The Luck of the Mounted | Page 7

tanned, Under the changeful sky; Who so free
in the land? Who so contented as I?_. THE VAGABOND
The long-drawn-out, sweet notes of "Reveille" rang out in the frosty
dawn. Reg. No. ---- Const George Redmond, engaged at that moment
in pulling on his "fatigue-slacks" hummed the trumpet-call's
time-honoured vocal parody--
"_I sold a cow, I sold a cow, an' bought a donk-ee--' Oh--what--a silly
old sot you were_!"
The room buzzed like a drowsy hive with hastily dressing men.
Breathing hotly on the frosted window-pane next his cot, George
rubbed a clear patch and glued his eye to it. The blizzard had died out
during the night leaving the snow-drifted landscape frosty, still and
clear. A rapidly widening strip of blended rose and pale turquoise on
the eastern horizon gave promise of a fine day.
He turned away with a contented sigh and, descending the stairs, fell in
with the rest of the fur-coated, moccasined men on "Morning Stable
Parade."

Three hours later, breakfast despatched, blankets rolled and kit and
dunnage bags packed, he received a curt summons from the
sergeant-major to attend the Orderly-room. To the brisk word of
command he was "quick-_marched_" "left-wheeled," and "halted" at
"attention" before the desk of the Officer Commanding L. Division.
"Constable Redmond, Sir!" announced the deep-throated, rumbling
bass of the sergeant-major; and for some seconds George gazed at the
silvery hair and wide bowed shoulders of the seated figure in front of
him, who continued his perusal of some type-written sheets of foolscap,
as if unaware of any interruption. Elsewhere have the kindly
personality and eccentricities of Captain Richard Bargrave been
described; "but that," as Kipling says, "is another story."
Presently the papers were cast aside, the bowed shoulders in the
splendidly-cut blue-serge uniform squared back in the chair, and
Redmond found himself being scrutinized intently by the all-familiar
bronzed old aristocratic countenance, with its sweeping fair moustache.
Involuntarily he stiffened, though his eyes, momentarily overpowered
by the intensity of that keen gaze, strayed to the level of his superior's
breast and focussed themselves upon two campaign ribbons there,
"North-West Rebellion" and "Ashantee" decorations.
Suddenly the thin, high, cultured voice addressed
him--whimsically--sarcastic but not altogether unkindly:
"The Sergeant-Major"--the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to an
elevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirled
pensively--"the Sergeant-Major reports that--er--for the past six months
you have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair
average"--the suave tones hardened--"that you have wisely refrained
from indulging your youthful fancies in any more such--er--dam-fool
antics, Sir, as characterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen
detachment, so--er--I have decided to give you another chance. I have
here"--he fumbled through some papers--"a request from Sergeant
Slavin for another man at Davidsburg. I am transferring you there.
Slavin--er--damn the man! damn the man! what's wrong with him,
Sergeant-Major? . . . Two men have I sent him in as many months, and

both of 'em, after a few days there, on some flimsy pretext or another,
applied for transfers to other detachments. Good men, too. If this
occurs again--damme!"--he glared at his subordinate--"I'll--er--bring
that Irish 'ginthleman' into the Post for a summary explanation. Wire
him of this man's transfer! . . . All right, Sergeant-Major!"
"About-turrn!--quick-march!" growled again the bass voice of the
senior non-com; and he kept step behind George into the passage.
"Here's your transport requisition, Redmond. Now--take a tumble to
yourself, my lad--on this detachment. You're getting what 'Father' don't
give to many--a second chance. Good-bye!"
George gripped the proffered hand and looked full into the kindly,
meaning eyes. "Good-bye, S.M.!" he said huskily, "Thanks!"
Westward, the train puffed its way slowly along a slight, but continual
up-grade through the foothills, following more or less the winding
course of the Bow River. Despite the cold, clear brilliance of the day,
seen under winter conditions the landscape on either side of the track
presented a rather forlorn, dreary picture. So it appeared to George,
anyway, as he gazed out of the window at the vast, spreading,
white-carpeted valley, the monotonous aspect of which was only
occasionally relieved by sparsely-dotted ranches, small wayside
stations, or when they thundered across high trestle bridges over the
partly-frozen, black, steaming river.
Two summers earlier he had travelled the same road, on a luxurious trip
to the Coast. The memory of its scenic splendor then, the easy-going
stages from one sumptuous mountain resort to another, now made him
feel slightly dismal and discontented with his present lot. Eye-restful
solace came however with the sight of the ever-nearing glorious
sun-crowned peaks of the mighty "Rockies," sharply silhouetted against
the dazzling blue of the sky.
Children's voices behind him suddenly broke in upon his reverie.
"That man!" said a small squeaking treble, "was a hobo. He was sitting
in that car in front with