Читать книгу Scarlett of the Mounted - Marguerite Merington - Страница 3

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LOST SHOE CREEK

Parson MacLane came running along the rough trail, his dogs, Telegraph and Wrangel, named after former mission charges, following. As he paused at the crest of a hill to take breath and wipe the grime from his face he smiled, for over the thicket of scrub willow that lay between him and Lost Shoe Creek rose the voices of the "boys" he had traveled far to reach. Then he sighed, because the jest and song, as he heard them, were ribald; the laughter thick with drink. Finally, reflecting that in no human heart had he ever found evil so strong but that the good was stronger, he smiled again, and stooping to pluck from a low-growing bush the deep crimson wild rose of the north, he set this in his buttonhole, and squaring his shoulders for a fresh bout with his old adversary of horns and cloven hoof, trotted cheerily down the steep incline.

With an expiring wheeze the concertina dropped from the singer's hand. One of the group playing Black Jack, looked up. "Go on, Bill! Thar's other verses—an' each more decorative than the last!"

Lighting a pipe, Bill shook his head. "Grand opera sore throat! Left my music at home—and home," he added, under his ragged mustache, "is so cursed far away!"

Mops' remonstrance was cut short by a disparaging comment on his methods of card-playing from a raw-boned Scotchman who had lost an inconsiderable amount. "You accuse me o' cheatin'?"

"Aweel!" Sandy scratched his head. "While it's na' to say cheating it's na' to say fair playing neither!"

"You liar!" kicking over the barrel that served for a table, with a volley of oaths Mops sprang at him, and a free fight would have ensued but for the intervention of the more cautious, who, pointing to a squalid bundle from which lusty snores were issuing, reminded the belligerents that if Bully Nick were roused from his innocent slumbers some indiscriminate gun-play might be looked for, transmuting every mother's son into cold meat. This argument prevailed; peace was restored and celebrated in the dire wassail of the district, served in the open by Ikey, bartender of the dilapidated refreshment-tent nearby, and by general consent charged to the protesting but helpless Sandy.

It was at this auspicious moment that, followed by his dogs, rose in buttonhole, and with smiling countenance, Parson Maclane made his entrance into the camp on Lost Shoe Creek.

Hailing the newcomer as dude and tenderfoot, with winks and nudges among themselves the men prepared to "have fun" with him. Raising their glasses in derisive welcome, "Hello, stranger!" they chorused. "'Drink your health!"

"Thanks, friends, but I fear you are not drinking your own!"

"By gum," cried Mops, delightedly, "if he ain't a blamed teetotaller!"

"The Laird kens we hae need o' sic," hiccoughed Sandy. "Hoots, but we're a sinfu' crew! Ikey, lad, mair whuskey!"

While glasses were being refilled, this time at Mops' expense, Maclane went toward the tent, over whose entrance hung the sign KLONDIKE DELMONICO'S. GUMBOOT ANNIE. Addressing the plump female in jersey and culottes, who lolled beneath, picking her teeth skilfully: "Good day, madam," he began, baring his head. "I should like to speak with the proprietor."

Gumboot Annie took time to spit before replying, "I am the lady."

"I want to hold a prayer-meeting. Will you lend me your tent?"

"Lend! Me lend anything! Now wouldn't that pa'alyze yer!" she demanded of the listening prospectors. "I ain't up here fer me health," she then explained to Maclane, "but I'll sell or rent anything in sight. Twenty dollars is the price for a Gospel show!"

"Agreed!"

"Thar's a bar in thar, y'know!"

"Oh, the bar's no hindrance!" The minister already was unstrapping his pack of hymnals. "But I warn you I shall preach against the evils of drink."

"That's all right. The boys ull be jest as thirsty! Say, fer five dollars you kin convert Ikey. He's useter it. He gives his experiences real cute. Water is two bits a bucket, but fer a baptism attraction I'll throw it in!"

Refusing with a gesture, the minister seized the dinner-bell from its nail and rang it vigorously. "Prayer-meeting and service of song. All are cordially welcome!"

"Wouldn't it be slick ter dump him in the creek," suggested one.

"No, no! Lay low till Bully Nick wakes up! Nick ull fix him," said Mops, to which the rest agreed, "Betcherlife!"

"Come, boys," urged Maclane, "who'll lead the way?"

After a chilly silence, "Don't all speak at once," jeered Mops. "Don't crowd the mourners," echoed Bill.

"You have mothers, sweethearts, wives, who never cease to pray for you. Won't you spare a few minutes from Black Jack to put up a prayer for them?"

A pause followed, during which Bill swallowed a lump in his throat and tried not to think of the mother in Montreal, whose last letter he had been carrying about for eleven months, unanswered. Mops sent Ikey for more drinks.

"'Twull be a saving i' the lang run!" Foreseeing that he might again be called upon to pay, Sandy stumbled toward the tent, falling over rows of jocosely outstretched feet. "I misdoot my gait is na sae steady as it micht be! A touch o' scurvy!"

"Oh, we're all liable to trip!" Maclane helped him up. "Who'll be next?"

"Count me in, Dominie!" An elderly man, gaunt and ill-clad, gold-pan under his arm, climbed the banks of the creek and entered the tent.

"Old Lucky's down on his luck, but he gen'lly knows whar the gold is!" A boyish-looking prospector, who had been wanting an excuse, joined him.

Several followed the example, till at last only Nick and his bodyguard remained outside. When a rousing chorus of "Onward, Christian Soldiers," pealed forth from the tent, Mops chuckled joyously. "Look out fer fireworks! Nick's waking!"

After preliminary grunts and stretchings the Bully sat up in his ugliest mood. "Wot th' hell—— Is this Jedgment Day?"

"Naw! Only some blasted holy windmill come for to save our souls," Bill informed him.

"The cursed stiff!" Nick sprang toward the tent. "I'll teach him ter meddle with my anatomy!" He cocked his pistol. "One, two——"

"Bully Nick! He never misses the bull's-eye!" shouted his delighted followers.

At this juncture a fresh-skinned young giant in blouse and overalls, who had been chopping kindlings by Gumboot Annie's woodpile, dropped his hatchet and strolled up with a casual air wholly at variance with the keen, hawk-like glance of his gray-blue eyes. As Nick told off the last minutes of Parson Maclane's earthly span, the newcomer pinioned him in a grasp of iron from behind. "Not this time, Bully Nick!"

"Eh? Who the mischief are ye to stop me?" is the polite, free rendering of Nick's impolite free speech. "I don't think I hev the pleasure of your acquaintance, my lad!"

"I've been wanting for some time to make yours!" The young man seemed quite unconcerned that the toughest gang in the district had forcibly detached him from their chief and were holding him prisoner.

"It's just a looney Irishman that's been hanging 'round all day! Ain't worth a bullet, Nick!" At heart, Bill disliked human targets for sport.

"Powerful strong! His muscles ud be wuth more ter ye than his darned hide, Nick," supplemented Mops, who, while without prejudices as to bloodshed, sometimes was called on to exert himself unduly.

"I'll assay him," decreed the Bully. "Fust he shall drink my health! Mops, you hold the booze ter the stiff's mouth! Bill, you got a ticker; you keep time. Now, sonny, I give yer jest two minutes fer mamma's little baby boy ter say his prayers in, or ter git good an' drunk, like me. See?"

The young man yawned, with a bored expression. "Excuse my not putting my hand before my mouth, gentlemen!"

"One minute gone, pard!" admonished Bill.

"Phew!" The prisoner spat out the liquid Mops forced between his lips. "That filthy stuff! I only drink the best! Besides, 'tis smuggled, and, living or dead, I should incur a fine with contraband goods on, or in, my person!"

"You all-fired nateral, do yer want ter be a angel?" growled the Bully.

"Faith, I wasn't aspiring to such promotion," admitted the stranger. "But I'd look prettier that way than making myself a drunken beast like you, Nick!"

The insult had its effect; the Bully's pistol hand quavered, and he was lost. "Say, young feller, you got grit! You're game! Boys, the Irishman goes, see!"

"Sorry I can't return the favor, Nick! You go—but to gaol!" With an adroit movement the young man had whisked out a pair of handcuffs and was fitting them to the astonished Bully's wrists. "Best take it quietly, men. As they say in story-books, reinforcements are at hand! And till they come, get in there, all of you, and say your own prayers!" He lifted the tent flap. "Fall into line. Um, left. Left!—Left! March!"

"Who in blazes air ye?" gasped Nick, as he obeyed.

The answer came in awe-stricken tones from Mops, who, beneath the stranger's rough externals had suddenly suspected the insignia of a dreaded authority. "The hell! It's Scarlett of the Mounted!"