By the
post storeroom, waiting their turn to unload, was ranged a line of the
tarpaulin-covered wagons, wheeled galleons of the plains, that brought
food and raiment to the Northwest before the coming of steam and steel.
"That looks to me like Baker's outfit, from Benton," I said to MacRae,
as we swung off our horses before the building in which the officer of
the day held forth. "They must have come by way of Assiniboine."
"Probably," Mac answered. "And over yonder's the paymaster's train. At
least, he's due, and I can't account for a bunch of horses in charge of
a buck trooper any other way."
We clanked into the ante-room--that's what I call it, anyway. It
happened that I didn't stay around those police posts long enough to get
familiar with the technical terms for everything. Not that they wouldn't
have welcomed my presence; faith, their desire for my company was only
equaled by my reluctance to accept their hospitality. There was a while
when I developed a marvelous capacity for dodging invitations to Fort
Walsh. And if the men in scarlet had been a bit swifter, or I a little
slower, I'd have had ample leisure to observe life in the Force from the
inside--of the guardhouse. As I said, we went into the ante-room, and
there I got my first peep at the divinity that doth hedge--not a king,
but a commissioned officer in Her Majesty's N.
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