk,’ says Oi, ‘Oi hope ye won’t consthroo anything Oi’ve said as interfearin’ in any way wid the proper chastisement av yer wife. But thry an’ confine yer activities to the bosom av yer family. Let the action take place on yer own farm, an’ not upon the highways, nor at public gatherin’s. Go to it,’ says Oi, ‘tooth an’ nail, fist an’ bludgeon—an’ power to ye’re strong right arm!’ An’ thin Oi turned an’ rode away, leavin’ him standin’ there gawpin’ loike he cud hardly rayalize he’d be’n let live.”

Cammie laughed as the officer gingerly fingered the lump on the back of his head. “He probably didn’t understand anything you said.”

“Maybe not,” grinned the Sergeant, “but, anyway, he onderstood as much av the last as he did av the furst—or maybe he just acted on his own natural impulses. For, whin Oi dismounted at the gate to let meself out onto the road, Oi give wan more look, an’ the soight that met me eyes filled me heart wid joy. For there was Goryk, whalin’ away wid a neckyoke thryin’ to knock the pitchfork from the hands av his bride—an’ her proddin’ an’ jabbin’ to reach his guts wid the tines av ut. ’Twas a happy scene av domestic life. ‘God bless ye, me children,’ Oi mutters as Oi digs up me pencil an’ writes across the back av the complaint: ‘Matter adjusted to the satisfaction av all concerned.’ So that’s what the Inspector meant be ‘experience an’ discression.’ An’ that’s what Oi meant whin Oi said that even the dullest paths av jooty are brightened, now an’ then, be little spots av happiness an’ amoosement.”

“Do you know the shortest trail to Crooked Lake, out in the Hills?” asked the boy, as he finished with the eggs and tackled the tub of butter.

“Sure, Oi do. Wid a wagon ye’ve got to kape on the main trail an’ ut’s a matter av eighteen or twinty miles. But horseback, or afoot, a man cud cut off half a dozen miles or more be leavin’ the trail at the old Johnson ranch, crossin’ the ford, an’ follerin’ up the river to where the trail crosses ut agin at the edge av the Hills. The trail has to swing miles out av the way to avoid the big muskeg, but this toime av year both man an’ horse can cross ut wid safety.”

“You mean the old Johnson place a half a mile up the river?”

“The same. Was ye thinkin’ av footin’ it out in the marnin’?”

“Tonight,” answered the boy. “There’s a full moon and it will be almost as light as day. Dad said I could go today—but I had to stay and get this stuff ready for the car.”

“ ’Tis a good lad ye are, Cammie. Tough minded an’ tough muscled—’tis the timber we nade in the Service.”

“The boys thought I stayed because I was afraid of a lickin’.”

The Sergeant thumped his knee with his fist: “What do ye care what they think? What do ye care what anyone thinks? Learn to do ye’re own thinkin’, an’ to pay no heed to what anyone thinks. Learn, too, that there ain’t wan person in tin thousan’ that knows how to think—the rest av ’em thinks they think. When ye find wan that can think, he stands out conspicuous above the common run. It has always be’n so—an’ always will. Take amoosement from what others think—but give it no heed. Anyone cud ride out to Crooked Lake in a wagon in the daytime over a hot dusty trail—there is small comfort or pleasure in that. But, alone, afoot, in the moonlight—that’s somethin’ real—somethin’ worthwhile in utself. ’Tis the bright spot that comes as jooty’s own reward. Oi’d loike to be goin’ wid ye, son, but me own jooty calls me westward. So Oi must start out in the marnin’ to lay the heavy hand av the law on the shoulder av a man that sold a stray sheep to a butcher.”