Cameron never could forget the thrill of admiration that swept his soul
one night in Taylor's billiard and gambling "joint" down at the post
where the Elbow joins the Bow, when McIvor, without bluff or bluster,
took his chainman and his French-Canadian cook, the latter frothing mad
with "Jamaica Ginger" and "Pain-killer," out of the hands of the gang
of bad men from across the line who had marked them as lambs for the
fleecing. It was not the courage of his big chief so much that
had filled Cameron with amazed respect and admiration as the calm
indifference to every consideration but that of getting his men out of
harm's way, and the cool-headed directness of the method he employed.
"Come along, boys," McIvor had said, gripping them by their coat
collars. "I don't pay you good money for this sort of thing." And so
saying he had lifted them clear from their seats, upsetting the table,
ignoring utterly the roaring oaths of the discomfited gamblers. What
would have been the result none could say, for one of the gamblers had
whipped out his gun and with sulphurous oaths was conducting a vigourous
demonstration behind the unconscious back of McIvor, when there strolled
into the room and through the crowd of men scattering to cover, a tall
slim youngster in the red jacket and pill-box cap of that world-famous
body of military guardians of law and order, the North West Mounted
Police.
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