IT was after many weary and trying days, that young Downey, rounding an abrupt bend of a small river, stopped and stared at the girl who stood on the snow-covered ice beside a three-dog team and an empty sled. In her hand she held an axe, and upon the snow beside her lay a small spruce tree from which several of the lower branches had been lopped. She was regarding him with a questioning stare, and he thought that never had he seen eyes of so deep a blue. Then she smiled, and he caught the flash of white teeth behind curving red lips.
The girl was the first to speak: "I heard you coming, and I wondered who you were. No one ever comes from the east. Not many people come, anyway, and then only from the west. They come up the Clearwater from the Athabasca."
"I'm Constable Downey, of the Royal North-West Mounted Police," the boy found himself returning her smile. "I'm looking after the smallpox. But, who are you? An' what are you doin' way out here by yourself?"
"I'm not way out. Only about two miles. I live at Lashing Water Post. I am Margot Molaire. My father is the factor."
"I'm headin' for Lashing Water," answered the boy. "Have you had it there -- the smallpox?"
The lips became grave: "No. We heard it was to the southward. They had it at Owl River Post, an Indian told us, and some of the trappers, but it was way off -- not near here. Have you been to Owl River Post?"
Young Downey breathed a sigh of relief: "Yes, I have been there. It was there the first snow hit us. I was with Inspector Costello, then, but he got -- hurt, and had to be sent back, so I came on alone. I guess it is not spreadin' North. The last case I found was at Ile a la Crosse. Have you been vaccinated?"
"When I was a very little girl. I have a big scar here," she indicated her upper arm. "There was smallpox that year and everyone was vaccinated."
"You've got to be vaccinated again. It's the way to keep it from spreadin'."
"Does it hurt so very much? I don't like to be hurt."
"No. just a little scratch, an' then in a few days a sore arm. But that don't last long. It's better than havin' the smallpox. It's terrible. You're awful sick, and mostly always you die, and if you don't you're all pitted up. I'm glad it didn't get up here -- glad you didn't get it."
The girl laughed, a silvery laugh that was altogether good to hear: "Why should you care if I got it?"
"Why, because -- you are beautiful. It would be a shame if you -- died -- or got pitted."
Again, the silvery laugh: "Anyway, you are not bashful, like Murdo. Come, we will go home. My father will be glad to see you."
"Who's Murdo?" asked Downey, as the girl swung her dogs about.
"Murdo MacFarlane. He's father's clerk. He's 'from Scotland. He just came here in the spring, and he talks so funny that sometimes you can hardly understand him. And, he's so bashful he will hardly talk to me at all." The girl stooped to load the tree onto her sled, but Downey forestalled her, securing it with a hitch of babiche. "What's the idea of haulin' the tree home?" he asked.
"Why -- don't you know -- tomorrow is Christmas! We always have a tree on Christmas. And, candles and pretty things to hang on it, and presents for everybody. And in the evening we light the candles. And father and I sing Noel, and Holy Night, and things -- can you sing?"
"No, I never learnt to sing. But, I'd like to hear you sing."
"You will hear me tomorrow night. You will stay with us over Christmas -- stay as long as you want to -- as long as you can. We love to have visitors -- we have so few. And there will be a present on the tree for you, too. You see if there isn't. Don't you love Christmas?"
They were walking side by side, the dog teams trailing in single file. "Why -- I used to. I can remember we used to have a tree. When I was little. My mother used to fix it all up. An' there were presents -- but, since she died there hasn't been any Christmas -- my father didn't care for such things."
"My mother is dead, too," said the girl. "I can't remember her. But my father always has Christmas. He used to cut the tree, but since I have grown up, I always pick it out myself."
"Looks like you could have found a tree closer home," observed Downey, eyeing the surrounding spruce scrub.
"I could get lots of trees right at the post -- but, the Christmas tree must be nice and even all around, and then, it's more fun if you go farther for it. I pick out the tree in the summer time. I look at hundreds and hundreds of trees till I find just the one I want, and then, the day before Christmas, I go and get it."
"Kind of a game you play," smiled the boy.
"Yes, I love to be out doors. I do most of the hunting for the post. Do you like games? Father loves whist, but we don't play very often because Murdo can't seem to learn -- he won't ever finesse, and the Indians won't even follow suit -- not even Tom Shirts -- and he's been at the post for years-so, mostly father and I play piquet, and Murdo reads books. Can you play whist?"
"I have played, a little. I don't know much about it, but I think it's a good game."
"Oh, you will play better than Murdo, I know. You and I will play against father and Murdo, and we shall beat them, too-see if we don't. You can stay over Christmas, can't you?"
"Yes, I expect I'll have to stay several days. I want to rest up my dogs and doctor the feet of two of them."
"That's good. There's the post. You can see the flag. It's two more bends from here, but we'll leave the river and follow the dead stream, and then we'll not have to climb the steep bank."
At Lashing Water Post, the young officer was warmly welcomed by old Molaire who had a hundred and one questions as to conditions to the southward.
That evening they played whist until far into the night, and on Christmas Day Margot and Downey hunted ptarmigan among the ridges.
They returned at dark, the candles were lighted upon the tree, and, as s they burned, father and daughter sang carols, the old man playing the accompaniments upon an accordion. Followed another long evening at whist, and in the morning the boy and girl set out in search of a small band of caribou whose trail they had crossed the day previous. But, the deer had strayed far, and it was long after dark before they returned to the post without having sighted them, to find Molaire impatient for his game. The following morning Downey harnessed his dogs, and bid good bye to Molaire and to Murdo MacFarlane. Margot volunteered to accompany him for a few miles out to the portage onto the Clearwater. It was nearly noon when the portage was reached and the two sat down to eat their lunch.
An awkward silence was broken by the girl: "I am sorry you're going away," she said. "I like to hunt with you. It is nicer than hunting alone. Do you like to be alone?"
Young Downey pondered the question: "No," he answered, "I never cared before, but now I -- I wish you could go with me."
The girl laughed: "Oh, but I couldn't do that!"
"No, you couldn't do that. I just said, 'I wish you could.'"
"Why?"
Downey paused, at loss for words. "Why, because -- because I like you, I guess. I never cared for girls -- but, someway, you are different."
"Am I different from other girls?" her face was alight with interest. "Why am I different?"
"Oh, -- I don't know. just because I like you -- you are -- nicer than other girls -- they always seemed kind of -- of silly."
"And, I'm not silly?"
"No, you're not silly."
"Are you coming back to Lashing Water?"
"Yes -- I'm coming back."
"When?"
Young Downey smiled: "I don't know. You see, a policeman has to go where he's ordered. Maybe soon, an' maybe a long time."
"Next year?"
"I hope so. Do you want me to come back?"
"Yes, I do. I like you, too. Do you always have to go where they send you?"
"Sure, you do."
"But, I mean, don't you ever get any vacation? So you can go where you want to go?"
"I don't know. I never thought about that. Seems to me I've heard about 'leaves,' but I never asked. I didn't think I'd ever want one -- there was no place I wanted to go."
"But, now there is a place?"
"Yes -- now there is a place."
"I'm glad. You are not stupid like Murdo, who always wants to be reading books. I'll be waiting for you here. And will you write me a letter?"
"Why, yes -- I never wrote a letter to any girl, but -- I'll write to you."
"We get mail twice a year, and sometimes oftener, if someone comes up from Fort McMurray. And I'll write to you, too, if you will tell me where to send it."
"Constable C. Downey, R. N. W. M. P., Prince Albert. If I get transferred, they'll forward it. I must be goin', now. An' you've got to start, too. It'll be dark before you get home."
"I'm not afraid of the dark," she smiled. And then, very shyly, with her eyes on the toes of her beaded moccasins: "You -- you can kiss me good bye, if you want to."
The next moment she was in his arms and, as he pressed her close, and closer against him their lips met in a long, long kiss. The boy could feel the pounding of his heart, his eyes closed, and through his whole being surged a mighty pulsing of life: "Oh, I -- I love you," he whispered, and releasing her suddenly stepped back and stood facing her there on the snow.
Their eyes met. The girl's gaze faltered, and dropped. Once more she was in his arms, and young Downey felt her arms steal upward and close about his neck. "And I love you," she was saying, "and I don't want you to go away. Come back to the post, and father will send Murdo to some other post, and -- we will be married, and live there always."
Another long kiss, and the boy released her: "No," he said, and his voice was very grave. "I'm on patrol."
"But, you could quit being a policeman. We'll tell father and he will make you his clerk. A clerk gets enough to be married. It doesn't cost much to live."
Downey smiled: "It isn't that. I've got lots of money of my own -- enough, I guess, to keep us all our lives. But -- it wouldn't be playin' the game. I've always wanted to be in the Service an' now I'm in, I must do my duty."
"But, it's so hard -- all alone -- and dangerous -- what if something should happen to you, way off from anyone?"
Downey shrugged: "I'd either get out of it, or I wouldn't," he answered. "Anyway, I'd play the game right up to the end. I wouldn't quit."
"Do they pay you lots of money?"
"Not much. I don't care about the pay -- it's the game."
"Anyway, you can come back to the post for a few days. We can tell father. And, besides your dogs' feet are not all well. I saw one limping."
"I'll make a moccasin for him when I camp, tonight. He's not bad. No, I can't go back. I'd rather go back than do anything else in the world. I wish I could be with you always every minute -- but I'm on patrol. Two or three days might make a lot of difference, somewhere. Even if it didn't, it wouldn't be playing square to take longer than necessary to finish my work."
"You care more for your old policing than you do for me," pouted the girl.
"No, that is not true -- that is, I don't think it is true. But, I do care more for duty than I do for anything. You will see that I am right, when you think about it. You could not love a man who was a quitter."
"No. But ----"
"A man that didn't do what he had to do just the best he knew how wouldn't be much of a man. It's like candlin' eggs."
"Like what?"
Downey laughed, and the laugh was infectious: "Oh, that's just a thing I think of when I've got to do one thing and want to do another. I had to candle eggs once, when I wanted to go campin'. I stayed and did it, an' got paid by havin' the biggest adventure I ever had. If I'd gone campin' I'd have missed it. It always pays in the long run to do your duty. Inspector Costello taught me that -- and he's been in the Service for years and years."
"I suppose you're right," admitted the girl, "but -- it's harder that way."
"Sure it is. If it wasn't it wouldn't be worth anything. But, we must be goin'. I want to make this porta-e an' reach the Clearwater before dark, and you've got to hurry home."
Another long embrace, and the girl's eyes raised to his: "Do they let policemen marry?" she asked.
"Why -- some Inspectors are. I haven't been in very long. I don't know. I guess maybe they wouldn't care if they knew a man had money enough. I'm goin' to work hard for promotion. We wouldn't want to be married before I was at least a Corporal, would we?"
"I guess not," admitted the girl, half reluctantly, "but, you will work hard, won't you? And you will write to me? And you'll come to Lashing Water as often as you can?"
"Yes, Margot. As often as I can -- an' I'll write to you -- an' work hard for promotion. Good bye."
At the bend of the river the girl paused and, turning, impulsively reached out her arms to the boy who stood watching her retreating figure. The next moment she disappeared around the bend. Young Downey spoke to his dogs, and began the ascent of the ridge.
Six weeks later, his long patrol finished, Constable Downey reported to Inspector Costello, at Prince Albert.
"So ye're back, Cammie, me bye! An' ut's glad Oi am to see ye. Ye done a rare good job -- the hardest patrol, far as Oi know, 'twas ever made be a rookie. Oi'll be goin' over ye're rayport, now, an' ye're diary. How's things beyant Owl River?"
"Not so bad. A few cases. The last one at Ile a la Crosse. I didn't run across any after that, but I vaccinated everyone I saw till I hit Fort McMurray. From there in, they'd done the work."
"Ye'll take a couple av days' rest, now, an' then Oi'll have to send ye tip after our old friend Bill Berry. There's no one else Oi've got except Corporal Sneed, an' he's too bad wid rheumatism to tackle the trip."
The boy saluted: "I can start in the mornin' just as well," he said. "I'm not tired. How'd your shoulder come out?"
"Fine as a fiddle. Oi was on juty again be Christmas, an' ut's be'n gittin' better ever since. But, ye better wait, anyway, till day after tomorrow. Ye've had a long tough trip, bye. Av Oi had anyone else Oi wouldn't send ye out."
"I'm glad you haven't anyone else, then," grinned the boy. "I want to go."
When the youngster left the room, Costello fingered the report: "In from a long patrol jest rarin' to go on another. Oi knew tit -- Oi knew he'd make a policeman. Oi knew ut the day he was candlin' thim eggs. Av he ain't a Corporal befoor he's two year in the Service, Oi'll eat me shirt, an' call tit gravy."
"Hu-um," he mused, a few minutes later. "Christmas at Lashin' Water, an' three days at the post ristin' his dogs an' doctorin' their feet. Let's see -- that gurl av Molaire's, now -- she'd be around eighteen, or nineteen, maybe. She's purty as the divil, but -- she's French." And, later when the outgoing mail carried a letter addressed to Miss Margot Molaire, Lashing Water Post, Saskatchewan, via Fort McMurray, he again muttered "Hu-um," and added: "An' he only stayed three days. Wouldn't of blamed um av he'd stayed a week. Beats hell how sore dogs' feet can git- sometimes."