Benton of the Royal Mounted Part 11

-_The Old Nester_

An uneventful hour and a half's ride next morning brought Benton within sight of Tucker's homestead at Fish Creek. Leaving the main trail, he struck into an old cow-track, which short cut wound its way through the thick brush on the west side of the latter's pasture, emerging from which, into a clear open s.p.a.ce, he found the gate that he sought.

What little feed there had been inside the few fenced-in acres was cropped as close as if sheep had been herded there, and a bunch of horses and a few gaunt cows wandered disconsolately hither and thither, roaming the fence round and groping through the wire strands at the nourishment that lay just beyond their reach. It was a pitiful sight and Ellis, with his love for animals, felt a spasm of anger pa.s.s through him as he noticed bad festering barbed-wire scratches on more than one of the poor hungry brutes.

"Th' cursed, scared old fool," he muttered savagely. "I reckon he's got reason to be, though, if that whisper o' Shorty's is straight goods."

He rode slowly across the parched, dusty ground and, fording the creek, pa.s.sed through the gate at the opposite end. Circling around the stables and corrals, he dismounted outside the weather-beaten shack in which the old man pa.s.sed his lonely life. Dropping the buckskin's lines, the Sergeant climbed up the broken steps and shoved his way in through the half-opened door.

With an oath he reeled back and his hand streaked like lightning to his hip. For a second or two he remained perfectly motionless then, a grim smile slowly relaxing his features, he dropped his hand and gazed silently at the strange scene that met his eyes.

He beheld an under-sized, grizzled-bearded old man about sixty who, with the vacuous smile of the partially intoxicated, was leveling a rifle at him with shaking hands. He was seated in an arm-chair, at a rough table, that was littered with dirty crockery and cooking utensils. An empty gla.s.s was in front of him.

"_Saku bona, N'kos_," greeted Ellis mockingly.

"_Saku bona, Umlungu,_" came the guttural response, while the wavering rifle barrel slowly descended and the shriveled, stringy old throat worked convulsively. "_Allemachtig_-but I thort you wos that _verdomde schelm_-Short an' Dirty-come a-nosin' arahnd agin."

Born and bred in the East End of London, thirty years on the South African veldt and ten in Canada, had not depreciated Tucker's accent much, and his speech was a curious jargon of Afrikander, c.o.c.kney, and Western vernacular.

"H-l!" said the policeman irritably. "Is this th' way yu' greet yore friends these days? Been gettin' yore Dutch up, eh?-an' early, at that.

What's th' matter with Shorty? _He's_ all right! Wen wos 'e arahnd?"

"Yestiddy mornin'," piped Tucker. "I tell yer I cawn't abide that feller. I dahn't like th' looks of 'im an' I ain't a-goin' to 'ave 'im come a-messin' abaht 'ere ... 'e ain't up ter no good. _Whau!_-I'll _skiet die verdomde schepsel_," he finished with a screech, and raising the rifle again.

"Here! Yu' come across with that gun!" snapped the Sergeant. "Yu' make me nervous. Come on now, Bob-let's have it. D'yu' hear?"

Alternately threatening and cajoling, he at length obtained the weapon and, jerking open the lever, pumped the magazine empty of sh.e.l.ls. These he gathered up and put in his pocket.

"Got any more?" he inquired, ledging the rifle on some pegs.

The old man glowered at him silently, and pointed with a shaking finger to a cupboard, where a minute search produced two more packets of cartridges, which speedily joined the others.

"A man that's _dronk_ ain't got no business monkey'n' around with a gun," remarked the policeman judicially.

"You're a _leugenaar_" hiccuped Tucker indignantly. "I ain't _dronk_."

"No-yu' ain't," retorted the Sergeant ironically. "Yu've got th' makin's of a first-cla.s.s jag, though. Th' smell of yore breath's mighty refres.h.i.+n'. Yu' wanta do what's right when a man wearin' th' King's uniform comes arahnd yore _laager_."

The implied appeal to his hospitality was not lost upon the other who, arising with difficulty, walked unsteadily over to a dirty sofa and, groping underneath, dragged forth a half-full Imperial quart bottle of "Burke's Irish."

"_Whau!_ Got it cached, eh? I _korner_," chuckled Ellis, reaching for a gla.s.s and pouring himself out a generous libation. "_Allemachtig_, but I'm dry this mornin'. Wish this was good, cold tickey beer instead o'

whiskey. _N'dipe manzi?_"

His elderly host, relaxing back into his arm-chair again, indicated a bucket and dipper. Benton mixed his drink and raised his gla.s.s.

"_Salue_," he muttered, and drank.

"_Drink hael_," the other responded gruffly.

Putting down his empty gla.s.s, the Sergeant seated himself and proceeded to roll a cigarette.

"See here; look," he began, licking the paper across. "Yu'll be gettin'

_dronk_ an' doin' some poor sucker a mischief with that gun if yu' ain't careful; an' then yu'll most likely land in _die tronk_ on a murder charge, _Myjnheer_ Bob Tucker.

"Say," he continued suspiciously, as a sudden thought struck him. "Yu'

was over to th' detachment to see me th' day before yesterday, wasn't yu'?"

"_Ja_," answered the old man sulkily. "An' yer ain't never abaht w'en a feller wants yer."

Ignoring the testy reply, the policeman resumed: "When yu' left Barney Gallagher's which trail d'yu' come home by?-th' long 'un, or th' short 'un through my pasture?"

"Th' short 'un," said Tucker wonderingly. "W'y?"

"Anythin' happen to yu' on th' trail?" inquired his interlocutor.

The old man hesitated a moment. "_Ja!_ Did 'ave a bit of a s.h.i.+ndig," he admitted shamefacedly.

"_Ja_," said the Sergeant. "I thought so; an' now I'll tell yu' what happened. Yu' was _dronk_ an' let yore lines catch under th' end o' th'

_disselboom_, an' yore team up an' run away on yu'. Managed to pull 'em up, somehow, I suppose. Providence always seems to hand out a special dispensation to fellers that's full, else more'n likely it's th'

hospital _yu'd_ be in instead o' that chair."

"Well, I pulled _die schelms_, anyway," said the other. "An' I 'ad to go back abaht 'arf a mile fer a bag o' chicken feed as fell aht."

"_Ja!_ ... an' a bag o' blasted nails yu' had aboard fell aht wiv' it,"

mimicked Ellis, irritably. "An' my hawss picked one of 'em up in his nigh-fore an' he's been out o' business ever since."

The old man, fumbling with trembling fingers about his waistcoat, produced a short day pipe and, filling it, proceeded to smoke.

"If yu' don't let up on th' _dop_ for a s.p.a.ce," resumed the policeman severely, "yu'll be havin' fancies again-bad 'uns, too."

The abandoned Tucker c.o.c.ked a boiled eye at his would-be mentor.

"Tchkk!" he clucked testily. "Rats ... an' sech like. I've 'ad 'em....

Yer cawn't skeer me wiv yer _fancies_," he shrilled suddenly, with senile defiance. "'Ow abaht _you_? 'Tis an Aberdeen man's 'Say w'en!'

yer poured aht fer yourself, I noticed-an' then yer turns rahnd an'

torks ter me like a bloomin' _unfundusi_. _Whau!_ I _korner fancies_!"

he wound up bitterly.

The Sergeant swallowed the home-thrust with a tolerant grin.

"Ain't figurin' on practisin' what I preach just yet," he rejoined.

"I'm a pore old feller," whimpered Tucker, dropping his pipe and beginning to weep with maudlin self-pity. "Yer all tries to 'come it'

over me."

The gray beard jerked up and down convulsively with his sobs.

"Aw, h-l! come, now," said Benton, not unkindly. "Yu' bring a lot o'

yore troubles on yoreself. Why, don't yu' sell out here, Dad, an' go back East to yore son there, where yu'd be looked after properly? Yu're too old to be livin' here on yore lonesome like this."