Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 1

BENTON OF THE ROYAL MOUNTED.

by Ralph S. Kendall.

FOREWORD

The scenes of this story belong to bygone days. As the pa.s.ser-by views the ugly half-constructed railway terminus which now sprawls itself over the original site of that historic group of Police buildings, known as the "Post," little does he appreciate the pangs of real regret which stir the hearts of old members of the Force, as they recall a.s.sociations of earlier years.

Scattered now beyond the writer's ken are those good fellows with whom he served in years gone by. They were men of a type fast disappearing, with whom any one would have been proud to a.s.sociate and call "comrades." No longer do those once orderly grounds resound with the clear notes of the trumpet-call, the neighing of troop-horses, or the harsh-barked word of command. Gone is the old Guardroom at the gates of the main entrance. The spot where the O.C.'s house lay half hidden amidst its cl.u.s.tering shrubbery and trim, well-kept lawn and kitchen garden, is now but a drab area of railway tracks. Missing is the towering flag staff, from whose top-gaff, visible for miles around, there flew from "Reveille" to "Retreat" the brave emblem of our Empire.

But today, while these lines are being penned, many members and ex-members of the old Force are still sternly serving that flag; gaining well-deserved military honors, shedding their blood, and laying down their lives in the great and terrible struggle for supremacy between Human Liberty, and Iron Oppression that overshadows the world.

Aye! ... small wonder that the sight of the old spot awakens strange memories in those of us who were stationed there in our youth. Members of a force of comparatively small numbers, it is true, but with a reputation for efficiency, discipline, and stern adherence to duty which has rarely been equaled, and is too widely known to need any further eulogy in this story.

-R. S. K.

PART I

CHAPTER I

"We've some of us prospered, and some of us failed.

But we all of us heave a sigh When we think of the times that we used to have In those happy days gone by.

When we used to whistle, and work, and sing, Make love, drink, gamble, and have our fling; Caring little for what the morrow might bring- In those good old days gone by."

-_Memories_

With the outlines of its shadowy white walls and dark roof silhouetted in sharp relief against a glorious full moon, the big main building of the old Mounted Police Post of L Division stood forth-like a lone monument to the majesty of British Law. A turfed "square," framed within a border of whitewashed stones, lay at its front like a black carpet.

Cl.u.s.tered about the central structure were the long, low-lying guardroom, stables, quartermaster's store, and several smaller adjacent buildings comprising "the Barracks." Stray patches of silvery light illuminated the dark recesses between them. It was a perfect night following an unparalleled June day in sunny South Alberta.

The "Post," with its shadowy outlines, presented a striking contrast to its activity by day. In the daytime gangs of prisoners in their checkered jail garb were to be seen tramping sedately here and there, engaged on various jobs about the carefully kept grounds. An armed "escort" followed grimly behind each gang. Police teams, hitched to buck-boards and heavy, high-seated transport wagons, arrived and departed with a clatter. Mounted men, on big upstanding horses, came and went continually, each rider intent upon his own particular mission. At the guardroom, the quartermaster's store, and the orderly-room the same ordered action and busy preoccupation were noticeable.

The only sounds that disturbed the peaceful serenity of the moonlit scene proceeded from a lighted open window in the center of the main building, where the men's quarters and the regimental canteen were located. An uproarious hilarity resounded through the stillness; the shrill yaps of a pup and the tinkling of a piano rising above the tumult of song and laughter.

These jovial evidences of good fellows.h.i.+p floated across the square, not unwelcomely, to the ears of a solitary rider, whose weary horse was bearing him slowly along the hard graveled driveway which led from the main gateway to the stables. Dismounting somewhat stiffly, the man stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of revelry. He gazed silently toward the beacon of good cheer which seemed to beckon him. Then suddenly turning on his heel, he trudged wearily on to his destination, leading his mount.

After spending half an hour or more in off-saddling, rubbing down, and attending scrupulously, if mechanically, to his animal's wants, the horseman emerged from the stable, locked the door, and walked slowly across the square to the Canteen.

Duly arriving at his cheerful haven, the newcomer opened the canteen door and for a moment or two silently contemplated the all-familiar scene of a large, well-lighted room with a bar at one end, behind which, on rows of shelves, were stacked various kinds of dry provisions, tobacco in all its forms, and miscellaneous odds and ends of a mounted policeman's requirements supplementary to his regular "kit."

Seated around small tables, playing cards, or else perched upon high stools against the bar, he beheld a score or so of bronzed, soldierly-looking men of all ages, ranging from twenty to forty. They were dressed variously-some in the regulation uniform of the Force-i.e., scarlet serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding-breeches with the broad yellow stripe down the side, and high brown "Strathcona" boots with straight-shanked, "cavalry jack" spurs attached. Some again-with an eye to comfort alone-just in loose, easy, brown duck "fatigue slacks." Many of the older members might have been remarked wearing the active-service ribbons of former campaigns in which they had served.

Their day's duty over, careless and jovial they sat, amidst the tobacco-smoke-hazy atmosphere, smoking and drinking their beer and exchanging good-natured repartee which occasionally was of a nature that has caused a certain great writer to affirm, with well-grounded conviction, that "single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints." Poor enough stuff it was for the most part, I fancy, but there!

... we were easily satisfied-we were not inclined to be over-fastidious in the Canteen, and anyhow ... it pa.s.sed the time away.

At the piano was an ex-Dublin Fusileer, with a comical face and an accent suggestive of "Silver Street," who acted as general accompanyist.

His own vocal talent was being contributed just now, and a chorus of shouts, banging of beer tankards and stamping of feet greeted the final verse of his song, the burden of which was-

"An' whin we gits to Donnybrook Fair, comes Thady, with his fiddle, An' all th' bhoys an' colleens there a-dancin' down th' middle; Shpuds, s.h.i.+llaleghs, pigs an' potheen-all as ye thrapsed along- Hurroo! for a chune on th' n.o.b av 'um who'd intherrrupt me song!".

A little fox terrier pup, clinging with ludicrous gravity to a somewhat precarious position behind a man who was perched all doubled up on one of the high stools aforesaid, growled and snapped with puppy viciousness at all teasing attempts to dislodge him, adding to the general uproar.

His master, Constable Markham, who, from certain indisputably "simian"

peculiarities of feature and habits, was not inaptly designated "the Monk," had, as the result of his frequent libations, succeeded in cultivating-what, in canteen parlance was termed-"a singing jag." Now, elbows on bar, he began to bellow out a lone doggerel ditty for his own exclusive benefit. Something where each bucolic verse wound up with-

"O be I I, or bain't I I- I tell ee I bain't zuch a vule as I luke!"

The Orderly-room Sergeant, Dudley, a tall, good-looking fair man about thirty, who, leaning on the bar alongside was endeavoring amidst the din to carry on a conversation with a corporal named Harrison, turned somewhat wearily to the maudlin vocalist.

"Oh, now, for the love of Mike! ... try an' forget it, Monk, do!" he drawled. "Charity begins at home! ... as if there wasn't _enough_ racket in here without you adding _your_ little pipe! ... sitting there all humped up an' hawkin' away like a-old crow on his native muck-heap! ...

Be I I, or bain't I I?" he exploded, with a snort of derision at the other's uncouth Somersets.h.i.+re dialect, and after a long pause: "By gum!

there's no mistake about you ... you're well named! You'd be quite at home in the jungle!"

He faced round again to the grinning corporal. "Say, Harrison," he resumed, "don't know if Benton's come in yet, do you?" He lowered his voice confidentially. "'Father's' called him in about something and I want to see him directly he lands in-first crack out of the box."

His eyes, wandering vaguely over the noisy crowd as he spoke, suddenly dilated with surprised recognition as they lighted upon the newcomer, whose un.o.btrusive entrance amidst the general revelry had somehow escaped his notice.

"Talk of the devil!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed with easy incivility; "why here the -- is! Why, h.e.l.lo, Ben! How's things goin' in Elbow Vale?"

The object of this familiarity, walking silently forward to the bar with a whimsical smile on his bronzed, dusty countenance, merely opened his mouth to which he pointed in dumb show.

"Dear me!" remarked the Orderly-room Sergeant sympathetically, "as bad as all that? Here, Bob! set 'em up! ... give Sergeant Benton a 'long 'un'!"

The "long 'un" tendered by the canteen orderly arrived and disappeared, another following speedily on top of it; their recipient then, his thirst temporarily appeased, turned to the two non-coms.

There remains engraven indelibly upon the memory of the writer, as he recalls the striking personal appearance and quietly forceful character of Ellis Benton, a slightly saturnine, _still_ face, with high, bold, regular features, suggestive rather of the ancient Roman type; coldly handsome in its clean-cut patrician mold but marred somewhat by a peculiar thin old scar, like a whip-lash, which extended from an angle of the grim-lipped yet tender mouth up to the left cheek bone. This facial disfigurement contrived to give him an expression of faint perpetual cynicism, as it were, which was accentuated by a pair of tired-looking pale gray eyes, deeply set under thick, dark, level brows-eyes which seemed to glow at times with a somber light like smoldering fire in their depths-eyes that were vaguely disturbing, bidding you beware of the man's ruthless anger when aroused.

Altogether it was a remarkable face with its indefinable stamp of iron-willed, quietly reckless courage, indicative of a strenuous past and open with the possibilities for good or evil alike, as caprice should happen to sway its possessor's varying moods.

And yet, strange to say, in spite of his hard-bitten, cynical exterior and characteristics that verged sometimes on actual brutality, deep, deep down in his complex soul Ellis Benton hid an almost womanish tenderness, coupled with a sensitive artistic temperament that few were aware of or would have credited. In figure he was splendidly proportioned. Not overly tall, but with the lean, wiry flanks, broad, square shoulders, and slim waist of the trained athlete that denoted great activity, and the possession of immense concentrated strength whenever he chose to use it. The "Stetson" hat, tipped back, exposed slightly graying, closely cropped brown hair. But the young-looking face dispelled at once the first impression of age, for Ellis was only thirty-eight.

His well-fitting uniform, consisting of a "stable jacket" of the regulation brown duck, on which were noticeable the "Distinguished Conduct," and the "King's" and "Queen's" South African campaign ribbons, riding-breeches, boots and spurs, was thickly covered with dust, for he had ridden into the Post from his detachment which lay many weary miles to the south.

"Well," he remarked to the Orderly-room Sergeant and, with significant emphasis, "what's doin' now?"

For the most part he spoke lazily in the slipshod, drawling vernacular acquired from long residence in the West, though when occasion arose he could revert naturally and easily to the educated speech of his early upbringing.

Dudley did not reply at first but shot a warning, almost imperceptible, sidelong glance towards the crowd, enjoining silence. Obeying the other's gesture, the detachment sergeant held his peace awhile, and presently the two men, moving away from the bar, seated themselves at one of the small tables and began to talk together earnestly in low tones.

The clamor around them increased. Out broke the old barrack-room chorus "Johnny Green," which, to the tune of the "Sailor's Hornpipe" goes, as all Service men are aware:

"Oh, say, Johnny Green! did you ever see the Queen?

Did you ever catch a Blue-jacket lovin' a Marine?

May the Rock of Gibraltar take a runnin' jump at Malta If I ever see a n.i.g.g.e.r with a white-rum-tum."