CHAPTER II.
A REMINISCENT HOUR.
The policeman's shoulders stiffened, and he put one foot on the keg. Hemade no other move; but if ever a man's back was eloquent ofdetermination, his was. From where I lay I could see the fingers of hisleft hand shut tight over his thumb, pressing till the knuckles werewhite and the cords in the back of his hand stood out in little ridges.I'd seen _that_ before, and I recalled with a start when and where I'dheard that soft, drawly voice. I knew I wasn't mistaken in the man,though his face was turned from me, and I likewise knew that old PieganSmith was nearer kingdom come than he'd been for many a day, if he didhave the drop on the man with the scarlet jacket. He was holding hispistol on a double back-action, rapid-fire gun-fighter, and only thefact that Piegan was half drunk and the other performing an impersonalduty had so far prevented the opening of a large-sized package oftrouble. While on the surface Smith had all the best of it, he neededthat advantage, and more, to put himself on an even footing with GordonMacRae in any dispute that had to be arbitrated with a Colt; for MacRaewas the cool-headed, virile type of man that can keep his feet and burnpowder after you've planted enough lead in his system to sink him inswimming water.
There was a minute of nasty silence. Smith glowered behind his cockedpistol, and the policeman faced the frowning gun, motionless, waitingfor the flutter of Piegan's eye that meant action. The gurgling keg wasalmost empty when he spoke again.
"Don't be a fool, Smith," he said quietly. "You can't buck the wholeForce, you know, even if you managed to kill me. You know the sort oforders we have about this whisky business. Put up your gun."
Piegan heard him, all right, but his pistol never wavered. His thinlips were pinched close, so tight the scrubby beard on his chin stoodstraight out in front; his chest was heaving, and the angry blood stooddarkly red under his tanned cheeks. Altogether, he looked as if histrigger finger might crook without warning. It was one of those longmoments that makes a fellow draw his breath sharp when he thinks aboutit afterward. If any one had made an unexpected move just then, therewould have been sudden death in that camp. And while the lot of us satand stood about perfectly motionless, not daring to say a word one wayor the other, lest the wrathful old cuss squinting down the gun-barrel_would_ shoot, the policeman took his foot off the empty cause of thedisturbance, and deliberately turning his back on Piegan's leveledsix-shooter, walked calmly over to his waiting horse.
Smith stared after him, frankly astonished. Then he lowered his gun."The nerve uh the darned----Say! don't go off mad," he yelled, his angerevaporating, changing on the instant to admiration for the other'scold-blooded courage. "Yuh spilled all the whisky, darn yuh--but then Iguess yuh don't know any better'n t' spoil good stuff that away. No hardfeelin's, anyhow. Stop an' eat dinner with us, an' we'll call itsquare."
The policeman withdrew his foot from the stirrup and smiled at PieganSmith, and Piegan, to show that his intentions were good, impulsivelyunbuckled his cartridge-belt and threw belt and six-shooters on theground.
"I don't hanker for trouble with a _hombre_ like you," he grunted. "Iguess I was a little bit hasty, anyhow."
"I call you," the policeman said, and stripping the saddle and bridlefrom his sweaty horse, turned him loose to graze.
"Hello, Mac!" I hailed, as he walked up to the fire. He turned at thesound of my voice with vastly more concern than he'd betrayed under themuzzle of Piegan's gun.
"Sarge himself!" he exclaimed. "Beats the devil how old trails cross,eh?"
"It sure does," I retorted, and our hands met.
He sat down beside me and began to roll a cigarette. You wouldn't callthat a very demonstrative greeting between two old _amigos_ who'd buckedmesquite and hair-lifting Comanches together, all over the Southwest. Ithad been many a moon since we took different roads, but MacRae hadn'tchanged that I could see. That was his way--he never slopped over, nomatter how he felt. If ever a mortal had a firm grip on his emotions,MacRae had, and yet there was a sleeping devil within him that was neverhard to wake. But his looks gave no hint of the real man under thesurface placidity; you'd never have guessed what possibilities laybehind that immobile face, with its heavy-lashed hazel eyes and plain,thin-lipped mouth that tilted up just a bit at the corners. We hadparted in the Texas Panhandle five years before--an unexpected,involuntary separation that grew out of a poker game with a tough crowd.The tumultuous events of that night sent me North in undignified haste,for I am not warlike by nature, and Texas was no longer healthy for meunless I cared to follow up a bloody feud. But I'd left Mac atrail-boss for the whitest man in the South, likewise engaged to thefinest girl in any man's country; and it's a far cry from punching cowsin Texas to wearing the Queen's colors and keeping peace along theborder-line. I knew, though, that he'd tell me the how and why of it inhis own good time, if he meant that I should know.
One or two of the buffalo-hunters exchanged words with us while Mac wasbuilding his cigarette and lighting it. Old Piegan stretched himself inthe grass, and in a few moments was snoring energetically, his grizzledface bared to the cloudless sky. The camp grew still, except for therough and ready cook pottering about the fire, boiling buffalo-meat andmixing biscuit-dough. The fire crackled around the Dutch ovens, and theodor of coffee came floating by. Then Mac hunched himself against awagon-wheel and began to talk.
"I suppose it looks odd to you, Sarge, to see me in this rig?" he askedwhimsically. "It beats punching cows, though--that is, when a fellowdiscovers that he isn't a successful cowpuncher."
"Does it?" I returned dryly. "You were making good in the cow businesslast time I saw you. What did you see in the Mounted Police that tookyour fancy?"
He shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "They're making history inthis neck of the woods," he said, "and I joined for lack of somethingbetter to do. You'll find us a cosmopolitan lot, and not bad specimensas men go. It's a tolerably satisfying life--once you get out of theranks."
"How about that?" I queried; and as I asked the question I noticed forthe first time the gilt bars on his coat sleeve. "You've got past thebuck trooper stage then? How long have you been in the force?"
"Joined the year they took over the Territory," he replied. "Yes, I'veprospered in the service. Got to be a sergeant; I'm in charge of aline-post on Milk River--Pend d' Oreille. You'd better come on over andstay with me a day or two, Sarge."
"I was heading in that direction," I answered, "only I expected to crossthe river farther up. But, man, I never thought to see you up here. Ithought you'd settled down for keeps; supposed you were playingmajor-domo for the Double R down on the Canadian River, and the fatherof a family by this time. How we do get switched around in this oldworld."
"Don't we, though," he said reflectively. "It's a great game. You neverknow when nor where your trail is liable to fork and lead you to newcountries and new faces, or maybe plumb over the big divide. Oh, well,it'll be all the same a hundred years from now, as Bill Frayne used tosay."
"You've turned cynic," I told him, and he smiled.
"No," he declared, "I rather think I'd be classed as a philosopher; ifyou could call a man a philosopher who can enjoy hammering over thisbald country, chasing up whisky-runners and hazing non-treaty Indiansonto reservations, and raising hell generally in the name of the law.Still, I don't take life as seriously as I used to. What's the use? Weeat and drink and sleep and work and fight because it's the nature of ustwo-legged brutes; but there's no use getting excited about it, becausethings never turn out exactly the way you expect them to, anyhow."
"If that's your philosophy of life," I bantered, "you ought to make arattling good policeman. I can see where a calm, dispassionate frontwould save a man a heap of trouble, at this sort of thing."
"Josh all you like," MacRae laughed, "but I tell you a man does savehimself a heap of trouble when he doesn't get too anxious whether thingscome out just as he wants them to or not. Six or seven years ago Icouldn't have done this sort of work. I've changed, I reckon. There wasa time when I'd ha
ve felt that there was only one way to settle a rowlike I just had. And the chances are that I would have wound up byputting that old boy's light out. Which wouldn't have helped matters anyfor me, and certainly would have been tough on old Piegan Smith--whohappens to be a pretty fair sort; only playing the opposite side of thegame."
As if the low-spoken sound of his name had reached his ears andelectrified him, Piegan sat up very suddenly, and at the same instantthe cook sounded the long call. So we broke off our chat, and getting atin plate and cup and a set of eating-implements, we helped ourselvesfrom the Dutch ovens and squatted in the grass to eat.
When we'd finished, one of the hunters rounded up the horses and wecaught our nags and saddled them. MacRae was going back to his post thatnight, and I also was in haste to be traveling--that ten thousanddollars of another man's money was a responsibility I wanted to be ridof without the least possible delay. Pend d' Oreille was twenty-five orthirty miles south of us--a long afternoon's ride, but MacRae and I wereglad of each other's company, and it was worth while straining a pointto have even one night's shelter at a Police camp in that semi-hostilecountry. There were no road-agents to speak of, for sums of money largeenough to tempt gentry of that ilk seldom passed over those isolatedtrails; but here and there stray parties of Stonies and Blackfeet, youngbucks in war-paint and breech-clout, hot on the trail of their firstmedicine, skulked warily among the coulee-scarred ridges, keeping intouch with the drifting buffalo-herds and alert for a chance to ambush astraggling white man and lift his hair. They weren't particularlydangerous, except to a lone man, still there was always the chance ofrunning slap into them, in which case they usually made a more or lessvigorous attempt to wipe you out. A red coat, however, was a passport tosafety; even so early in the game the copper-colored brother had learnedthat the Mounted Police were a hard combination--an enemy who neverturned back when he took the war-trail.
When we were mounted Mac leaned over and muttered an admonitory word forPiegan's ear alone. "Better lay low, Smith," he said, "and let theboot-leggers go it on their own hook for a while. We are watching foryou. It's only a matter of time till somebody takes you in, because yourwhisky is making lots of nasty work for us these days, and we've gotorders from the big chief to nail you if there's a show. I'm passing upthis little affair to-day. That doesn't count. But the next time youcross the river with a four-horse load of it I'll be on you like a wolf.If I don't, some other fellow will. _Sabe?_ Think it over."
Smith bit off a huge chew of tobacco, while he digested MacRae'swarning. Then he looked up with a smile that broadened to a grin."You're all right," he said cheerfully. "I like your style. If I get theworst of the deal, I won't holler. So-long!"