But, try as they might, no slightest circumstance of evidence could they unearth against Bethune, who was wont to disappear from his usual haunts for days and weeks at a time, to reappear smiling and debonaire, as unexpectedly as he had gone. Knowing that the men of the Mounted suspected him, he laughed at them openly. Once, upon a street in Regina, Corporal Downey lost his temper.
"You'll make a mistake sometime, Monk, and then it will be our turn to laugh."
"Oh-ho! So until I make a mistake, I am safe, eh? That is good news, Downey--good news! Skill and luck--luck and skill--the tools of the gamblers' trade! But, granted that sometime I shall make a mistake--shall lose for the moment, my skill; I shall still have my luck--and your mistakes. You are a good boy, Downey, but you'll be a glum one if you wait to laugh at my mistakes. If I were a chicken thief instead of a--gambler, I should fear you greatly."
Downey recounted this jibe in the barracks, and the officers redoubled their vigilance, but the Indians still got their whisky, and new horses appeared from the southward.
When Monk Bethune refused Ma Watts's invitation to dinner, and rode off down the creek followed by Lord Clendenning, the refusal did not meet the Englishman's unqualified approval, a fact that he was not slow in imparting when, a short time later, they made noonday camp at a little spring in the shelter of the hills.
"I say, Monk, what's this bally important business we've got on hand?" he asked, as he adjusted a refractory hobble strap. "Seems to me you threw away an excellent opportunity."
Bethune grinned. "Anything that involves the loss of a square meal, is a lost opportunity. You're too beefy, Clen, a couple of weeks on pilot bread and tea always does you good."
"La, la, the ladies! A gay dog in your day--but, you've had your day. Forget 'em, Clen, you're fifty, and fat."
"I'm forty-eight, and I weigh only fifteen stone as I stand," corrected the Englishman solemnly. "But layin' your bloody jokes aside, this particular lady ought to be worth our while."
Bethune nodded, as he scraped the burning ends of the little sticks closer about the teapot. "Yes, decidedly worth while, my dear Clen, and that's where the important business comes in. Those who live by their wits must use their wits or they will cease to live. I live by my wits, and you by your ability to follow out my directions. In the present instance, we had no plan. We could only have sat and talked, but talk is dangerous--when you have no plan. Even little mistakes are costly, and big ones are fatal. Let us go over the ground, now and check off our facts, and then we can lay our plans." As he talked, Bethune munched at his pilot bread, pausing at intervals for a swallow of scalding tea.