dance in Fort Benton, an affair annually hosted by Major Ilges and to which a contingent of Police are always invited. To display B Troop at its best, Walsh always hand-picks the men who will attend the dance, and Hathaway’s good looks and impeccable English manners made him a highly suitable selection. There he met a young lady named Celeste Tarr, and a romantic correspondence between the two ensued. Now with mail delivery suspended, Hathaway is in a fever because several times in the past months he has sniffed in Miss Tarr’s letters allusions to a rival for her affections. The boy believes only a face-to-face meeting can re-establish his supremacy in her heart. Ever since he learned that Case’s departure to Fort Benton was imminent he has been importuning him to get Walsh to agree to let him make the trip too. And now he has given the boy what he wants. Two favours in two days, both granted because he was incapable of withstanding a plea for help. It will remain to be seen if no good deed goes unpunished.
Case gives himself a shake. He has digging to do, a “sanitary convenience” to finish. For the next two days he labours mightily with scarcely a pause. Evenings, he has appointments with the Major to discuss how things will be handled with Ilges in Fort Benton. When Walsh cavils or balks, Case reminds him that if he does not cooperate, his “intermediary” has it in his power to quit at any time.
The afternoon before Case’s term in the North-West Mounted Police ends, he throws the last shovelful of dirt out of the trench and clambers up the ladder. Face streaked with muddy sweat, he looks down with satisfaction on what he has accomplished. It seems to him a small step in putting the right foot forward into the future.
Watching Joe McMullen tighten cinches, examine hooves for cracks and loose shoes, sling saddlebags into place, leaving nothing to chance before hitting the trail to Fort Benton, confirms for Case how wrong Walsh is to brand Joe lazy. If need be, he can act with energy and purpose. It’s just that his ambitions are different from the Major’s. Joe simply wants to enjoy life. He is content to be paid a dlar a head to break a string of horses for the NWMP every two or three months; the rest of the time he sits outside his cabin in the sun, regales passersby with jokes and stories, whittles sticks into toothpicks, makes friends with stray dogs, and, when the spirit moves him, goes hunting game. Right now, seeing him slip in and out among the horses, light footed, quick, and purposeful, it’s difficult to credit his reputation for sloth, which he had been branded with the moment of his arrival in the Cypress Hills. Case had been there to witness that first appearance.
On a soft spring evening almost two years ago, a group of Police had been playing rounders on the parade square, when they spotted a horseman coming down the freight road from Fort Benton. The way he rode, slumped over in the saddle like a man wounded or deathly sick, caused them to break off the game and run to meet him. As they approached, the buckskin bearing the man came to a stop, ears up, watchful. The troopers edged in carefully, so as not to spook the nervous horse.
The man’s chin hung down on his chest, face hidden by the wide brim of his hat. When he started to list precariously to the right they all took him for dead. Case was the first to dart forward, grab an arm to keep the toppling body from falling to the ground. As soon as he touched it, the corpse gave a galvanic twitch, Case flinched in surprise, and all the constables took a startled step backwards. Slowly the rider’s head lifted, and they all got their first look at Joe McMullen, a weather-ravaged face, crow’s feet flaring at the corners of deep-set black eyes, a crooked mouth, an iron-grey moustache drooping two long wispy tails below his jaws, a tall, lanky composition of sinew, bone, and stringy muscle.
McMullen broke a lopsided grin at the red
Case gives himself a shake. He has digging to do, a “sanitary convenience” to finish. For the next two days he labours mightily with scarcely a pause. Evenings, he has appointments with the Major to discuss how things will be handled with Ilges in Fort Benton. When Walsh cavils or balks, Case reminds him that if he does not cooperate, his “intermediary” has it in his power to quit at any time.
The afternoon before Case’s term in the North-West Mounted Police ends, he throws the last shovelful of dirt out of the trench and clambers up the ladder. Face streaked with muddy sweat, he looks down with satisfaction on what he has accomplished. It seems to him a small step in putting the right foot forward into the future.
Watching Joe McMullen tighten cinches, examine hooves for cracks and loose shoes, sling saddlebags into place, leaving nothing to chance before hitting the trail to Fort Benton, confirms for Case how wrong Walsh is to brand Joe lazy. If need be, he can act with energy and purpose. It’s just that his ambitions are different from the Major’s. Joe simply wants to enjoy life. He is content to be paid a dlar a head to break a string of horses for the NWMP every two or three months; the rest of the time he sits outside his cabin in the sun, regales passersby with jokes and stories, whittles sticks into toothpicks, makes friends with stray dogs, and, when the spirit moves him, goes hunting game. Right now, seeing him slip in and out among the horses, light footed, quick, and purposeful, it’s difficult to credit his reputation for sloth, which he had been branded with the moment of his arrival in the Cypress Hills. Case had been there to witness that first appearance.
On a soft spring evening almost two years ago, a group of Police had been playing rounders on the parade square, when they spotted a horseman coming down the freight road from Fort Benton. The way he rode, slumped over in the saddle like a man wounded or deathly sick, caused them to break off the game and run to meet him. As they approached, the buckskin bearing the man came to a stop, ears up, watchful. The troopers edged in carefully, so as not to spook the nervous horse.
The man’s chin hung down on his chest, face hidden by the wide brim of his hat. When he started to list precariously to the right they all took him for dead. Case was the first to dart forward, grab an arm to keep the toppling body from falling to the ground. As soon as he touched it, the corpse gave a galvanic twitch, Case flinched in surprise, and all the constables took a startled step backwards. Slowly the rider’s head lifted, and they all got their first look at Joe McMullen, a weather-ravaged face, crow’s feet flaring at the corners of deep-set black eyes, a crooked mouth, an iron-grey moustache drooping two long wispy tails below his jaws, a tall, lanky composition of sinew, bone, and stringy muscle.
McMullen broke a lopsided grin at the red
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