Chapter XII: Inspector Buckie's Narrative (1)

I

I am the Inspector Buckie mentioned in the foregoing text, and to me is entrusted the editing and completion of this biography. I feel that in this conventional world so very unconventional a man as Don José needed a friend in his biographer. A hostile witness, for example, might bias the gentlest reader by setting forth bare facts of bigamy and homicide which, taken without their context, would seem offensive and unpardonable. So facts may be told as lies.

To strangers, my friend may have seemed an incredibly complex personality. One saw him by turns as the grave courtly Hidalgo of old Spain, as the rollicking Irish trooper, as the red Indian saint, and at the end as a very dangerous outlaw. Yet these were only the moods of a sincere and simple gentleman, unusual only in his terrific strength of character, which lacked the guidance of strong intellect.

I who was his comrade saw, in my dim official way, only the humdrum duties of the police, and the squalor of Indian decadence. But here in his memoirs, I realize for the first time the breadth and splendor of the regimental service, the spirituality of the Indian character, and the tremendous majesty of our wilderness. Don José had eyes to see that we were living an epic life in the homeric age of Canada. While I went blind, he saw with heroic vision.

So having tamed his spelling, cleared his grammar, and composed his chaotic chapters into narrative, I leave my humble task as editor, to take up the duties of biographer.

From his camp on Valdez, La Mancha took me back by canoe to Comox, the terminal of the Vancouver Island Railroad. During this thirty-six-mile passage, I found occasion to warn my friend against an act of folly on which he had set his heart. However unselfish he might be in taking Rain home to die among her people, he had no business to risk a visit to the Canadian plains. There, at any moment, he might be recognized by people who had known him in times past, even by Inspector Sarde or Red Saunders, his mortal enemies. The sequel would be his arrest.

"Risk," said he, "is the only measure of value. Unless I risk my money, my liberty or my life, how can I feel my pleasure in such wealth?"

I told him I saw no gain in being such a damned fool.

"You should learn to suffer me gladly. Rain and I must go to the Piegan camp. You see, old chap, the Wolf Trail starts from there, and I don't want my wife to take that trail alone."

"You want to die with her?"

"If I may. At least, to see her off on her way to the Sand Hills."

"Where is that?" I asked, for I had heard of the Sand Hills as the place of the Blackfoot dead.

"I don't know where," he answered, "but if you think, you'll know that there must be a place of waiting where those who rest are watching for those who suffer."

"Are you sure," I asked him, "that we outlive death?"

"It stands to reason, Buckie. Love is God. Therefore, love is eternal. Therefore, the love in us is our portion of the eternal. We are like lamps, and love is the light we carry through the darkness."

"But lamps go out."

"Some do, and some burn low, but Rain will carry light enough to see by while she waits for me. Of course, I must go as far as I can with her."

"Think of the risk."

"The hope."

I knew then that nothing could deter him.

"Is it nothing to you," he asked, "that you are one of the lamps which light the universe?"

And so we parted.

II

In great content I reported to the superintendent commanding for duty at Fort French, and made the best I could of Mr. Sarde as a brother officer with whom I had little in common. The orderly-room sergeant was my own friend, Brat la Mancha, now well healed of his wound and free from lameness, except when he had to limp in winter moccasins. Narrowly he had escaped being invalided, and being a cripple, could never be allowed to take rough duty, but must content himself with office work. Thanks to José, who yearly sent him half the income from Spain, the Brat was passing rich, with a fine, prosperous and growing ranch of his own, to which he would retire when it pleased him to quit the force.

At the post we were agreed never to mention José even in whispers, lest the gossips begin to suspect that we had a secret. Sam, Mr. Sarde and one or two very old hands in the division, who had known Don José, believed him to be dead. Brat and I were silent, except when we stole off together after mountain trout.

The well-oiled machinery of our routine found more or less truthful chronicle in the year's report. A mild winter was making way for an early spring when, one morning, as orderly officer for the week, I sat working with Brat la Mancha in the office. There were papers to sign, applications for passes, or some such trifles. Through the window I could see a man ride in, the sergeant in charge at Stand-off, our outpost with the Blood tribe, of the Blackfoot confederation. Sergeant Millard seemed in a hurry, and that was quite unusual, for in the many years he had been father confessor to the Bloods, the smooth perfection of his work made life monotonous. Now he spoke rapidly to the sergeant of the guard, then with the sergeant-major, who showed concern, and brought him direct to the office. There must be events afoot, so, when they entered, I asked the sergeant-major to see if the superintendent commanding was at home.

Millard saluted. "I thought it best to report in person, sir,--a case of murder and suicide. Mr. de Hamel is wounded."

"The Indian agent?"

"Yes, sir. Yesterday, that's Sunday the fifth instant, Mr. de Hamel came over and dined at the detachment. He mentioned a Piegan family which had come in on Saturday from the Blackfoot reservation in Montana. The Indian seemed a total stranger, by all accounts well fixed, with a first-rate outfit, three women, and a nephew aged about fourteen. They had no pass, but unless they asked for rations Mr. de Hamel felt that no action was necessary. The Indian and his nephew had gone off at daybreak, mounted. The three women remained in camp."

"Names?" asked the Brat.

"I've got a memorandum here, sir, with names and descriptions."

"All right, Sergeant."

"Mr. de Hamel mentioned that the wife was Rain, a well-known sacred woman. Her medicine was said to be so strong that some of the people brought presents, but she lay sick in the teepee, and the two older women said she must not be disturbed."

Murder and suicide! I glanced at the Brat, whose face was white as chalk, and envied him the writing which kept him occupied through that long suspense.

"You may remember, sir," said Millard, "and Sergeant la Mancha here must remember, Saunders, Red Saunders, in the force."

"Yes. Go on." I wondered if my voice was all right.

"Well, sir, there's been a red-haired hobo hanging around, doing odd jobs, for some time past. Called himself Redmond. Drunken waster, by all accounts. Mr. de Hamel mentioned that this man was a deserter--Red Saunders."

"Did you arrest him?" I asked.

"I told De Hamel I would, sir."

Deserters are useless, and our fellows prefer not to catch them.

"Well, sir, from later information, I find that Redmond, alias Saunders, was seen by several witnesses loafing around the neighborhood of that teepee, until just before dark, when the old women were away for fire-wood or water. Then he went in."

Brat coughed, and still, through all the years, I hear that sound. His notes were a mere pretense. Afterward I found he had been drawing little owls. "According to the boy, Bears, he went with his uncle, Charging Buffalo, to visit Many Horses, his own father, camped at Bullhorn Coulee. On their return at dusk, Charging Buffalo handed the boy his head-rope to take the horses to pasture. As the boy rode off, he saw his uncle in the open door of the teepee, picking up an ax. He heard no sounds.

"From the boy's evidence, and from the signs, this Indian must have found the white man assaulting his woman. He came behind, and with a single stroke of the ax sliced Saunders' head in halves, leaving the blade where it stuck. Then he dragged the body off his woman, and found her with both hands clutching the haft of a knife. The blade was hilt-deep, and must have entered her heart, for she was already dead."

Brat was not likely to stand much more of this. I sent him to fetch Sam.

It was well we waited until Brat left the room, for Sergeant Millard gave particulars which even a hardened sinner prefers to forget.

"The knife, sir."

So Millard laid on the desk before me the Spanish poignard which long ago I had bought as a curiosity in Winnipeg, used for many years as a paper-cutter while stationed at Prince Albert, and finally given to Rain last summer as a wedding present. Now it was black with her blood, but it had saved her honor. I picked it up, forcing myself to indifference.

"An Italian stiletto, eh? How should an Indian woman come by that?"

"Italian, sir?" asked Millard.

"Venetian," said I, examining the hilt. "Looks like seventeenth century work. People wore the knives they used at table."

"The Indians," was Millard's comment, "have lots of curios picked up in their wars."

I put the weapon down, and lighted a cigarette, proud that no tremor of the hands betrayed my agitation. An Indian had murdered a white man--that was all--and a squaw had killed herself. There was nothing to identify Don José.

The sergeant was gray with fatigue, and I bade him sit down.

"I think," he said, "that Indian had gone mad. They do sometimes. The old woman came back as he left the teepee carrying his rifle, a Winchester. He was loading as he crossed to the agent's house.

"Mr. de Hamel says he was smoking his after-supper cigar in the veranda when he saw the Indian coming, stark staring mad. He tried to get into the house for his gun, but a bullet dropped him in the doorway. The left femur was broken six inches above the knee, but Mr. de Hamel managed to drag himself into the house and behind the front door. It opens inward. Charging Buffalo went in and looked round, but couldn't find the agent. It was after dark then. After a minute or two, he went out, running toward the pasture for his horse."

"What grudge could he have against Mr. de Hamel?"

"The man who had sheltered Red Saunders?"

An Indian, a bear, or a white man, will defend his mate from outrage, and kill without scruple, justly. That is unwritten law which needs no writing. Red Saunders had to be killed, and the man who harbored such vermin must take the consequences. But what of the law which was bound to avenge De Hamel?

"How long was it, Sergeant," I asked, "before this affair was reported?"

"I found the bodies were still warm," he answered, "the scent still hot, if I'd had the bloodhounds I requisitioned. But it was pitch dark, no moon, sky overcast."

"Could you find the tracks with a lantern?"

In weary scorn, the sergeant retorted, "A lantern? Too good a target."

Almighty Voice, the Cree outlaw, killed five of our men before we brought up a gun and shelled his earthwork. Sergeant Millard was right not to attempt half measures.

"De Hamel," he told me, "had arterial bleeding, and my first job was to clap on a tourniquet. He was pretty far gone when I reached him. I sent an Indian, his servant, to Doctor Delane, and put a sentry on the house in case the lunatic came back for another shot. I saw that Mrs. De Hamel and the children didn't expose themselves at lighted windows. Next I had to handle the Bloods: they were getting excited. I couldn't get away until now."

"You had three constables?"

"One on pass, one on flying sentry, and one with the interpreter collecting information. At daylight, we picked up the tracks, before the people had them trampled, so I know which way the man went. I want a patrol, sir."

"About this boy, Bears. You brought him in?"

"He escaped, sir."

I told him to send the sergeant-major, then get some food and rest while he had time. So I was left alone.

Grown men in my trade are expected to keep themselves in a state of discipline, but there are times when it is best to be alone.

And even in solitude we of the North are denied the relief of tears, would rather sacrifice the respect of our fellows than lapse from self-respect. For us there is no relief.

My friend and I had fought shoulder to shoulder, with only death between us, who needs no more space than a knife-edge. Stirrup to stirrup we had ridden the long patrols, faced the shrewd killing blizzards, and the terrific heat of an unsheltered land. No word or breath of discord had marred the perfection of our friendship. To him I owed the contentment which made a small career worth living.

Enviously, and yet with dread, I had seen him climbing heights of the life spiritual which I could never dare. And now, it seemed, in one tremendous downfall he was cast to hell. He was mad, a homicidal maniac, to be hunted as wolves are hunted.

From that I wanted to stand aside, had hoped in desperate anxiety that my commanding officer would come quickly and take charge. But now Brat returned with a stiff salute and the official manner to tell me that the superintendent commanding and Mr. Sarde were away, not to be found. The burden of command was on my shoulders, to set the chase in motion which was to hunt the one person I really loved.

I suppose Brat watched my mood, for suddenly, alone as we were, he clapped his hand on my shoulder. "Buckie," he whispered, "can't you get bloodhounds? Isn't it possible, somehow? It's the only hope of getting him without bloodshed. Hire them, and if it costs me my ranch, I'll pay."

"Where can we get them?"

He drew back. "I don't know. One or two sheriffs have them in the states."

"They couldn't send them out of their own districts. And, Brat--if our interests in this business got wind! No, we must get José--and work up a good enough case for the defense. A jury would say it served Red Saunders right, and as to De Hamel, he was only wounded."

III

There are so many narratives of the famous man-hunt, official, published, suppressed, or even truthful, that I am cumbered with too much material.

The official version may be set aside as dull, a record of mileage covered by one hundred sixty horsemen during a period of four months. The district combed was about ninety miles square, or eighty-one hundred square miles of foot-hills and plains complex with brush, with boulder tracts, and ravines affording plenty of cover to a hunted man.

My own story, were I to cite the details, would explain a feverish industry, a craze for duty, a seeking and using of even the flimsiest excuses to shove Mr. Sarde out of the hunt, and take his place as leader on the patrols. In truth, I was not concerned to save my brother officer from overwork, or to win his gratitude, but rather to avert a meeting between Sarde and Don José. Sarde had betrayed a woman, using the mean device of a sham wedding; when brought to account by La Mancha in the duel outside Fort Carlton, the cad played foul; and if my friend met his antagonist in the field he would unquestionably kill. I would have offered myself as La Mancha's second for that just duel, but I preferred a formal mannerly encounter as between gentlemen, and had reason to dislike, to prevent by all means possible the killing of Sarde by Charging Buffalo, as a deed which must bring my friend to a shameful death at the gallows. My main hope in the man-hunt was to make the arrest myself, averting further bloodshed. José would not shoot me.

There are other versions of the story, melodramatic press reports which use the facts as a mere groundwork for building up sensation, but in the interest of truth, I set down here my private notes of what Don José told me. After his capture, I had the prisoner brought before me at the orderly room, placed the two sentries on guard outside the building, produced a flask of whisky and some cigarettes, then took down a more or less official "statement" for use at the pending trial.

It was ever so curious to see the impassive Indian change at an instant into the Spaniard, the cavalier, amused, sympathetic. And as the narrative went on, he swung from mood to mood.

"Oh, Buckie, don't get mixed! I'm to be hanged, not you, so why look so damp? You blighter, I never had such fun in all my life. Tell the Society for the Promotion of Cruelty to Animals that foxes invented hunting. They had merely to run away, and 'Tally-ho!' the hunt was up and out.

"Shocked, Buckie? Does you good! These last years I was getting to be a prig, too precious high-falutin for God's merry winds and laughing, sparkling sunshine. I doubt, old chap, that the winged seraphim are vain of their pinions and their singing, as any peacock.

"The spiritual pride of Lucifer hurled him weltering to damnation. I fared no better, and when I lay smashed, I had to feel myself all over, surprised I was really me. I'm all the better for being real again.

"I'm sorry for some things, Buckie: not for the justice I did to Saunders, but for the pain I gave De Hamel, instead of a quick despatch. He earned that, when he sent Saunders to my lodge."

"He didn't."

"That's all you know."

On this one detail my friend showed obstinate unreason; in all things else sane as I was.

"Poor Millard!" he continued. "With the agent to handle, not to mention the agent's missus and the kids, no doctor to be had, the Bloods throwing hysterics, while all the time he expected me to call and leave a bullet."

"You stayed to watch."

"Yes. Couldn't miss the fun. Might have to help him with his Indians, too. I felt as if I were back in the police, and when it comes to Indian versus whites, we all have to show our color. Millard's a real man.

"But the properest hero was young Bears. He dipped the wooden heads of his arrows in his aunt's blood, swearing great oaths, too. Then he painted his face for war, and came to me, making bad medicine. He wanted me to raise the Blackfoot nation. He would lead the boys in battle. I gave Rain's nephew the post of honor, to celebrate his aunt's funeral, killing a horse for her spirit to ride up the Wolf Trail. He was to give the grizzly bearskin, your old bed, as an offering to the Sun. Then he was to keep my standing camp at the agency, draw and distribute rations, pick up and send on the news, and put about rumors to fool police interpreters. Oh, he's the very broth of a boy is Bears. Pity he's Many Horses' son and not mine. I'd make him Marquis de las Alpuxarras.

"When I'd made his eyes to shine I streaked off to my old partner, Many Horses. He took charge of all my Blackfoot tribe in the different camps where I'd placed them. He made extra camps with my two dear nursing scarecrows in charge. That made six camps, each with a bunch of ponies from which I could draw my remounts. The Piegans sent me horses. Now, own up, Buckie--didn't I give the old troop exercise?"

Indeed he did!

"I don't think much of white men's tactics, Buckie. You wasted half you strength on pickets at Whisky Gap and the Rocky Mountain passes."

"Sam thought," said I, "that being an Indian, you'd stay in the district, where you had lots of help. I thought that, being a white man, you'd skin out for the states. I didn't say so."

"I thought," said Don José, "as a sort of mongrel white-Indian that before I cleared for Spain I'd better arrange the future for my scarecrows, my little Bears, my brother, Many Horses, and all my rag-tag and bobtail pensioners. But, when I tried to do business, they always blubbered until I had to run."

"Why didn't you leave the business to the Brat, or me?"

"And sacrifice you both to save my tribe, eh? Poor sport to make my brother and my chum accomplices in murder."

So he had stayed in the district with his depot camps and relays of ponies. The Indians were his intelligence department, keeping him constantly advised by signal-fires and smokes, by cypress messages on rocks or trees, or by verbal reports which told him our every movement. I remember one patrol, when I had twenty men for seventy hours in the saddle, until in sheer exhaustion we were compelled to camp at Big Bend detachment. Then came a rider flying to report that Charging Buffalo had just been seen at Kootenay. We white men rallied for the twenty-eight-mile march, but our Indians lay and were kicked, done for, refusing to move. We left them, and went off reeling.

On another occasion, a Mormon farmer brought news that, while he was cutting fence rails, Charging Buffalo had crept out from the bush, and made off with his lunch. Smoldering for revenge, the man led us through the timber to a small opening where we found and surrounded a tent. Two men covered the entrance with their revolvers, while I pulled aside the flap disclosing a couple of Mormons in a shaking funk.

Farther on, in the gray of dawn, we found another clearing, and a second tent. Here Marmot, one of my friend's pet scarecrows, who had ridden with him for many a weary day, heard our approach, looked out and screamed.

"Oh, I remember that!" said Charging Buffalo, "and Marmot had a screech like a deep-sea tug. I ripped the back of the tent with my knife, rolled through, and got to cover just in time to escape a volley. But I was half asleep still, or I'd never have missed the officer's head. Was that you, Buckie?"

I showed him the hole through my hat. "You knocked it off," said I.

"You're an awfully bad shot, Buckie," was his comment, "or you'd have got me that time. As to your men, they panicked and let their guns kick high. You should have steadied them with coffee, for dawn fighting." Then he groaned, tallying on his fingers, "A carcass of Bill Cochrane's beef, twenty-five pounds of bacon, five sacks of flour, and one of sugar, a deerskin for making moccasins, an A tent, and the Marmot. I missed them horribly. And next week Sarde recaptured Bears, riding despatches. All my rag-tag and bobtail tribe caught and imprisoned, too. Many Horses was taken with his wife and the two little girls. Yes, I'd only one helper left, poor Makes-your-hair-gray, who was mostly talk. She and I took to following your patrols, so as to get a sleep when you camped, which wasn't often. I used to think you fellows must be haunted by remorse, for you never gave me time for a decent nap. Once, when you'd left two horses for dead, we had to ride them an extra forty miles; and even Makes-your-hair-gray was too tired to grumble. Oh, do you remember when the corporal at Boundary Creek gave you a feed, while Makes-your-hair-gray stole the horses out of the stable?"

"Fyfe," said I, "was mad as a wet hen."

"So was Makes-your-hair-gray. Fyfe's horse bucked her off. Yes, and after that all the police stables were locked and guarded, so we couldn't get any remounts. Call that sporting? You fellows had no sense of decency. I remember once, at--oh, yes, at Lee's Creek, the corporal came swaggering along with a lantern, and I tried to put it out, from behind the horse-trough."

"Yes, the bullet whisked through Corporal Armour's sleeve. He ran for his gun, but you were off at a gallop."

"Nice chap that," said Charging Buffalo. "I liked him, but I really needed a remount.

"When I was a little boy there used to be a story in a book, all about Pussie on the Road to Ruin, a bad cat who took to evil courses, just like me, and met with a horrid end, tied to a brick in a duck-pond. Buckie, you know the Boulders? They say Chief Mountain was cross and threw them at his wife. Well, Pussie was riding along under the Boulders (on the Road to Ruin) where there wasn't any snow to make tracks in. It was a grim gray day, and Pussie was very, very miserable, riding a rotten old screw he'd stole from the Lazy H outfit.

"Pussie's legs had swelled up with too much exercise. Pussie hadn't any cat's-meat left to eat. Pussie's last helper had been put in prison. Pussie hadn't had a cat nap for three or four days, and you know that bad cats are more miserable than good cats, especially when they're wet. Very cross, too.

"And in the Ten Commandments it says you must keep the Sabbath--there's not a word about cat-hunts. Why, even foxes, in decent countries like England, can go to church on Sundays if they want to.

"Besides, it was just like Sarde's cheek to ride Black Prince. He was a picture of sin on horseback, anyway. He had a buck policeman with him."

"Amber," said I.

"And a scout-interpreter."

"Green-Grass-growing-in-the-water," said I.

"And a body of Indians."

"They'd new rifles," said I, "all clogged with factory grease, and frozen so the pin couldn't hit the cartridge. Sarde sent Amber back twenty miles to Pincher Creek to turn out all settlers in the Queen's name; then fire off a despatch here to French, and take out his citizens to surround you--all at full gallop."

"Silly. Snow much too deep. Black Prince came finely, though, romping along through the drifts, with Sarde yelling back at his Indians."

"Sarde ordered them not to fire, or they might hit him by mistake."

"Was that the trouble? Wish they had! Well, along came Sarde, despising Indians, drawing abreast of me."

"With orders to shoot at sight."

"Orders? Orders be darned! Laid his revolver across his thighs, going to make his arrest with a propah swaggah, damme!"

"Own to it, La Mancha. A brave man!"

"Why not? Else what was he doing in God's Own First Dragoons? 'Hello!' says I, as he drew abreast, 'how's Sarde-the-Coward?'"

"He reeled as though I'd shot him.

"'Remember Carlton, Sarde? And your unfinished duel with Don José?'

"He went gray at that, but closed in on my off side.

"'I told you, Sarde, at Carlton, I'd fire at the word "three." I gave you two, and you shot me, you cad. Now get your gun, and ask God's mercy, for you'll have none from me.'

"He shouted, dry-mouthed, hoarse, like a neighing stallion. We were abreast now, and my rifle lay across my knees, my left hand on the trigger, the barrel pointing under my right arm. I held the rein high in the right. Sarde was leaning over to grab at my right shoulder.

"'Get your gun,' I yelled at him. 'One! Two!' I had to swerve, or he'd have hauled me out of the saddle. 'Three!' And I let drive through him. That finished our duel, and put the slanderer to an end."

"He never used his revolver," I explained. "Ashamed to need a weapon, arresting by hand after the grandest tradition of the force, knowing you to be his enemy, and facing certain death to do his duty. That man died a hero!"

La Mancha looked about the office, to the door and the windows, and the orders posted above me on the wall. Then his eyes, avoiding mine, looked down at his shackled hands. I had to fight back tears. So he looked up with that queer writhen smile of his, and, just as once before long years ago, when I had tried to put him in the wrong. "Buckie," he wailed, "please say I'm not a bounder!"

"Not a bounder," I almost sobbed.

La Mancha's bullet had passed through Sarde's body, then, deflecting on the humerus of the extended right arm, traversed the forearm, came out of the palm, and dropped into his gauntlet. Slowly the dead man rolled from the saddle, while Black Prince loped on, and the outlaw went beside him. Then the horse pulled up, snorting, and when La Mancha came grabbing at the loose rein, Black Prince reared up, striking with his forefeet in blind rage at his master's murderer.

"He didn't know me," said my friend in bitterness. "My old horse had forgotten me."

So came that most extraordinary fight for mastery between man and horse, watched by the Indians, pursuing and closing in on every side. Their rifles were for the time useless, and to that accident La Mancha owed his escape, riding away on Black Prince until, a tiny speck upon the snow-field, he went down beyond the sky-line.

"Whining," La Mancha said grimly, "must be a comfort. Remorse is prescribed for sinners, and abject prayer is supposed to be a grace.

"According to the standards of this age, I ought to have sued for damages, and trusted my honor to the sharp tongues of a pack of barristers." He chuckled softly.

"So I was in the wrong. Sarde was a hero to all the whites, and all the Indians. When he betrayed a woman he did it in private, so I killed him openly in public--and I'm a villain. What can you expect of a mere Blackguard?

"Oh, I had put myself in the wrong, there was no explaining. The Blackfoot nation said I was in the wrong, and they should know. They turned their backs on me for killing Sarde. The government offered two hundred dollars for me, the officer commanding added fifty, which shows I was two hundred and fifty times a scoundrel. I was lonely, too, with no friends left in sight, and an awful misgiving that the plague of respectability had infected the Angels in Heaven, who were having their pinions clipped for fear of being thought improper.

"Thou shalt do no murder! It was Sarde's life or mine. Heads, he got made superintendent; tails, I went to the gallows, and he had fifteen Indians to see fair play.

"Thou shalt not kill! God gives thee grinding teeth instead of fangs, and tender finger-nails instead of talons--battles to fight without the armor or any natural weapons; a spirit made for soaring--but no wings!

"The honor of women is more sacred in the sight of God than the lives I took, and if He made a gentleman, He expects the services of knighthood from His feudatory.

"Last night, as I lay there in my cell, chained to the floor, a man on guard, some poor recruit, fancied I'd given too much needless trouble to him and to the troop. He kicked me in the face."

"Tell me which man," said I, "or I'll have the whole guard punished."

"The years he has to live will punish him. If you take actions, Buckie, I shall deny what I told you. There's been enough vengeance."

From the killing of Sarde, La Mancha had ridden into a world turned hostile. The tribes decided that his body belonged by Indian law to the white men, and he must expect no mercy, or help, or succor from any living creature.

"Many Horses believed," he said, "that his two young men, Left Hand and Bear Paw, would stand by me if every other friend had failed. I went to their cabin, and tied Black Prince to a bush. I couldn't stand, so I crept across to the door. They heard me, but when Left Hand came out through the door, I saw something wrong in his eyes. I tried to get back to my horse and escape; but he threw his arms around me, lifted me to my feet, and kissed me on both cheeks. Then Bear Paw stole behind and roped me, so that I fell down. He threw running half-hitches along the rope, lashed my arms to my body, and my feet together. They carried me into the cabin, and pitched me down in a corner. Left Hand rode off on Black Prince to fetch the police, while Bear Paw mounted guard. I suppose they got the two hundred and fifty dollars between them.

"Still, I hoped to escape. They had been mending moccasins, and left an awl on the floor. I managed to open an artery.

"But that sergeant came too soon," he added, his voice breaking, "and twice since then I failed.

"The spirits of my fathers have to be faced at night--when the sentry is pacing his beat outside, and the moon-ray points like a finger at the time. José, Marquis of the Alpuxarras, hanged!

"So I pray, while the sentry marches, and turns, and comes back, beating out the hours; while the moon-ray sweeps like the hand of a clock across the darkness, through the long nights and the long days. God will send me means to come to Him for judgment."

IV

For four months the troop had hunted Charging Buffalo, had been put to derision by the tricks he played us, to shame by his extraordinary scoutcraft, daring and endurance. The gibes of civilians, the fleering press, the lessened respect of the Blackfeet drove our men to such a pitch of exasperation that once they had the prisoner in their power their only feeling was one of bitter rage.

Three times he made most ingenious attempts at suicide,--clear proof he was in earnest. Shackled to bolts in the floor, as the only possible means of preventing self-destruction, his state was so piteous that all men's hearts were moved. Then the fellows began to notice that he seemed to know what sort of dance he led them of extra duty, that he had an odd quaint smile of sympathy for their troubles, that though he had no word of English he was quick to realize little ways of making things easier for them. They began to like him, to bring him cigarettes and such luxuries as they could buy, and to be very tender with the dressings of his legs, both skinned from heel to groin by his constant riding. They knew he suffered excruciating pain, they saw his gay courage, and in the end they loved him.

The Brat, who had been the blithest man in the barracks, appeared to be ill, dragging himself through the day's routine, pallid and listless. He claimed to be well, and the doctor could find no symptoms beyond the need of a furlough, which Brat refused with oaths. He was given tonics.

Sam was annoyed by the capsizal of his year's setting up drills, and tours of inspection, yet treated the prisoner better than rules allowed, and growled at the doctor for failing to get the man fatter. No host likes thin guests--and this veritable skeleton in our closet reflected upon our hospitality.

Because I knew something of the Blackfoot language, because openly I had taken the prisoner's part from the beginning, and because Charging Buffalo would have no man else for counsel, I was allowed to defend him at the trial. But when I tried to show him that his only possible plea was insanity, he refused to have me as advocate until I changed my mind. Still, under pretext of examining witnesses, with Brat's ready help in cash I was able to set my friend's affairs in order, and pensioned off the rag-tag and bobtail tribe. Being, so to speak, a brevet barrister for the trial I had for my junior a veritable and learned scalawag who had eaten his dinners at the Middle Temple. Since then he had risen in life as a constable, to be Sam's last promising young teamster. Once with the Viceroy and Vice-reine of Canada for his passengers, he drowned his near wheeler in a spate of Belly River; but stood on the seat like a charioteer, pouring law and blacksnake whip into his swimming horses, until they dragged the wagonette, dead mare and all, up the far bank into safety. Now, finding himself no longer briefless in his old profession, he drove through the village in his wig and gown, amid scenes of tremendous public enthusiasm. Of course he was punished, and naturally his wig was barred from a Canadian assize, where such things are not worn; but still he made me a jolly good junior, driving me like a team through formidable rites and unknown ceremonies.

More difficult to deal with than the actual case was Brat la Mancha, who insisted upon attending at the trial. He could not be persuaded to keep away until I showed him how his presence in the court would weaken Don José, perhaps break down his nerve, and lead him to full confession. The prisoner's race, his nationality and rank were not matters of public concern, had not the slightest bearing on the evidence of capital felonies, and were rightfully matters of private concern, to be kept secret. A confession would expose his gallant brother to shame, and drag his great name in the dirt to no advantage. But the keeping of the secret made the trial for me a strain to the verge of my endurance, one long agony. My nerve was gone to rage before the court convened. Of course I had been chaffed by every man I knew.

We had what are known as "words," amounting even to "language," when counsel prosecuting for the Crown objected to me strongly personally and with venom as having no right to appear for the prisoner.

"It is true," said the judge, "that a layman may not address the court, but, on the other hand, the prisoner's next friend has the right to help him with his defense."

Prompted by my junior, I turned to rend the prosecuting counsel, challenged his claim to be a British subject, demanded his papers of naturalization, and said he had no right to appear in any court save a back yard:

"The learned counsel," said the judge, "has been called to the Canadian bar."

He then turned up and cited "Pot versus Kettle."

Next I impugned the right of the judge himself to try an Indian.

"The prisoner," I said, "is by treaty not subject to any authority save that of his tribal chief. Her Majesty the Queen has made treaty with the chief as an allay, an equal sovereign, whose men are not citizens or subjects of the Dominion."

The judge told me not to talk rot, or words to that effect, so I gave notice of appeal to the judicial committee of the Privy Council. That bluff gave the jury a fine sense of importance, and impressed His Honor, the fine old humorist on the bench, as a piece of delightful cheek.

Here followed a slight pause, while the prisoner whispered to his advocate, presumably in Blackfoot, "Sick 'em, Buckie! Bite 'em! Go for 'em! Tear 'em and eat 'em!"

"Shut up," said counsel, "or you'll give the whole show away." Then, addressing the court:

"The prisoner pleads guilty."

Still too weak to stand, Charging Buffalo sat in the dock, chained, with two constables armed for a guard. His reputation carried terror still, and pressmen made good copy of his eagle features, his wolfish smile. "A typical redskin warrior," they called him, and with hints implied the lie that he had scalped his victims.

Now the prosecution called its witnesses, Mr. de Hamel and his wife, sundry settlers, many of the police, various Indians dealt with through the official interpreter. With dry sardonic humor, the prisoner asked through me his pungent questions. All that the Crown suggested as to the prisoner's malice, ferocity and methods of terrorism collapsed, and one by one I saw the jurors take the weaker side. Left Hand and Bear Paw, who had taken money to betray their friend, had to confront him now, while in their own tongue he made them confess how the one had kissed him on both cheeks while the other stole behind him with a rope. They flinched as though from a whip, their faces turned gray, they shrank, they held up their hands to shield their eyes, while word for word I translated to a court horrified, and a disgusted jury.

"Tell the white chief," said my client, "that Black Robes have taught me about the white man's customs. There was a chief medicine man of their tribe who gave thirty dollars to a white man by the name of Judas, who went to his master and kissed Him on both cheeks. Even the white man was ashamed, and hanged himself.

"Here is the white man's custom. Left Hand was paid to kiss me on both cheeks, while Bear Paw roped me. Did they get the thirty dollars each, or thirty dollars between them?"

"Tell the prisoner," said the judge, "that we can not expect him to understand our customs."

This I translated.

"Then," answered Charging Buffalo, "if I'm not expected to understand your customs, am I to be hanged for breaking them?"

"I think," said the judge to me, "that this is quite out of order. You will please abstain from the methods of cheap melodrama."

But that crushing retort of the Indian, arraigning our justice, left the whole court demoralized, for the prisoner sat in judgment. With a grave sweetness he turned to the witness who had betrayed him. "You may go," he said, "and take my pity with you."

It was then he told his story, while I translated. He called no witness for the prosecuting counsel to browbeat, he made no plea of innocence, he asked no mercy. Rather, he dwelt upon the Indian faith which sent him to worship his God in the far wilderness until the sacred woman, his wife, began to die. He brought her back to die among her people.

"Her spirit rides the Wolf Trail," he said, "that big trail across the star-field which leads to the Place of Waiting, and there I shall go. Life is too difficult to live, and death so easy."

A coming rain-storm filled the western sky, hiding the sun, then darkening the air until one could hardly see across the court room. The judge's clerk lighted candles.

The patter of rain blended now with the prisoner's quiet voice, the flicker of sheet lightning revealed his face and the gray hair braided down his shoulders.

"Think of me," he said, "not as red or black, or white, but as a man. The same light shines upon us all, and where the sun is high the folks are black, and where the sun is low the folks are white; but high sun or low sun, we children of the sun are all one household. There is one Father whose light fills the sky, who makes us what we are: sons, lovers of women, parents of little children. Because we worship our Father up there above, because we obey Him, because we are what He made us, each man-child of the skies must protect his women from outrage, must fend for the weak and helpless, must guard the life he holds because it belongs to those who love and trust him, must hate betrayers, must despise a liar. That is the law above all other laws, above all chiefs, councils and tribes of men, which you must obey, big chief up there on the high seat, and you two warriors on guard, and you men who sit waiting to send me to death or slavery.

"My friend here who speaks for me says that if a negro attacks one of your white women, you burn him at the stake. That is good. If an Indian attacks a white woman, you kill him. That is good. If a white man attacks my wife, I kill him. Is that wrong? When I heard her calling to me for help, should I leave her to her fate and fetch a policeman? Would you? The bears and cougars, the wolves and dogs know better than that. Are you lower than the common curs of the camp--you who dare to blame a man for his manhood? Shame on you, your court, your laws which defend the filthy beast I killed, and condemn me for being a man!

"I killed this beast with an ax, too late to save my wife. She died of her own hand to escape dishonor. That is the right and duty of all clean women. If your wives failed to do that, you would almost die of shame."

The rain swept down in torrents, but the prisoner's voice, with its soft resonance, now seemed to fill the darkness. We could scarcely see him in the deep shadow, but the judge and his clerk at the table had their candle-light.

"The horrible mad beast I killed was called Red Saunders. It is known that he stole a white man's wife, and left her to die in shame. It is known to the Indian women that he was dangerous, and ought to have been killed. But he belonged to a powerful white chief, the Indian agent, who sheltered him, fed him, used him as a servant, and allowed him loose to outrage Indian women. He was more dangerous than a grizzly bear, allowed to range the camp without a chain or muzzle. If the Indians complained of that, the white men would only have laughed--as you are laughing now!"

The rain ceased as it began, with startling abruptness; the sky was clearing, and as the light increased we saw the prisoner lying back in his chair, his face lean with privation, lined with pain, his eyes closed, his lips drawn, smiling, as he spoke with gentle tolerance:

"Was this a laughing matter for my wife when she cried for help and no help came; when she took the knife from her belt and plunged it into her body--until her heart's blood, spurting, drenched her tender, childish, little brown hands?

"Laugh! For tears are weak things, drops of salty water, running to mere waste; but laughter is like a crackling fire flaming up to God! Laugh, for the sun is laughing above the clouds, our God who sees what little troubles give us so much pain."

He raised himself, his eyes alight with a strange fire, his voice quivering with passion.

"Do you blame the blade, or the hand that drives it? Do you blame the wild beast, or the man that keeps it? Do you blame the man, or the God who rules him?

"I blame, not the beast I killed, but the man who owned it. And if I shot that man for owning such a beast, blame God for making me what I am, the hand which wielded justice!

"If you want peace, don't drive brave men to war. If you want war, don't be surprised at the killing. Hear the low thunder rolling, see the air quiver with white light: the flash and roar of storms come out of clouds, the passion and death of men come from injustice. Deal justly with men and there will be no slaying.

"Was I not driven to fight, and goaded like a bear until I turned at bay, hunted by day and night through four moons, until I did not care if I fought a mere hundred men or a tribe, or the whole world?

"What if I killed a chief? Should I kill mere followers? I killed a chief in face of all his men, and let the rest get off. Why did I not kill more, when I had scores at my mercy in that long hunting?"

He lay back wearily, sighing.

"It is done. I am finished. War is a fire burning a man's blood, a great blazing of life--but I am burned out, to ashes.

"My horses were taken from me, my poor servants. There was no food. There was no sleep. There was no hope except of a death fit for the son of warriors. I had earned the fighter's death. Surely I deserved the death of a chief. But I have been betrayed.

"I have no pride left except that I am guilty of this charge. Not innocent, not a coward, but one who has earned a great death. If I were innocent, I should deserve hanging, or slavery in a prison. I do not plead to women or children but surely to men, brave with the natural valor which comes to us from Heaven, careful of honor. So I pray you take me out into the sunshine, and pay me the death I earned, the death you owe me, with rifles.

"See"--his voice was a mere whisper now--"the rain has stopped, the shadow of the rain has passed, the Sun God lights the rain-drops, even the dirty little rain-drops along the window-frame. Dirty they are, and yet they shine like stars; small they are, yet big enough to reflect the figures and glory of their God, who made them in His image. The Sun-heat will dry them up, so that their bodies die, and yet their spirits rise into the heavens.

"I am no more than that, I am no less--a thing from Heaven, stained and shamed with dirt in this world, and yet reflecting God, who burns my body to call my spirit up, cleansed, freed, eternal."

The prisoner's face was changed. He seemed remote from our world, withdrawn to a great distance, looking down, his smile a benediction.

"Poor little laws!" he said, ever so gently. "Men in earnest, groping through the dark in search of right and truth, children playing at 'Let's pretend to be God.' Play on at your game, your tiresome game, in your stuffy, dirty court room, with your old worn-out rules. But let me go, for I am weary of this mock trial, in a sham court, where little children play at make-believe. I go to take my trial at the Court of God, whose law is truth. You have nothing but death to give. He gives life."

Then there was silence, broken presently by an emotional juror, who sobbed, and tried to make believe he had a cough.

The counsel for the Crown had prepared a very fine speech which he must needs deliver. It was all about a most murderous and ferocious redskin desperado, committing a series of despicable and cowardly outrages, at wanton random of the homicidal maniac, guided only by the low cunning of a savage. Then we found that this very bad man was the prisoner, and ripples of merriment broke into open laughter.

I will not quote my speech for the defense, but merely cite the points which made it hopeless.

There was, for example, a strong contention within my reach that by the most ancient and fundamental principles of justice a prisoner has the right of trial before a jury of his peers. Yet my client was arraigned for felony before a panel to all intents of his enemies, against whom he had levied war, men biased by race prejudice before they entered court. My junior warned me, however, that it is not tactful to impugn the jury; and British practise, unlike the American, does not allow the defense to challenge any juror who has read the public press.

My defense was limited then to arguments which the judge derided afterward as those of a sentimentalist attempting to interpret murder as virtuous conduct. As long as I defended the slayer of Red Saunders I had the jurors with me; even the shooting of the Indian agent might be condoned as an act of natural wrath provoked to the degree of actual madness; but when I came to the killing of Sarde, the whole court turned against me with a disdain which chilled me, silenced me. Myself one of the sworn constabulary, Sarde's brother officer and a justice of the peace, how could I defend what seemed, by all the evidence produced, his ruthless murder, deliberate, unprovoked? The real facts of the Sarde-la Mancha duel, begun in former years and now completed, I was barred from telling, and in default of that excuse the crime seemed monstrous.