Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police Part 43

"Ladies and gentlemen!" said the M.P.P. "Do you realise that you are looking upon a truly great contest, a contest great enough to be of national, yes, of international, importance?"

"You bet your sweet life!" cried the irrepressible Fatty. "We're going some. 'What's the matter with our Mack?'" he shouted.

"'HE'S--ALL--RIGHT!'" came back the chant from the surrounding hills in hundreds of voices.

"And what's the matter with Duncan Ross?" cried Mack, waving a hand above his head.

Again the a.s.surance of perfect rightness came back in a mighty roar from the hills. But it was hushed into immediate silence, a silence breathless and overwhelming, for Black Duncan had taken once more his place with the hammer in his hand.

"Oh, I do wish they would hurry!" gasped Isa, her hands pressed hard upon her heart.

"My heart is rather weak, too," said the M.P.P. "I fear I cannot last much longer. Ah! There he goes, thank G.o.d!"

"Amen!" fervently responds little Mrs. Freeman, who, in the intensity of her excitement, is standing on a chair holding tight by her husband's coat collar.

Not a sound breaks the silence as Black Duncan takes his swing. It is a crucial moment in his career. Only by one man in Canada has he ever been beaten, and with the powers of his antagonist all untried and unknown, for anyone could see that Mack has not yet thrown his best, he may be called upon to surrender within the next few minutes the proud position he has held so long in the athletic world. But there is not a sign of excitement in his face. With great care, and with almost painful deliberation, he balances the hammer for a moment or two, then once--twice--and, with a tremendous quickening of speed,--thrice--he swings, and his throw is made. A great throw it is, anyone can see, and one that beats the winner. In hushed and strained silence the people await the result.

"One hundred and twenty-one feet nine."

Then rises the roar that has been held pent up during the last few nerve-racking minutes.

"It iss a good enough throw," said Black Duncan with a quiet smile, "but there iss more in me yet. Now, lad, do your best and there will be no hard feeling with thiss man whateffer happens."

Black Duncan's accent and idioms reveal the intense excitement that lies behind his quiet face.

Mack takes the hammer.

"I will not beat it, you may be sure," he says. "But I will just take a fling at it anyway."

"Now, Mack," says Cameron, "for the sake of all you love forget the distance and show them the Braemar swing. Easy and slow."

But Mack waves him aside and stands pondering. He is "getting the idea."

"Man, do you see him?" whispers his brother Danny, who stands near to Cameron. "I believe he has got it."

Cameron nods his head. Mack wears an impressive air of confidence and strength.

"It will be a great throw," says Cameron to Danny.

"Easy and slow" Mack poises the great hammer in his hand, swinging it gently backward and forward as if it had been a boy's toy, the great muscles in arms and back rippling up and down in firm full waves under his white skin, for he is now stripped to the waist for this throw.

Suddenly, as if at command, the muscles seem to spring to their places, tense, alert. "Easy." Yes, truly, but by no means "slow." "Easy," the great hammer swings about his head in whirling circles, swift and ever swifter. Once--and twice--the great muscles in back and arms and back and legs knotted in bunches--thrice!

"Ah-h-h!" A long, wailing, horrible sound, half moan, half cry, breaks from the people. Mack has missed his direction, and the great hammer, weighted with the potentialities of death, is describing a parabola high over the heads of the crowding, shrieking, scattering people.

"Oh, my G.o.d! My G.o.d! Oh, my G.o.d! My G.o.d!" With his hands covering his eyes the big man is swaying from side to side like a mighty tree before a tempest. Cameron and Ross both spring to him. On the hillsides men stand rigid, pale, shaking; women shriek and faint. One ghastly moment of suspense, and then a horrid sickening thud; one more agonising second of silence, and then from a score of throats rises a cry:

"It's all right! All right! No one hurt!"

From five hundred throats breaks a weird unearthly mingling of strange sounds; cheers and cries, shouts and sobs, prayers and oaths. In the midst of it all Mack sinks to his knees, with hands outstretched to heaven.

"Great G.o.d, I thank Thee! I thank Thee!" he cries brokenly, the tears streaming down his ghastly face. Then, falling forward upon his hands, he steadies himself while great sobs come heaving from his mighty chest.

Cameron and Ross, still upholding him, through the crowd a man comes pus.h.i.+ng his way, hurling men and women right and left.

"Back, people! And be still." It is the minister, Alexander Munro. "Be still! It is a great deliverance that G.o.d has wrought! Peace, woman! G.o.d is near! Let us pray."

Instantly all noises are hushed, hats come off, and all up the sloping hills men and women fall to their knees, or remain standing with heads bowed, while the minister, upright beside the kneeling man, spreads his hands towards heaven and prays in a voice steady, strong, thrilling:

"Almighty G.o.d, great and wonderful in Thy ways, merciful and gracious in Thy providence, Thou hast wrought a great deliverance before our eyes this day. All power is in Thy hands. All forces move at Thy command.

Thine hand it is that guided this dread hammer harmless to its own place, saving the people from death. It is ever thus, Father, for Thou art Love. We lift to Thee our hearts' praise. May we walk softly before Thee this day and alway. Amen!"

"Amen! Amen!" On every hand and up the hillsides rises the fervent solemn attestation.

"Rise, Mr. Murray!" says the minister in a loud and solemn voice, giving Mack his hand. "G.o.d has been gracious to you this day. See that you do not forget."

"He has that! He has that!" sobs Mack. "And G.o.d forgive me if I ever forget." And, suddenly pus.h.i.+ng from him the many hands stretched out towards him, he stumbles his way through the crowd, led off by his two friends towards the tent.

"Hold on there a minute! Let us get this measurement first." It was the matter-of-fact, cheery voice of Fatty Freeman. "If I am not mistaken we have a great throw to measure."

"Quite right, Mr. Freeman," said the minister. "Let us get the measurement and let not the day be spoiled."

"Here, you people, don't stand there gawking like a lot of dotty chumps!" cried the secretary, striving to whip them out of the mood of horror into which they had fallen. "Get a move on! Give the judges a chance! What is it, doctor?"

The judges were consulting. At length the decision was announced.

"One hundred and twenty-nine seven."

"Hooray!" yelled Fatty, flinging his straw hat high. "One hundred and twenty-nine seven! It is a world throw! Why don't you yell, you people?

Don't you know that you have a world-beater among you? Yell! Yell!"

"Three cheers for Mack Murray!" called out the Reverend Harper Freeman from the platform, swinging his great black beaver hat over his head.

It was what the people wanted. Again, and again, and yet again the crowd exhausted its pent-up emotions in frantic cheers. The clouds of gloom were rolled back, the sun was s.h.i.+ning bright again, and with fresh zest the people turned to the enjoyment of the rest of the programme.

"Thank you, Sir!" said Fatty amid the uproar, gripping the hand of Mr.

Munro. "You have saved the day for us. We were all going to smash, but you pulled us out."

Meantime in the tent Duncan Ross was discoursing to his friends.

"Man, Mack! Yon's a mighty throw! Do you know it iss within five feet of my own record and within ten of Big Rory's? Then," he said solemnly, "you are in the world's first cla.s.s to-day, my boy, and you are just beginning."

"I have just quit!" said Mack.

"Whist, lad! Thiss iss not the day for saying anything about it. We will wait a wee and to-day we will just be thankful." And with that they turned to other things.

They were still in the dressing tent when the secretary thrust his cheery face under the flap.

"I say, boys! Are you ready? Cameron, we want you on the pipes."