CHAPTER XL
"MALBROUCK S'EN VA-T-EN GUERRE"
Inspector MacLean was present in person when the two man-hunters ofthe North-West Mounted returned to Faraway. Their reception was in thenature of a pageant. Gayly dressed voyageurs and trappers, singingold river songs that had been handed down to them from their fathers,unharnessed the dogs and dragged the cariole into town. In it satBeresford, still unfit for long and heavy mushing. Beside it slouchedWest, head down, hands tied behind his back, the eyes from the mattedface sending sidling messages of hate at the capering crowd. At hisheels moved Morse, grim and tireless, an unromantic figure of dominantefficiency.
Long before the worn travelers and their escort reached the village,Jessie could hear the gay lilt of the chantey that heralded theircoming:
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
The girl hummed it herself, heart athrob with excitement. She foundherself joining in the cheer of welcome that rose joyously when thecavalcade drew into sight. In her cheeks fluttered eager flags ofgreeting. Tears brimmed the soft eyes, so that she could hardlydistinguish Tom Morse and Win Beresford, the one lean and gaunt andgrim, the other pale and hollow-eyed from illness, but scatteringsmiles of largesse. For her heart was crying, in a paraphrase of thegreat parable, "He was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and isfound."
Beresford caught sight of the Inspector's face and chuckled likea schoolboy caught in mischief. This gay procession, with itshalf-breeds in tri-colored woolen coats, its gay-plumed voyageurssuggesting gallant troubadours of old in slashed belts and tassels,was not quite the sort of return to set Inspector MacLean cheering.Externally, at least, he was a piece of military machinery. A trooperdid his work, and that ended it. In the North-West Mounted it was notnecessary to make a gala day of it because a constable brought in hisman. If he didn't bring him in--well, that would be another and asadder story for the officer who fell down on the assignment.
As soon as Beresford and Morse had disposed of their prisoner andshaken off their exuberant friends, they reported to the Inspector.He sat at a desk and listened dryly to their story. Not till they hadfinished did he make any comment.
"You'll have a week's furlough to recuperate, Constable Beresford.After that report to the Writing-on-Stone detachment for orders.Here's a voucher for your pay, Special Constable Morse. I'll sayto you both that it was a difficult job well done." He hesitated amoment, then proceeded to free his mind. "As for this Roman triumphbusiness--victory procession with prisoners chained to your chariotwheels--quite unnecessary, I call it."
Beresford explained, smilingly. "We really couldn't help it, sir. Theywere bound to make a Roman holiday out of us whether we wanted to ornot. You know how excitable the French are. Had to have their littlefrolic out of it."
"Not the way the Mounted does business. You know that, Beresford.We don't want any fuss and feathers--any fol-de-rol--thismironton-ton-ton stuff. Damn it, sir, you liked it. I could see youeat it up. D'you s'pose I haven't eyes in my head?"
The veneer of sobriety Beresford imposed on his countenance refused tostay put.
MacLean fumed on. "Hmp! Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, eh? Verypretty. Very romantic, no doubt. But damned sentimental tommyrot, justthe same."
"Yes, sir," agreed the constable, barking into a cough just in time tocut off a laugh.
"Get out!" ordered the Inspector, and there was the glimmer of afriendly smile in his own eyes. "And I'll expect you both to dine withme to-night. Six o'clock sharp. I'll hear that wonderful story in moredetail. And take care of yourself, Beresford. You don't look strongyet. I'll make that week two or three if necessary."
"Thank you, sir."
"Hmp! Don't thank me. Earned it, didn't you? What are you hangingaround for? Get out!"
Constable Beresford had his revenge. As he passed the window,Inspector MacLean heard him singing. The words that drifted to thecommissioned office! were familiar.
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
MacLean smiled at the irrepressible youngster. Like most people, heresponded to the charm of Winthrop Beresford. He could forgive him atouch of debonair impudence if necessary.
It happened that his heart was just now very warm toward both theseyoung fellows. They had come through hell and had upheld the besttraditions of the Force. Between the lines of the story they had toldhe gathered that they had shaved the edge of disaster a dozen times.But they had stuck to their guns like soldiers. They had fought it outweek after week, hanging to their man with bulldog pluck. And when atlast they were found almost starving in camp, they were dividing theirlast rabbit with the fellow they were bringing out to be hanged.
The Inspector walked to the window and looked down the street afterthem. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. The rhythmic motionof them might have suggested, if there had been anybody present toobserve, that his mind was running on the old river song.
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, Mironton-ton-ton, mirontaine."
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