'Yes, sir. What about Connybear?'

  'Get a stretcher and take him to the infirmary. Oh, and pick up that flask and bring it to my office. That's solid evidence against him.'

  I kept my eyes firmly shut but I ground my teeth with anger. That bastard Connybear had nobbled me.

  'He's grinding his teeth, sir.'

  'He'll be grinding rocks if I have anything to do with it, and for the whole of his service. How long has he got to run, by the way?'

  'He re-enlisted last week, sir,' Connors said. 'Three years, unless he buys himself out.'

  'Permission refused,' Chester grunted.

  I think I fainted or I might just have blacked out from frustrated rage. I was too trusting, that was my trouble. And Pedro had pressured me. I had some money on the boat; I could have hired a lawyer. Then I thought about the boat and Connybear and Pedro. Goodbye boat, goodbye money.

  The next thing I was conscious of was a hard but warm bed and a smell of disinfectant. The smell was like that in the army medical tents I'd had to visit for odd scratches and when I'd been malingering during my service in the Great War. The smell usually made me feel sick which had helped me to malinger convincingly but it brought back too many bad memories now. I wouldn't be able to malinger for three years and I wondered how harsh Mountie discipline really was. My head throbbed and I felt a burning in my throat. I opened my eyes; I was in a small room containing one other bed which was empty. The single window was set high up. The floor and walls were bare and the furniture was a plain cabinet beside each bed.

  'Water,' I croaked. No response. I tried to shout, 'Water!' and the effort caused a shattering pain. I whimpered the word again. An orderly dressed in a white coat and wearing a knitted woollen cap pushed open the door and approached the bed. 'What did you say?'

  I tried to get a little of Connybear's soft, vaguely Irish accent into the words. 'Water. Water, please.'

  'Why, sure. Here you are.' He took a carafe and a glass from the cabinet and poured. Then he raised my head and helped me to sip from the glass. 'How bad's the head?'

  'Real bad.'

  'I could give you a pill. A little morphine maybe?'

  I nodded. The movement let fly ricocheting bullets of pain inside my head and I groaned. I felt something cold on my tongue.

  'Yup,' the orderly said, 'this is what you need. Just swallow it down with a little water and lay back easy.'

  I did it. There was a booming in my ears that suddenly stopped; my head felt light and a sweet warm feeling stole up from the soles of my feet. I saw soft glowing lights and heard sweet music that kept getting sweeter and sweeter but further away . . .

  When consciousness returned things were a lot worse. There was a dull ache in my head, I had a raging sore throat and three men dressed in the full magnificence of the uniforms of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were standing around my bed. Two of them had more insignia on their jackets than Chester – the real top brass.

  'Connybear,' Chester said, 'this is Superintendent Anderson and Assistant Commissioner Cartwright.'

  'Sirs,' I said weakly.

  'I hope that is not intended as a joke,' Cartwright said. He was a dark-haired block of a man with shoulders like a bull moose.

  'No, sir,' I said, trying to copy Connybear's accent.

  'This is a serious matter, Connybear,' Anderson growled. He was smaller than the other two and fairish with a sharp, inquisitive face. 'A dereliction of duty charge carries a serious penalty. And we have complications. That villain Browning . . .'

  'Yes, yes,' Cartwright cut in. 'But our object is to try to contain the damage, is it not? Chester?'

  'Quite so, sir,' says Chester, toadying away like mad. They all do it in my experience, right up to Field Marshall.

  'Drunk on duty and allowing prisoners to escape,' Anderson said. 'It's a stockade offence.'

  I couldn't let them get away with that. I shakily extracted one hand from beneath the bedclothes and raised it to my head. As it happened I'd skinned the hand in my fall and it was bandaged – so much the better. I kept my voice just above a cracked whisper. 'I have to say, Mr Commissioner, that allowed isn't quite the word. I was savagely attacked. An' I only took a sip . . .'

  'All in mitigation,' says Cartwright, who was beginning to seem more reasonable by the minute. 'I do not have to tell you, surely, that these are difficult times for the Force. Strange, un-Canadian, lax ideas are abroad. As I say, we have to think of the reputation of the Force and contain this thing!'

  'What thing?' I hadn't quite got into the way of it yet. 'Sir,' I added.

  Chester frowned thunderously. 'Browning, whom you allowed to escape, along with his nigger partner, held up and robbed three people on the way to the boat dock. There they assaulted and robbed the nightwatchman. They stole fuel and they started a fire which damaged the wharves extensively.'

  'I hadn't heard about the assault and the fire,' Cartwright said. 'Well, thank God for that!'

  'What do you mean, sir?' asks Anderson.

  'These men are obviously desperate and experienced terrorists. It was hardly to be expected that one man could guard them effectively. They could no doubt pick locks and possibly had concealed weapons. The responsibility for this must be shared, gentlemen.'

  'Shared?' gasped Chester. 'Connybear got drunk, he . . .'

  'They could well have drugged the drink.' Cartwright moved his shoulders as if he was about to batter down a door. 'Inspector Chester, as arresting officer you should have examined the prisoners more carefully, and mounted a heavier guard.'

  Chester snapped to attention. 'Sir!' he said.

  I tried to remain impassive but it was hard to do so under Anderson's malevolent stare. 'D'you mean, sir,' he said slowly, 'that this negligent wretch is exonerated?'

  'Oh, no, Superintendent. Far from it. Constable Connybear will spend a considerable time in hospital recovering from the wounds he incurred in his gallant struggle with the terrorists.'

  I couldn't help it; a small smile escaped me at the looks on Chester's and Anderson's faces. But the Assistant Commissioner hadn't finished. 'And when Constable Connybear has recovered,' he went on, 'he will be posted as far north as the writ of the Royal Canadian Mounted runs and his superior officer will be instructed to keep him on patrol for twelve months of the year!'

  He spun on his heel and marched out. Anderson followed him and Chester remained, still at attention. When the others were out of the room he relaxed. A terrible smile spread over his waxy features and for a minute I thought he was on to me but he twitched his moustache and brought his face down close to mine. I could smell tobacco and brandy on his breath. 'You will wish you had never been born, Connybear. After one year up there, let alone three, you will begin to grow fur!'

  He followed his superiors out of the room. The bed suddenly felt hard and I shivered despite the thick blankets. My head ached unendurably and even the scraped hand smarted. My mouth was dry and my tongue felt like a pound of raw steak. 'Orderly,' I croaked, 'morphine! More morphine for the love of God!'

  3

  First there was the boredom. I was fully recovered after a couple of days and I was keen to move around the place, get to know it and, more to the point, get to know the way out of it. But this was not to be. Connybear and Pedro had got clean away in the Darwin, leaving robbed and assaulted men and a burning dockside behind them. I was the gallant survivor of the whole episode and had to play my part. They bandaged my head and I only just managed to prevent them from putting my leg in a cast. Chester came in and speculated about the advisability of a gunshot wound. He was joking, I think.

  So I lay in that bare room for a month. I was in a considerable sweat most of the time because some of Connybear's acquaintances came by to visit me and I had to feign dizziness and loss of memory until I could get a few clues as to who they were and what their relationship with Connybear had been. Luckily no one came by asking for money – I was so tentative about my position I would have paid.

  The orderly, whose name was Dagberry, put me in a lather when he came in beaming one night after I had been relieved of the head bandage.

  'Good news for you, Connybear,' he said. 'Your sister is coming to visit you.'

  'My sister!'

  He studied a note in his hand. 'Yup. Miss Angela Connybear will arrive by rail from Seattle tomorrow.'

  I laid aside the copy of R. Burton Deane's Mounted Police Life in Canada3 which Dagberry had fetched for me from the library when I'd said I wanted to read up on the traditions of the Force. Terribly dull stuff, but informative. 'I'm not sure I'm up to a family visit.'

  'Of course you are. You're as fit as a fiddle. You're back to your old self.'

  'Did you know my old self, Dagberry?'

  'Well, no, I meant . . .'

  'You don't know what you're talking about!' I shouted.

  'What's this? What's this?' Chester stood at the door. When he took off his stiff-brimmed hat and shook snow flakes from it I became aware of the cold air in the room. It had grown steadily colder over the past weeks and I had taken to wearing socks in bed. I'd grown a beard too. 'Got your bark back, Connybear? Pity you didn't have any bite when it counted.'

  'Connybear's sister is coming to visit him, sir,' Dagberry said. 'But he doesn't seem to want to see her.'

  'Nonsense.' Chester dissolved a snowflake on his hat with a gloved finger. 'You should see her, Connybear. It's going to be a long time before you see another friendly face. Your orders have come through. Is she pretty, your sister?'

  'Mmm,' I said.

  'Gaze upon her then. The female faces you are going to see for the next three years will be brown and flat and tattooed. D'you know what an Eskimo woman smells of, Connybear?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Fish fat, Connybear. Old fish fat.'

  I sank back on the pillows and brooded. Dagberry tried to cheer me up by playing the harmonica but he stopped when I threw R. Burton Deane at him.

  'Quit it,' I snarled, 'or you'll be playing it by farting into it. Know what I mean?'

  Dagberry wiped the instrument on the sleeve of his white coat; among his other vices was tobacco chewing and he left a brown smear on the sleeve. He grinned evilly. 'You're a nasty man, Connybear. You don't deserve a nice sister like the one you got.'

  'How d'you know she's nice?'

  'Oh, someone told me he saw you with a blonde in Brady's tearoom one time. You said she was your sister. Prime womanhood, I'm told.'

  'Is that so?'

  'Yes. Maybe you don't remember after the blow to your head.'

  'That's right.'

  'Too bad. Well, she'll be here tonight and you can discuss your Ma 'n' Pa or whatever else concerns you. Would you like a shave or something, Connybear? I'm a right fine barber.'

  I felt the short but strong beard I'd sprouted and considered the possibilities. A sister would be able to expose me for sure. On the other hand, a beard might confuse and delay her long enough for old Dick Browning to get his charm to work. Prime womanhood, eh? That meant young or youngish. I never knew a woman yet who didn't respond well to a manly chap gallantly recovering from a wound. 'No, Dagberry, old fellow. No shave, thank you. D'you think you could arrange for me to be sitting up when she comes? Perhaps with my jacket on? I don't want to alarm her, you see.'

  'I think I could manage that,' says Dagberry. 'I could even get a bit of a fire going in the corner there. Would you like that?'

  'Great. Yeah, thanks.'

  'What about a drop of something?'

  'Well . . .'

  'It'd cost you, mind. 'Gainst regulations and all.' He picked up the copy of Mounted Police Life in Canada and placed it reverently on the cabinet. I thought of the money in my jacket pocket. 'How long till she comes?'

  'Not long. Half an hour maybe.'

  'Get me in a chair an' get the fire going. Rustle up some sherry an' some brandy. I'll make it worth your while.'

  'Henry!'

  My first impulse was to turn around to see who else had come into the room. Here I am, seated by the fire in a clean shirt with my, or Connybear's, scarlet jacket draped around my broad shoulders. I was wearing the regulation pants with the broad stripe and non-regulation doeskin boots. Connybear and I were almost exactly of a size. Dick Browning, fine figure of a man and here's this handsome creature rushing into the room, all fur and satin and pearl buttons, hollering for Henry. Then it came to me: I hadn't heard Connybear's given name before.

  She fluttered across the room and practically flung herself into my lap. I had to wrap my arms around her to keep my balance and then her perfume hit me like a wave. It had been so long since I'd held a woman. I couldn't stop myself – I was nuzzling into her, moving my hand up to her breast and searching for her lips before the door was closed behind her. She was just as enthusiastic; I felt her hand on my thigh and it wasn't up around the near. The lust was rising in me but I managed to hold it back. I grabbed her fine, strong shoulders and pushed her away.

  'Here, hold on, Angela. This won't do!'

  'Why? What's wrong, darling. Don't you love me any more?' She brushed my hands from her shoulders and thrust forward. Her hand was well at work now, stroking and pumping and her tongue was probing my ear.

  'Well, of course. You're my dearest sister. Always liked you best . . .'

  'Sister, my ass. C'mon, Hank, don't tell me you've lost your pistol. Oh!' She suddenly pushed back and looked at me. 'You weren't wounded there, were you. Oh, no!'

  'No, nothing like that,' I said quickly. 'Just a tap on the head. I'm fine.' I was, too – her perfume and the soft warmth of her body were sending the messages racing through me and I was responding. She felt it and laughed.

  'Same old Hank. You randy devil. Well, I paid off the orderly. Let's get to bed.'

  'Er . . .'

  'What is it now?' She stood and stripped off her coat. Under it I saw a strapping woman, five foot eight if an inch with a lush body, a round face and a mass of tumbling brown hair. She was made up to look twenty but was probably closer to thirty. My time in Hollywood had made me an expert on such matters. But her big white teeth and red lips were all her own. Her hands were working at her buttons and the bodice of her grey silk dress was coming open to reveal white lace and pink flesh.

  I stood up and my jacket fell away. She stopped unbuttoning and came across to rub her hands over the hair on my chest.

  'Oh, my,'she breathed. 'Oh, my.'

  'Er, Angela. I took this knock on the head you see, an' I forget things a bit. You're, er . . . you're not my sister?'

  She undid my belt. 'No, and I'm not your cousin or any other kind of kin that I know of. I don't think I'd care anyway. If'n you don't get over to this here bed I'll go call that orderly instead.'

  That was enough for me. I kicked over the chair, picked her up and carried her to the bed. We clawed at each other's clothes, gasping and snorting, and the more her ripe, pink flesh came into view the more heated I got. There were a few odd garments still hanging around, like one of my doeskin boots and a black silk ribbon she wore around her throat, but we had the essentials unencumbered and fitted together in no time. We pounded away fit to break the bed and, sitting here more than fifty years and God knows how many women later, I really can't recall another female with the hip and buttock control of 'Klondike' Angie Jones.

  That was her name as I discovered later as we lay in the sheets. The sister business was all my eye, something Connybear had dreamed up to get him out of a fix with another woman. Angie had played along with it for fun. Of course, she tumbled to me within seconds of our joining. You can't fool a woman about a thing like that. I felt a momentary stiffening of her body in surprise before she went into one of her monumental plunges, but it was only after that she wanted to talk about it.

  'You ain't Hank Connybear.' She bit the lobe of my ear.

  'Ouch. No, but for Christ sake don't tell anyone.'

  'You're alike as twins. What's going on?'

  'You're not complaining, are you?' I gave one of her big firm breasts a squeeze.

  'No, I ain't,' she giggled. 'Not that Hank isn't a pretty fair man in the sack. But you . . .'

  A more modest man might have admitted that he'd been sex-starved for a couple of months, but modesty was never my long suit and in any case I was going to have to play it cautious with Angie if I didn't want to be facing those gun-running charges or worse. I drew in a breath, stretched my legs and started in again. Fortunately the flesh was willing and I had her lying back and gasping by the time I'd finished.

  'It's a long story,' I began.

  There was a tap at the door and Dagberry strolled in carrying a tray which he put down on the hearth in front of the fire. He righted the chair and left without saying a word.

  Angie and I wrapped ourselves in blankets and squatted by the fire. I was ravenous. I wolfed down the sliced meat and cheese and biscuits the orderly had brought and drank three quick sherries before taking a large brandy and soda at a slower pace. Angie ate heartily too, but contented herself with the sherry in small, ladylike sips. I told her my story, suitably edited, and she was gratifyingly responsive in the good bits, like when I worked with Fairbanks on Robin Hood. I pumped her for information on Connybear but she had little to offer. When drunk he'd told her that he joined the Canadian Mounted to escape from some trouble in the east but had only succeeded into getting into more trouble on the prairies. It didn't surprise her that he'd been up to mischief in the west.

  'He's a mischief maker,' she said. 'No harm in him but he just can't stay out of trouble.'

  'He robbed three men and stole my boat,' I grumbled.

  'Didn't kill anyone, I bet.'

  I put some more wood on the fire. I hadn't ever been really ill, more humiliated and frightened really, but now I felt in better fettle and realised that I was chafing at my confinement. There was a whole world outside even if this particular patch of it, seen through the window, looked grey and cold.

  Angie sipped her sherry and poured another. 'You're just like him, you know. Just like all men. You haven't asked me for a word about my own self.'

 

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