The Luck of the Mounted eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 241 pages of information about The Luck of the Mounted.

“Oh!” she giggled hysterically “he—­he must have seen your red coat!” another spasm of merriment, “it was as good as a pantomime,” she murmured.

Evincing a keen interest in his soldierly vocation, for awhile she subjected him to an exacting and minute inquisition anent the duties and life of a Mounted Policeman.  In this agreeable fashion the time passed rapidly and it was with a feeling of regret that he heard the brakeman announce his destination and rose to take leave of his pleasant companion.  The children insisted on bidding their late chum a cuddling, osculatory farewell—­Alice tearfully holding up the snuffling Porkey for his share.  The train drew up at the Davidsburg platform, there came a chorus of “Good-byes” and a few minutes later George was left alone with his kit-bags on the deserted platform.


  St. Agnes’ Eve.  Ah! bitter chill it was. 
    The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
  The hare limped, trembling, through the frozen grass;
    And drowsy was the flock in woolly fold

                                        ST. AGNES’ EVE

Edmond did not have to wait long.  Sounding faint and far off came the silvery ring of sleigh-bells, gradually swelling in volume until, with a measured crunch! crunch! of hoofs on packed snow, a smart Police cutter, drawn by a splendid bay team, swung around a bend of the trail and pulled up at the platform.  Redmond regarded with a little awe the huge, bear-like, uniformed figure of the teamster, whom he identified at once from barrack gossip.

“Sergeant Slavin?” he enquired respectfully, eyeing the bronzed, clean-shaven face, half hidden by fur cap and turned-up collar.

“Meself, lad!” came a rich soft brogue, “I was afther gettin’ a wire from th’ O.C., tellin’ me he was thransfering me another man.  Yer name’s Ridmond, ain’t it?—–­Whoa, now!  T an’ B!—­lively wid thim kit-bags, son!—­team’s pretty fresh an’ will not shtand.”

They swung off at a spanking trot.  George surveyed the white-washed cattle-corrals and few scattered shacks which seemed to comprise the hamlet of Davidsburg.

“Not a very big place, Sergeant?” he remarked, “how far’s the detachment from here?”

“On’y ’bout a mile” grunted the individual, squirting a stream of tobacco-juice to leeward, “up on the high ground beyant.  Nay! ’tis just a jumpin’ off place an’ shippin’ point for th’ ranches hereabouts.  Business is mostly done at Cow Run—­East.  Ye passed ut, comin’.  Great doin’s there—­whin th’ cowpunchers blow in.  Some burg!”

“Sure looked it!” Redmond agreed absently, thinking of the casual glimpse he had got of the dreary main street.

They were climbing a slight grade.  The sun-glare on the snow was intense; the cutter’s steel runners no longer screeched, and the team’s hoofs began to clog up with soft snow.

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The Luck of the Mounted from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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