And, mixed with it, came again out of the silence of the foothills the coyote’s faintly persistent mocking wail—­its “ki-yip-yap” sounding almost like “Bah!  Yah!  Baa!” . . .  Some lines of an old quotation, picked up he knew not where, wandered into his mind—­

  Comedy, Tragedy, Laughter and Tears! 
  Thou’rt rolled as one in the Dust of Years!

With a sigh he turned to his own cot and began to unpack and arrange his kit; in regulation fashion, and with such small faddy fixings customary to men inured to barrack life.  Thus engaged the time passed rapidly.  Later in the day he assisted the sergeant in making out the detachment’s “monthly returns” and diary.  This task accomplished, in the gathering dusk he attended “Evening Stables.”  There were two saddle-horses beside the previously-mentioned team.  A splendid upstanding pair, George thought them.  He was good with horses; possessing the faculty of handling them that springs only from a patient, kindly, instinctive love of animals.

“Nay!  I dhrive mostly,” Slavin was telling him, “buckboard an’ team’s away handier for a man av weight like meself.  Eyah!” he sighed, “tho’ time was whin I cud throw a leg over wid th’ best av thim.  Yorke—­he gen’rally rides th’ black, Parson, so ye’ll take th’ sorrel, Fox, for yeh pathrols.  He’s a good stayer, an’ fast.  Ye’ll want tu watch him at mounthin’ tho’—­he’s not a mane harse, but he has a quare thrick av turnin’ sharp tu th’ ‘off’—­just as ye go tu shwing up into th’ saddle.  Many’s th’ man he’s whiraroo’d round wid wan fut in th’ stirrup an’ left pickin’ up dollars off th’ bald-headed.’  Well! let’s tu supper.”

With the practised hand of an old cook he prepared a simple but hearty repast, upon which they fell with appetites keenly edged with the cold air.

“Are ye anythin’ av a cuk?”

Redmond grinned deprecatingly and then shook his head.

“Eyah!” grumbled Slavin, “seems I cannot hilp bein’ cuk an’ shtandin’ orderly-man around here.  I thried out Yorkey. . . .  Wan day on’y tho’—­’tis th’ divil’s own cuk he is.  ‘Sarjint!’ sez he, ’I’m no bowatchee’—­which in Injia he tells me means same as cuk.  An’ he tould th’ trute at that.”

Some three hours later, as they lay on their cots, came to them the faint, far-off toot! toot! of an engine, through the keen atmosphere.

“That’s Number Four from th’ West,” remarked Slavin drowsily, “Yorkey shud be along on ut.  Well! a walk will not hurt th’ man if—­”

He chuntered something to himself.

Half an hour elapsed slowly—­three quarters.  Slavin rolled off his cot with a grunt and strode heavily to the front door, which he opened.  Redmond silently followed him and together the two men stepped out into the crisply-crunching hard-packed snow.  It was a magnificent night.  High overhead in the star-studded sky shone a splendid full moon, its clear cold rays lighting up the white world around them with a sort of phosphorescent, scintillating brilliance.