Part 13 (1/2)
The speaker did not repeat the kick, as he took good care to stand well to one side when the sleeper awoke.
Then the present, with all its lurid horror, crashed down upon the soul of Pasmore. He was to be shot--yes, but his heart glowed within him when he thought of Dorothy, for whom he had made this sacrifice!
He rose to his feet There was a group of dirty, bleary-eyed breeds and Indians standing within the doorway. One or two who had known him before looked on sulkily and silently, for they knew that while he was a man whose hand was iron and whose will was indomitable in the carrying out of the law, he had ever a kindly word and a helping hand for such as needed help. Those who only knew him by the power he represented in the law, openly jeered and crowed over this big ”shermoganish” whom now they had fairly in their grasp, and whom they must destroy if the metis were to own and govern the land. They also, however, kept well away from him, for had they not heard how he had taken three bad Indians single-handed on the Eagle Hills by wounding them in turn, and then driving them before him, on foot, like sheep, into the Fort?
The sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly down on the scene of rapine and lawlessness, which looked peaceful and fair enough, in all truth, robed as it was in its snow-white vestments.
Only here and there a heap of black and smouldering ruins spoke of the horrors of the previous night. From the scattered houses on the flat, wreaths of smoke were rising right cheerily into the sharp, clear air. Breeds and Indians, men, women, and children, were moving about everywhere, carrying with them, for purposes of display, their ill-gotten goods. Some of the lounging figures at the door even had resplendent new sashes, and odd-looking articles that did duty for them, wound round their waists and necks. At intervals Pasmore could hear an odd rifle shot, and he guessed that the Fort must be closely invested. His first thoughts, however, were for Dorothy and her father, whom he hoped were now safely back under the friendly protection of Child-of-Light.
”Sar-jean,” said a big half-breed whom he recognised as one of his guards of the previous night, ”will you haf to eat and drink?”
The fellow did not look such a callous fanatic as some of the others, and although this promise of breakfast was not particularly exhilarating, still, Pasmore had a healthy appet.i.te, and he answered in the affirmative.
The big breed issued some orders, and in a few minutes, to Pasmore's no little satisfaction, a lad brought a tin of biscuits, a tin of salmon, a piece of cheese, and a spoon, all obviously supplied by the Hudson Bay Company on the previous evening free of charge--and against its will.
He sat down on the upturned pail once more and enjoyed the simple fare. It was queer to think that this meal in all probability would be his last on earth. His surroundings seemed incongruous and unreal, and his mind ran in a vein of whimsical speculation. It is strange to think, but it is a fact, all the same, that certain temperaments, when face to face with death, allow their thoughts to take an oddly critical and retrospective view of things in general. The fear of death does not affect them, although, at the same time, they are fully conscious of the momentous issues of their fate.
The crowd gathered around the door of the long building, and many were the uncouth jests made at the expense of the prisoner. One or two still half-drunk Indians pushed their way through and came close up to him, talking volubly and shaking their fire-arms in his face. But the big breed let out at them with his great fists, and sent them away expostulating still more volubly. Pasmore could easily have settled the matter himself under other circ.u.mstances, but he did not wish to precipitate matters.
The crowd grew in numbers, and very soon he gathered something in regard to what was on foot.
He was to be taken to a certain little rise on the outskirts of the village, where the Police had shot a notorious malcontent and murderer some years before, and there he was, in his turn, to be executed. This would be retributive justice! Pasmore recollected with cynical amus.e.m.e.nt how some of these very same rebels had lived for years in dread of their lives from that desperado, and how at the time nearly the whole population had expressed their satisfaction and thanks to the Police for getting rid of the outlaw, who had been killed in resisting arrest. Now, when it suited their ends, the latter was a martyr, and he was a malefactor. He wished they would hurry up and shoot him out of hand, if he was to be shot He did not know what horrible formality might not be in store for him before they did that. But how beautifully the sun was s.h.i.+ning! He had hardly thought that Battleford could be so fair to look upon.
At last he saw several breeds approaching, and one of them carried with him an axe and a quant.i.ty of rope.
And behind the breeds, greeted by l.u.s.ty acclamations from the mob, came Louis Riel.
CHAPTER XVII
A CLOSE CALL
As the would-be priest and originator of two rebellions approached Pasmore, the ragged, wild-eyed, clamorous crowd made way for him. It was ludicrous to note the air of superiority and braggadocio that this inordinately vain and ambitious man adopted. The prisoner was standing surrounded by his now largely augmented guard, who, forgetful of one another's contiguity, had their many wonderfully and fearfully made blunderbusses levelled at him, ready to blow him into little pieces at a moment's notice if he made the slightest attempt to resist or escape. Great would have been the slaughter amongst the metis if this had happened.
”Prisoner,” said Riel, with a decided French accent, ”you are a spy.” He fixed his dark grey eyes upon Pasmore angrily, and jerked out what he had to say.
”I fail to see how one who wears the Queen's uniform can be a spy,” said Pasmore, undoing the leather tags of his long buffalo coat and showing a serge jacket with the regimental bra.s.s b.u.t.ton on it.
”Ah, that is enough--one of the Mounted Police! What are you doing in this camp?”
”It is I who should be asking you that question. What are _you_ doing under arms? Another rebellion? Be warned by me, Monsieur Riel, and stop this bloodshed as you value your immortal soul.”
He knew that through the fanatic's religion lay the only way of reaching him at all.
But the only effect these words had upon Riel was to further incense the arch rebel.
”Bind him, and search him,” he cried.
Pasmore knew that resistance was hopeless, so quietly submitted. Their mode of tying him was unique. They put a rope round his waist, leaving his arms free, while the two ends were held on either side by a couple of men.
His late guard, the big breed, who could not have been such a bad fellow, discovered his pipe, tobacco, and matches in one pocket, but withdrew his hand quickly.
”Nozing thar,” he declared.
Whether or not he thought the prisoner might soon require them on his way to the Happy Hunting Grounds is a matter of speculation.