The jarring sting of the punches, although dazing him slightly, brought Redmond to his senses, as he realized how vulnerable his momentary loss of temper had rendered him. He now braced himself with dogged determination and, covering up warily, circled his adversary with clever foot-work. Yorke, tearing in again was met with one of the crudest jabs he had ever known—flush in the mouth. Gamely he retaliated with a stinging uppercut and a right swing which, coming home on Redmond's cheek-bone, whirled him off his balance and sent him sprawling.

Dazed, but not daunted, he scrambled to his feet. Yorke, blowing upon his knuckles with all the air of an old-time "Regency blood," waited with heaving chest and scornful, narrowed eyes.

"Want to elevate the sponge?" he queried sneeringly.

"No!" panted George grimly, "it was you started the whole rotten dirty business, and, by gum! I'll finish it!"

Dancing in and out he drew an ineffective left from his opponent and countered with a pile-driving right to the heart. Yorke gave vent to a groaning exclamation and turned pale. He spat gaspingly out of his mashed lips and propped Redmond off awhile; then, suddenly springing in again he attempted to mix it. George was nothing loath, and the two men, standing toe-to-toe, slugged each other with a perfect whirlwind of damaging punches to face and body.

Even in the giddy whirl of combat, in either man's heart now was a wonder almost akin to respect for each other's ring knowledge and gameness. It was not George's first bout by many, but the physical endurance of this hard, clean-hitting Corinthian of a man was an astounding revelation to him; the science of the graceful, narrow-waisted figure was still as quick and as punishing as a steel trap.

Yorke, for his part, reflected with bitter irony how utterly erroneous had been his primary calculations—how Nemesis was hard upon his heels at last in the guise of this relentless youngster, who fought like a college-bred "Charley Mitchell."

Ding! dong!—hook, jab, uppercut, block, and swing; in and out, back and forth, side-stepping and head-work—one long exhausting round. Flesh and blood could not stand the pace—though it was Redmond now who forced it. Neither of the men was in training and the long strain began to tell upon them both cruelly—especially upon the veteran Yorke. Still, with frosted hair and streaming faces, the sweat-soaked, bruised and bleeding combatants staggered against each other and strove to make play with their weary arms, until utter exhaustion rang the time gong.

Gasping and swaying to and fro, his puffed lips wreathed into a ghastly semblance of his old scornful smile, Yorke dropped his guard and stuck out his chin. He mouthed and pointed to it tauntingly. In spite of himself, a sorry grin flickered over George's battered, weary young face. He mouthed back—speech was beyond either; sagging at the knees he reeled forward and his right arm went poking out in a wobbling, uncertain punch.

It glanced harmlessly over Yorke's shoulder, but the violent impact of his body sent the other heavily to the ground. An ineffectual struggle to maintain his equilibrium and he, too, fell—face downwards, with his head pillowed on Yorke's heaving chest.



CHAPTER V

We're poor little lambs who've lost our way, Baa! Baa! Baa! We're little black sheep who've gone astray, Baa—aa—aa! Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, Damned from here to Eternity, God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah! KIPLING

A great peace lay upon the frozen landscape—the deep, wintry peace of the vast, snow-bound Nor'West. A light breeze murmured over the crisping snow, and moaned amongst the pines in the timber-lined spurs of the foothills. High overhead in the sunny, dazzling blue vault of heaven a huge solitary hawk slowly circled with wide-spread, motionless wings, uttering intermittently its querulous, eerie whistle.

Awhile the two exhausted men lay gasping for breath—absolutely and utterly spent. Suddenly Yorke shivered violently and sighed. Redmond raised himself off the prostrate form of his late opponent and, staggering over to the pile of their discarded habiliments, slowly and painfully he donned his fur coat and cap; then, picking up Yorke's, he stumbled over to the latter. The senior constable was now sitting up, with arms drooping loosely over his knees. George wrapped the coat around the bowed shoulders and put on the cap.

"You're cold, old man!" he said simply. "We'd best get our things on now, and beat it."

Wearily Yorke raised his head, and, at something he beheld in that disfigured, but unalterably-handsome face, Redmond's heart smote him.

Often in the past he had fondly imagined himself nursing implacable, absolutely undying hatreds; brooding darkly over injuries received in fancy or reality, planning dire and utterly ruthless revenge, etc. But, deep, deep down in his boyish soul he knew it to be only a dismal failure—that he could not keep it up. His was an impulsive, generous young heart—equally quick to forgive an injury as to resent one. Now in his pity and misery he could have cried—to see his erstwhile enemy so hopelessly broken in body and spirit.

Therefore it did not occur to him that it was sheer sentimental absurdity on his part now to drop on one knee and put his arms around that shivering, pride-broken form.

"Yorkey!" he mumbled huskily, "old man! . . . Yor—"

He choked a bit, and was silent.

Waveringly, a skinned-knuckled, but sinewy, shapely hand crept out and gently ruffled Redmond's curly auburn hair. Vaguely he heard a voice speaking to him. Could that tired, kind, whimsical voice belong to Yorke? It said: "Reddy, my old son! . . . we're still in the ring, anyway. . . . Seems—do what we would or could—we couldn't poke each other out. . . ."

Came a long silence; then: "If ever a man was sorry for the rotten way he's acted, it's surely me right now. . . . Got d——d good cause to be p'raps. . . . I handed it to you about the sponge . . . egad! I well-nigh came chucking it up myself—later. My colonial oath! but you're the cleverest, gamest, hardest-hitting young proposition I've ever ruffled it out with! . . . Where'd you pick it up? Who's handled you?"

George slowly rose to his feet. "Man named Scholes—down East" he answered. He eyed Yorke's face ruefully and, incidentally felt his own, "I used to do a bit with the gloves when I was at McGill. Talking about sponges!—I only wish we had one now to chuck up—in tangible form."

He abstracted the other's handkerchief and, rolling it with his own into a pad dabbed it in the snow. Yorke winced. "Hold still, old thing!" said Redmond, "we'll have to clean off a bit ere we hit the giddy trail again."

For some minutes he gently manipulated the pad. "There! you don't look too bad now. Have a go at me!"

Figuratively, they licked each other's wounds awhile. Yorke had grown very silent. Chin in hands and rocking very slightly to and fro, all huddled up in his fur coat, he gazed unseeingly into the beyond. His face was clouded with such hopeless, bitter, brooding misery that it worried Redmond. He guessed it to be something far deeper than the memory of their recent conflict. He strove to arouse the other.

"Talk about game cocks!" he began lightly. "Ten years ago, say! you must have been a corker—regular 'Terry McGovern'."

"Eh?" Yorke's far-away eyes stared at him vaguely. "I was in India then. Army light-weight champion in my day. Slavin wasn't joshing much at breakfast, by gum! . . . Now we're here! . . . We're a bright pair!" He made as though to cast snow upon his head, "Ichabod! Ichabod! our glory has departed!"

He lifted up his tenor voice, chanting the while he rocked—

"Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, Damned from here to Eternity, God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah!"

Redmond flinched and raised a weakly protesting hand. "Don't, old man!" he implored miserably, "don't! what's the—"

"Eh!" queried Yorke brutally—rocking—"does hurt?"

"If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, And all we—"

"No! no! no! Yorkey!" George's voice rose to a cry, "not that! . . . quit it, old man! . . . that's one of the most terrible things Kipling ever wrote—terrible because it's so absolutely, utterly hopeless. . . ."

"Well, then!" said Yorke slowly—

"Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?"

"It wasn't beer," muttered Redmond absently, "it was whiskey. Slavic and I drank it." With an effort he strove to arouse himself out of the despondency that he himself had fallen into.

"Listen! . . . Oh! quit that d——d rocking, Yorkey! . . . Listen now! we've put up a mighty good scrap against each other—we'll call that a draw—let's put up another against our—well! we'll call it our rotten luck . . . D——n it all, old man, we're not 'down an' outs' doing duty in this outfit—the best military police corps in the world! . . . Let's both of us quit squalling this eternal 'nobody loves me' stuff! This isn't any slobbery brotherly love or New Jerusalem business, or anything like that, either. I'm not a bloomin' missionary!" He qualified that assertion unnecessarily to prove it. "But let's stick together and back each other up—just us two and old man Slavin—make it a sort of 'rule of three.' We can have a deuce of a good time on this detachment then! . . ."

He spoke hotly, eagerly, with boyish fervour, his soul in his eyes.

Yorke remained silent, with averted eyes. That imploring, wistful, bruised young countenance was almost more than he could stand. George, dropping on one knee beside him put a tremulous hand on the senior constable's shoulder. "What's wrong, Yorkey?" he queried. He shook the bowed shoulder gently. "What's made you consistently knock every third buck that's been sent here? 'till they got fed up, and transferred? . . . They tried to put the wind up me about it at the Post. What's bitin' you? I don't seem to get your angle at all!"

"Oh, I don't know!" Yorke coughed and spat drearily. "Kind of rum reason, you'll think. Long story—too long—dates back. Listen then! Ten years back, in the pride of my giddy youth, I held a Junior Sub's commission in the —— Lancers—in India. This is just a synopsis of my case, mind! . . . Well! the regiment was lying at Rawal Pindi, and—I guess I kind of ran amuck there—got myself into a rotten esclandre—entirely my own fault I'll admit:

Man is fire, and Woman is tow, And the Devil, he comes and begins to blow—

the same old miserable business the world's fed up with. Since then seems I've kind of made a mess of things. Burke Slavin's about right—his estimate of me." He sighed with bitter, gloomy retrospection. "I've always had a queer, intolerant sort of temperament. If I'd lived in the days of the Indian Mutiny I guess I'd have been in 'Hodson's Horse'." (Redmond started, remembering his curious dream.) "He was a man after my own heart," Yorke continued slowly, "resourceful, slashing sort of beggar . . . he ruffled it with a high hand. Bold and game as Sherman, or Paul Jones, but as ruthless as Graham of Claverhouse. He put the ever-lasting fear into the rebels of Oude—something like Cromwell did in Ireland. My old Governor served through the Mutiny—he's told me stories of him. My God!"

He drew his fur coat closer round him. "Well!"—Redmond watched the sombre profile—"as I was saying . . . I 'muckered'. . . . Since then, with the years, I guess I've been climbing down the ladder of illusions till I'm right in the stoke-hole, and Old Nick seems to grin and whisper: 'As you were! my cashiered Sub.—As you were!' every time I chuck a brace and try to climb up again. How's that for a bit of cheap cynicism?"—the low, bitter laugh was not good to hear—"Man!"—the brooding eyes narrowed—"I've sure plumbed the depths—knocking around, with the right to live. Port Said, Buenos Aires, Shanghai. . . . I've certainly travelled. Some day I'll throw the book at you. Now—substance and ambition gone by the board long ago, and mighty little left of principle I guess—I am—what I am—everything except a prodigal, or a remittance-man—I never worried them at Home—that way. . . ."

He spoke with a sort of reckless earnestness that moved his hearer more than that individual cared to show. Redmond felt it was useless to offer mere conventional sympathy in a case like this. He did the next best thing possible—he remained silently attentive and let the other run on.

"You take three men now—stationed in the same detachment," resumed Yorke wearily, "by gum! they're thrown together mighty close when you come to think of it. It's different to the Post, where there's a crowd. Life's too short to start in explaining minutely just what that difference is. Fact remains! . . . to get along and pull together they've got to like each other—have something in common—give and take. Otherwise the situation becomes d——d trying, and trouble soon starts in the family."

"By what divine right I should consider myself qualified to—to—Oh! shut up, you young idiot! . . ." Redmond, forehead pressed into the speaker's shoulder, giggled hysterically in spite of himself—"Shut up! d'you hear? or I'll knock your silly block off!"

The two bodies shook, with their convulsive merriment. "You can't do it! old thing," came George's smothered rejoinder, "and you know darned well you can't—now! . . . Go on, you bloomin' Hodson!—proceed!"

Yorke gave vent to a good-natured oath. "Hodson? . . . you do me proud, my buck! . . . Well now!—this 'three men in a boat' business! . . . I'll admit I 'rocked' it with Crampton. I virtually abolished him because—oh! I couldn't stick the beggar at all. I simply couldn't make a pal of him. He was fairly good at police work, but a proper cad, in my opinion. Always swanking about the palatial residence he'd left behind in the Old Country. He called it ''is 'ome' at that. Typical specimen of the middle-class snob. Followed Taylor. Thick-headed, serious-minded sort of fool. Had great veneration for 'his juty.' No real knowledge of the Criminal Code, and minus common sense, yet begad! the silly beggar tried to be more regimental that the blooming Force is itself. I systematically put the wind up to him 'till he got cold feet and quit."

Redmond recalled the fact that Taylor had been his predecessor. "Followed!" he echoed mockingly, looking up at his handiwork.

Yorke, with a twisted smile glanced down at the bruised, but debonair young face. Benevolently he punched its owner in the back. "Followed . . . a certain young fellow, yclept 'Nemesis'," he said, "I sized you up for one of these smart Alecks—first crack out of the box, and egad! I think I'm about right."

Said Redmond, "How about our respected sergeant? we seem to have forgotten him."

"Slavin?" ejaculated the senior constable; and was silent awhile. There was no levity in him now. Slowly he resumed, "I guess as much as it's humanly possible for two men to know each other—down to the bedrock, it's surely Burke Slavin and I. Should too, the years we've been together. The good old beggar! . . . We slang each other, and all that . . . but there's too much between us ever to resent anything for long."

"I know," said Redmond simply, "he told me himself—last night."

"Eh?" queried Yorke sharply. "My God! . . . Tchkk!" he clucked, and burying his hands in his face he gave vent to a fretful oath. "My God!" he repeated miserably, "I'd forgotten—last night! . . . I sure must have been 'lit' . . . to come that over old Burke. . . ."

"You sure were!" remarked Redmond brutally.

"Keats' 'St. Agnes' Eve'! . . . Oh, Lord!" . . . He drew in his breath with a sibilant hiss, "There seems something—something devilish about—"

"I know! I know!" breathed Yorke tensely, "what . . . you mean." His haggard eyes implored Redmond's. "No! no! never again . . . I swear it. . . ."

There came a long, painful silence. "See here; look!" began Yorke suddenly. He stopped and surveyed George, a trifle anxiously. "Mind! . . . I'm not trying to justify myself but—get me right about this now. Don't you ever start in making a mistake about Slavin—blarney and all. No, Sir! I tell you when old Burke runs amok in those tantrums he's a holy fright. He'd kill a man. Might as well run up against a gorilla."

A vision of the huge, sinister, crouching figure seemed to rise up in Redmond's mind—the great, clutching, simian hands.

"In India," continued Yorke, "we'd say he'd got a touch of the 'Dulalli Tap.' The man doesn't know his own strength. I was taking an awful chance—getting his goat like that last night. It's a wonder he didn't kill me. He's man-handled me pretty badly at times. Oh, well! I guess it's been coming to me all right. Neither of us has ever dreamt of going squalling to the Orderly-room over our . . . differences. I don't think Burke's ever taken the trouble to 'peg' a man in his life. Not his way. 'I must take shteps!' says he, and 'I will take shteps!' and when he starts in softly rubbing those awful great grub-hooks he calls hands—together! . . . well! you want to look out."

Lighting a cigarette he resumed reminiscently: "They were a tough crowd to handle up in the Yukon. The devil himself 'd have been scared to butt in to that 'Soapy Smith' gang; but, by gum! they were afraid of Slavin. He doesn't drink much now, but he did then—mighty few that didn't—up there—and I tell you, even our own fellows got a bit leery of him when he used to start in 'trailing his coat.' They were glad when he 'came outside.' That's one of the reasons why he's shoved out on a prairie detachment. He wouldn't do at all for the Post. He never reports in there more than he has to—dead scared of the old man, who's about the only soul he is afraid of on earth. The O.C.'s awful sarcastic with him at times, and that gets Burke's goat properly. He sure does hate getting a choke-off from the old man."

He grinned guiltily. "That's why he prefers to wash the family linen strictly at home—what little there is. But, sarcasm and all, the O.C. gives him credit for being onto his job—and it's coming to him, too. He's quick acting and he's got the Criminal Code well-nigh by heart. Regular blood-hound when he starts in working up a case."

He yawned, and rising stiffly to his feet stretched his cramped limbs. "We-ll! Reddy, my giddy young hopeful!—Now we've fallen on each other's ruddy necks and kissed and wept and had a heart-to-heart talk we'll—"

"Aw, quit making game, Yorkey! Is it a go? You know what I said?"

Strangely compelling, Yorke found that bruised, eager, wistful young face, with its earnest, honest eyes. "All right!" he agreed, with languid bonhomie. "You've certainly earned the office of Dictator, and, as I remarked—we really have quite a lot in common. Mind, though, you don't repent of your bargain. One thing!" the curved, defiant nostrils dilated faintly, "Seems the world always has use for us runagates in one capacity. It's just the likes of us that compose the rank and file of most of the Empire's military police forces. Who makes the best M.P. man, executing duty, say, in a critical life-and-death hazard? The cautious, upright, model young man, with a tender regard for a whole skin and a Glorious Future? Or the poor devil who's lost all, and doesn't care a d——n? We tackle the world's dangerous, dirty criminal work and—swank and all—Society don't want to forget it."

He pointed to their horses who were playfully rearing and biting at each other in equine sport. "Look at old Parson and Fox tryin' to warm themselves? Bloomin' fine example we've set 'em. Well! allons! mon camarade, let's up and beat it."



CHAPTER VI

A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But this foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out. THOMAS TAYLOR

Hastily dressing, the two policemen mounted and took the trail once more. Side by side as they rode along, in each man's heart was an estimate of the other vastly different from that with which they started out that memorable morning.

Yorke, his spirits now fully recovered, became quite companionably communicative, relating picturesque, racy stories of India, the Yukon, and other countries he had known. George, in receptive mood, listened in silent appreciation to one of the most fascinating raconteurs he had ever met in his young life. Incidentally he felt relieved as he noted his comrade now tactfully avoiding morbid egotism—dwelling but lightly upon the milestones that marked his chequered career.

The bodily stiffness and soreness, consequent upon their recent bout, was now well-nigh forgotten, though occasionally they laughingly rallied each other as the sharp air stung their bruised faces. They were just surmounting the summit of a long, steep grade in the trail.

Said Redmond dubiously: "See here; look! I'm darned if I like getting the freedom of the City of Cow Run sportin' such a pretty mug as this! How many more miles to this giddy burg, old thing?"

Yorke grinned unfeelingly. "Hard on nine miles to go yet. We're about half way. Isch ga bibble! . . . open your ditty-box and sing! you blooming whip-poor-will."

"A werry heart goes all the way, But a sad one tires in a mile a'; A—"

The old lilt died on his lips. With a startled oath he reined in sharply and, shielding his eyes from the sun-glare, remained staring straight in front of him. They had just topped the crest of the rise. The eastward slope showed a low-lying, undulating stretch of snow-bound country, sparsely dotted with clumps of poplar and alder growth, through which the trail wound snake-like into the fainter distance. Southwards, below the rolling, shelving benches, lay the river, a steaming black line, twisting interminably between frosty, bush-fringed banks.

No less startled than his companion, Redmond pulled up also and stared with him. Not far distant on the trail ahead of them they beheld a dark, ominous-looking mass, vividly conspicuous against the snow. Suddenly the object moved and resolved itself unmistakably into a horse struggling to rise. For an instant they saw the head and the fore-part of the body lift, and then flop prone again. Close against it lay another dark object.

"Horse down!" snapped Yorke tersely. "Hell!" he added, "looks like a man there, too! come on quick!"

Responding to a shake of the lines and a fierce thrust of the spurs, their horses leapt forward and they raced towards their objective.

"Steady! steady!" hissed Yorke, checking his mount as they drew near the fallen animal and its rider, "pull Fox a bit, Red! Mustn't scare the horse!"

Slackening into a walk, they flung out of saddle, dropped their lines, crouched, and crept warily forward. The horse, a big, splendid seal-brown animal, had fallen on its right side, with its off fore-leg plunged deep in a snow-filled badger-hole. The body of the man lay also on the off-side with one leg under his mount. The stiffened form was a ghastly object to behold, being literally encased in an armour-like shell of frozen, claret-coloured snow.

At the approach of the would-be rescuers the poor brute whinnied pitifully and made another ineffectual attempt to rise. Yorke flung himself onto the head and held it down, while George dived frantically for the man's body, and tugged until he had got the leg from under.

"Hung up! by God!" gasped the former, "his foot's well-nigh through the stirrup!"

Redmond, ex-medical student, made swift examination. "Dead!" he pronounced with finality, "Good God! dead as a herring! The man's been dragged and kicked to death!" He made a futile effort to release the imprisoned foot.

"No! no!" cried Yorke sharply, "no use doing that if he's dead. Coroner's got to view things as they are."

The horse began to struggle again painfully. Peering down the badger-hole they could see the broken bone of its leg protruding bloodily through the skin. Yorke released one hand and reached for his gun.

"Poor old chap!" he said, "we'll fix you. Quick Red! pull the body as far back as the stirrup-legadeiro'll go! That'll do! There, old boy! . . ."

And with practised hand he sent a merciful bullet crashing through brain and spinal cord. The hind legs threshed awhile, but presently, with a muscular quiver they stiffened and all was still. Yorke, releasing his hold struggled to his feet, and the two men stared pityingly at what lay before them. What those merciless, steel-shod hoofs had left of the head and the youthful body indicated a man somewhere in his twenties. His ice-bound outer clothing consisted of black Angora goatskin chaps and a short sheepskin coat.

"Can't place him—like this," muttered Yorke, after prolonged scrutiny, "but I seem to know the horse."

Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation—something between a groan and a cry. Redmond, startled at a new horror apparent on the other's ghastly face, clutched him by the arm.

"What's up?" he queried tensely.

Yorke struggled to speak. "Fox!" he gasped presently—"this morning. . . . I never told you. My God!—You might have got hung up like this, too."

"No! no! Yorkey!" Redmond almost shouted the disclaimer, "Slavin wised me up to that trick of his yesterday. I forgot. It was my own fault I got piled like that. Forget it, old man! I say forget it!"

He shook the other's arm with a sort of savage gentleness.

A look of vague relief dawned on Yorke's haggard face. "Ay, so!" he murmured, and paused with brooding indecision. "That's absolved my conscience some, but not altogether."

They remained silent awhile after this. Presently Yorke pulled himself together and spoke briskly and decisively. "Well, now! we'll have to get busy. Blair's place is only about three miles from here—nor'east—they're on the long-distance 'phone. Doctor Cox of Cow Run's the coroner for this district. If I can get hold of him I'll get him to come out right-away—and I'll notify Slavin."

Catching up his horse he swung into the saddle. "I'll be back here on the jump. You stick around, and say, Reddy, you might as well have a dekko at the lay of things while you're waiting. Where he came off the perch, how far he's been dragged, and all that. Be careful though, keep well to the side and don't foul up the tracks. And don't get too far away, either!"

He galloped off and soon disappeared over a distant rise. Left to himself George mounted Fox and set to work to follow out the senior constable's instructions.

"Well?" queried Yorke, swinging wearily out of his saddle an hour or so later, "How'd you make out? Find the place where he flopped? Rum sort of perch you've got there—you look like Patience on a monument!"

George, seated upon the rump of the dead horse, nodded and grunted laconic response: "Sure. 'Bout two miles down the trail there. How'd you get along, Yorkey? Did you raise Slavin and the coroner?"

"Got Slavin all hunkadory," said the senior constable briefly, "he should be here soon, now. Dr. Cox'd just left for Wilson's, two miles this side of Cow Run. They're on the 'phone, too; so I left word there for him to come on here right away." He seated himself alongside the other.

Awhile they carried on a desultory, more or less speculative conversation anent the fatality, until they grew morbidly weary of contemplating the poor broken body. Yorke slid off the dead horse suddenly.

"Wish Slavin were here!" he said, "let's take a dekko from the top of the rise, Reddy, see'f we can see him coming. I'm getting cold sitting here."

Redmond, nothing loath, complied. Mounting, they turned back to the summit of the ridge. Reaching it, the jingle of bells smote their ears, and they espied the Police cutter approaching them at a rapid pace.

"Like unto Jehu, the son of Nimshi!" murmured Yorke, "he's sure springing old T and B up the grade."

Sergeant Slavin pulled up his smoking team along-side his two mounted subordinates. "So ho, bhoys!" was his greeting, "fwhat's this bizness?"

Yorke rapidly acquainted him with all the details. At one point in his narration he had occasion to turn to George: "That's how it was, Reddy?" And the latter replied, "That's about the lay of it, Yorkey."

The sergeant listened, but absently. To them it did not seem exactly to be an occasion for levity; but they could have sworn that, behind an exaggerated grimness of mien, he was striving to suppress some inward mirth, as his deep-set Irish eyes roved from face to face.

"Yez luk as if yez had been hung up an' dhragged tu—th' pair av yez," he remarked casually.

Remembrance smote the two culprits. They exchanged guilty glances and swallowed the home-thrust in silence.

Slavin clucked to his team. "Walk-march, thin!" said he.

Wheeling sharply about, they started down the trail again, the cutter following in their wake. If their consciences would have permitted them to glance back they would have remarked their superior's face registering unholy delight.

Out of the corner of his mouth Redmond shot, tensely, "Dye think he—"

"Oh!" broke in Yorke resignedly, sotto voce. "You can't fool him! . . . Isch ga bibble, anyway!"

"Yorkey!" an' "Reddy!" that worthy was mumbling tu himself—over and over again, "Yorkey!" an' "Reddy!" "'Tis so they name each other—now! Blarney me sowl! 'Tis come about! Fifty-fifty, tu—from th' mugs av thim. Peace, perfect peace, in th' fam'ly at last! Eyah! I wud have given me month's pay-cheque for a ring-side seat." He sighed deeply.

They reached the fatal spot. Slavin, his levity gone, stepped out of the cutter and, retaining the lines of his restive team, stared long at the gruesome spectacle before him, with a sort of callous sadness.

"These tu must have lain here th' night," he remarked, indicating the frost-rimed forms, "have yez sized things up? Got th' lay av fwhere ut happened?"

Redmond made affirmative response.

"Can you place him, Sergeant?" queried Yorke.

"Eyah! Onless I am vastly mishtuk. Whoa, now! shtand still, ye fules! Fwhat yez a-scared av? Here, Yorkey! hold T an' B a minnut!"

He pushed over his lines to the latter and, producing a pair of leather-cased brand-inspector's clippers, he cropped bare a circular patch on the defunct horse's nigh shoulder. Shorn of the thick, seal-brown winter hair, the brand was now plainly visible. Enlightenment came to Yorke in a flash, as he peered over his superior's shoulder.

"D Two!" he gasped, "I knew I'd seen that horse somewhere! It's 'Duster,' Larry Blake's horse. Tchkk! this must be him. My God!"

"Shure!" snapped Slavin testily. "Wake up! Is yeh're mem'ry goin', man? One av yeh're own cases last month, tu!" He tenderly pocketed the clippers. "Yes! ye shud know him!"—dryly—"lukked troo th' bottom av a glass wid him often enough."

"Let's see'f he's got any letters or anything in his pockets—to make sure!" began Redmond eagerly. Suiting the action to the word he bent down to investigate. But Slavin intruded a huge arm. "Hould on, bhoy!" he said, with all an old policeman's fussiness over rightful procedure. "Du not touch! That is th' coroner's bizness. Did they not dhrill that inta yeh at Regina?"

He stared thoughtfully at the corpse. "Dhrink an' th' divil! eyah! dhrink an' th' divil!"—sadly. "Larry, me pore bhoy! niver more will ye come a-whoopin' ut out av Cow Run on yeh 'Duster' horse . . . shpiflicated belike an' singin' 'Th' Brisk Young Man." Austerely he glanced at Yorke, "'Tis a curse, this same dhrink!"

"How do you know the poor beggar was drunk?" queried the latter, a trifle sulkily. "He may have been as sober as you or I."

"Shpeak for yehsilf!" retorted Slavin dryly, "Ah! this must be Docthor Cox comin' now!"

A cutter containing two men was approaching them rapidly. Presently it drew up alongside the group and a short, rotund gentleman, clad in furs, sprang out and came swiftly, bag in hand. He was middle-aged, with a gray moustache and kind, alert, dark eyes. Greeting the policemen quietly, he turned to the broken body.

"Tchkk! good God!" He shook his head sadly. Redmond thought he had never seen a medical man so unprofessionally shocked. Presently he straightened up and turned to Slavin. "Can you identify him, Sergeant?"

That worthy nodded. "Eyah! 'tis Larry Blake, I'm thinking Docthor. Best frisk him now an' see, I guess. Maybe he has letthers."

Hastily diving into his bag the coroner produced a pair of long keen scissors and slit the short, frozen sheepskin coat. In the breast-pocket of the coat underneath, amongst other miscellany two old letters rewarded his search. He glanced at the superscriptions and handed them up to Slavin.

"Larry Blake it is," he said. He felt the soggy, pulped head. "Skull's stove right in. Any one of these smashes would have sufficed to kill him." He clipped the hair around a ghastly gaping crevice at the base of the head.

Suddenly he peered closely, uttered an exclamation, peered again and drew back. "Sergeant!" he said sharply, "D'ye see that?—No need to ask you what that is!" In an unbroken portion of the back of the skull he indicated a small, circular orifice. The trio craned forward and made minute examination. Slavin ejaculated an oath and glanced up at Yorke—almost remorsefully.

"I take ut all back," he said. Meeting the coroner's blank, enquiring stare he added: "Booze, Docthor—we thought ut might be. . . . Yeh know Larry!"

The physician of Cow Run nodded understandingly. Slavin bent again and made close scrutiny of the bullet-hole. "Back av th' head, no powdher marks!" He straightened up. "Docther, are ye thru? All right, thin! Guess we'll book up an' start in."

Methodically they all produced note-books and entered the needful particulars. The lanky individual who had driven the coroner out brought forward a tarpaulin and spread it on the ground. With some difficulty the over-shoed foot was disengaged from the imprisoning stirrup, the body rolled in the tarpaulin and deposited in the rear of the doctor's cutter. The saddle and bridle were flung into the Police cutter. They then rolled the dead horse clear of the trail.

That night the coyotes held grim, snarling carnival.

Slavin turned to Redmond. "Ye've located th' place, eh?" The latter nodded. "All right, thin, get mounted, th' tu av yez, an' lead on!"

Keeping needfully wide of the broad, claret-bespotted swath in the snow, the party started trailing back. Yorke and George rode ahead. The latter glanced around to make sure of being out of earshot of their sergeant.

"We-ll of all the hardened old cases! . . . Slavin sure does crown 'em!" he muttered to his comrade.

"Hardened!" Yorke laughed grimly. "You should have seen him up in the Yukon! The man's been handling these rotten morgue cases 'till he'd qualify for the Seine River Police. He's got so he ascribes well-nigh everything now to 'dhrink an' th' divil.'" His face softened, "but I know the real heart of old Burke under it all."

About two miles down the trail Redmond halted.

"Here it is!" he said. And he indicated an irregular, blood-soaked, clawed-up patch in the snow where the sanguinary swath ended. They dismounted. Slavin drawing up alongside the coroner's cutter handed over his lines to the teamster.

"Now!" said he, "let's shtart in! . . . Ye must have 'shpotted this on yeh way up, Docthor?" He pointed to the patch.

The latter nodded. "Yes! we thought it must have happened here."

For some few seconds, with one accord the party stared about them at their surroundings. The frozen landscape at this point presented a singularly lonely, desolate aspect. Flat, and for the greater part absolutely bare of brush; save where from a small coulee some half mile to the left of the trail the tops of a cotton-wood clump were visible. Far to the right-hand, more than a mile away, stretched the first of the shelving benches, where the high ground sloped away in irregular jumps, as it were, to the river.

"Best ye shtay fwhere ye all are," cautioned the sergeant, "'till I size up th' lay av things a bit. I du not want th' thracks fouled up. H-mm! let's see now!" He remained in deep, thoughtful silence a space. "Thravellin' towards us," he muttered—"th' back av th' head!"

Hands clasped behind bent back, and with head thrust loweringly forward from between his huge shoulders he paced slowly down the trail for some hundred yards. That grim, intent face and the swaying gait reminded Redmond of some huge bloodhound casting about for a scent.

Halting irresolutely a moment, Slavin presently faced about and returned. "Wan harse on'y!" he vouchsafed to their silent looks of enquiry. "He had not company. Must have been shot from lift or right av th' thrail." He stared around him at the bare sweep of ground. "Now fwhere cud any livin' man find cover here in th' full av th' moon, tu get th' range wid a small arm? He wud show up agin' th' snow like th' ace av shpades an' he thried."

Suddenly his jaw dropped and he stiffened. "Ah-hh!" His eyes rivetted themselves on some object and his huge arm shot out. "Fwhat's yon?"

They all stared in the direction he indicated. Plastered with frosted snow, until it was all but undiscernible against its white background, lay an enormous boulder—a relic, perchance, of some vast pre-historic upheaval. It was situated at an oblique angle to the trail, about a hundred yards distant.

With stealthy, quickened steps Slavin made his way towards it. Tensely they watched him. In each man's mind now was a vague feeling of certainty of something, they knew not what. They saw him reach the boulder, walk round it and stoop, peering at its base for a few moments. Then suddenly he straightened up and beckoned to them.

"Thread in file," he called out warningly. Yorke led, and, treading heedfully in each other's foot-marks, they reached the spot. Slavin silently pointed downwards. There, plainly discernible on the surface of the wind-packed, hard-crusted snow, were the corrugated imprints of overshoed feet—coming and going apparently in the direction of the previously mentioned coulee.

Redmond indicated two rounded impressions at the foot of the boulder, with two smaller ones behind. "Must have hunched himself on his knees behind, eh?" he queried in a low voice.

Slavin nodded. The rays of the westering sun coming from back of a cloud glinted on something in the snow, a few feet away from the tracks. It caught Yorke's eyes and with an exclamation he picked it up.

"—gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled—"

he quoted. "Here you are, Burke!"

Slavin uttered a delighted oath as he examined the small, bottle-necked shell of the automatic variety. ".38 Luger!" he said. "A high-pressure 'gat' like that is oncommon hereabouts!" Passing it on to the coroner he whistled softly. "My God! Fwhativer sort av a gun-artist is ut that—even allowin' for th' moonlight—can pick a man off thru' th' head wid a revolver at this distance? . . . an' wan shell on'y? . . . 'Soapy Smith' himself cu'dn't have beat this!"

He proceeded to sift some fine, crisp snow in one of the imprints, then, producing an old letter from his pocket, he flattened out the type-written sheets of foolscap therein. Placing the blank side of the sheet face-downwards upon the imprint he pressed down smartly. The result was a very fair impression of the footmark, which he immediately outlined in pencil.

A strange ominous silence fell upon the group. Deep in wild, whirling conjecture, each man gazed about him. The desolate, sinister aspect of their surroundings struck them with a sudden chill. Yorke voiced the general sentiment.

"My God!" he said in a low voice, "but it sure is dreary!"

With a final, self-satisfying survey at his "lay av things" Slavin stepped well to the side of the incriminating foot-prints. "Come on!" he said "get in file behint me! We will follow this up!"

Silently they obeyed and padded in his rear.

"D——d big feet, whoever owns 'em," remarked Redmond to Yorke.

Slavin heard him. "Ay!" he flung back grimly. "An' they will shtand on th' dhrop yet—thim same feet!"

The tracks returning in the direction of the coulee presented a vast contrast to the approaching imprints. Where the latter denoted an even, steady stride, the former ran in queer, irregular fashion—sometimes bunched together, and at others with wide spaces between.

"'On th' double!'" remarked Slavin observantly.

"Must have got scairt!"

"Ah!" murmured the coroner, reflectively, "though the Bible doesn't expressly state so, I guess Cain, too, got on the 'double' as you call it—after he killed Abel."

They finally reached the coulee where the tracks, debouching from the steep edge, passed along its rim and presently descended the more shallow end of the draw. Their leader eventually halted at the foot of a small cotton-wood tree where the human foot-prints ended. There in the snow they beheld a hoof-trampled space, which, together with broken twigs, indicated a tethered horse.

This served for comment and speculation awhile.

The sergeant, producing a small tape measure dotted down careful measurements of the over-shoed imprints and their length of stride, also the size of the shod hoof-marks.

Redmond drew his attention to blood-stains in several of the latter. "Shod with 'never-slip' calks, Sergeant!" he said. "Must have slipped somewhere and 'calked' himself on the 'coronet,' I guess?"

"Eyah!" muttered Slavin approvingly, "Th' 'nigh-hind' 'tis, note, bhoy! . . . 't'will serve good thrailin' that. Well, let's follow ut on!"

Wearily his companions plodded on in his wake. The tracks, after following the draw for a short distance, suddenly wound up a steep, narrow path on the left side of the coulee. Reaching the surface of the level ground, they circled until they struck into the main trail east again, about a mile below where the party had left their horses. Here, merged amongst countless others on the well-travelled highway, they became more difficult to trace, though occasionally the faint blood-stains proclaimed their identity.

Slavin pulled up. "Luks as if he'd shtruck back tu Cow Run again," he said with conviction. "Must have come from there, tu—thracks was goin' and comin' an' ye noticed, fwhin we climbed out av th' coulee back there. We must luk for a harse wid th' nigh-hind badly 'calked.' Yorkey! yu' get back an' tell that Lanky Jones feller tu come on. Hitch yez own harses behint our cutter an' take th' lines." He squinted at the sun and pulled out his watch. "'Tis four o'clock, begob! Twill turn bitther cowld whin th' sun goes down."

The coroner smiled knowingly. "Talking about 'calks'!" he remarked; and diving into the deep recesses of his fur coat he produced a comfortable-looking leather-encased flask. "A little 'calk' all round won't hurt us after that tramp, Sergeant!" he observed kindly.

Their transport presently arriving, they proceeded on their way to Cow Run, Yorke and Redmond watching carefully for any tracks debouching from the main trail. Occasionally they dismounted to verify the incriminating hoof-prints which still continued eastward. In this fashion they finally drew to the level of the river, where the trail forked; one arm of it following more or less the winding course of the Bow River back westward. At this junction they searched narrowly until they found unmistakable indication of the blood-tinged tracks still heading in the direction of Cow Run.

"What was that case of yours, Yorkey?" enquired Redmond. "You know—what Slavin was talking about?"

"Mix-up over that horse," replied Yorke laconically, "disputed ownership. A chap named Moran tried to run a bluff over Larry that he'd lost the horse as a colt. They got to scrapping and I ran 'em both up before Gully, the J. P. here. Moran got fined twenty dollars and costs for assaulting Blake. Say! look at that sky! Isn't it great?"

They turned in their saddles and looked westward. Clean-cut against a pale yellow-ochre background and enveloped in a deep purple bloom, the mighty peaks of the distant "Rockies" upreared their eternal snow-capped glory in a salute to departing day. Above, where the opaline-tinted horizon shaded imperceptibly into the deep ultramarine of evening, lay glowing streamers of vivid crimson cloud-bank edged with the gleaming gold of the sunset's after-glow.

It was a soul-filling sight. Against it the sordid contrast of the sinister business in hand smote them like a blow from an unseen hand, as they resumed their monotonous scanning of the trail on its either side.

Yorke presently voiced the impression in both their hearts. "My God'" he murmured "the bitter irony of it! 'Peace on Earth, goodwill towards men' . . . and this!—what?"



CHAPTER VII

Oh! Bad Bill Brough, a way-back tough Raised hell when he struck town; With gun-in-fist met Sergeant Twist— It sure was some show-down. BALLAD OF SERGEANT TWIST

Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk. Seen under winter conditions the drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the party negotiated its main street. A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, a small church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and some three-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desire to become a permanent resident of Cow Run.

The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in the rear of the doctor's residence. From long usage this place had come to be accepted as the common morgue of the district. After arranging details with the coroner anent the morrow's inquest, and carefully searching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired to the livery-stable to put up their horses.

Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezy cordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial care of their horses. In appearance that worthy would have made a passable understudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth and short of breath. In addition to his regular calling he filled—or was supposed to fill—the office of "town constable" and pound-keeper. A sort of village "Dogberry." Incidentally it might be mentioned that he also could have laid claim to be a "wictim of circumstances"; having but recently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did the Dickensian character. The sympathy of Cow Run, individually and collectively, was extended to him on this account.

From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day's events it was satisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had not struck Cow Run as yet. For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strict secrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee's stable-hand.

"Ar!" wheezed Lee. "It's a good job yu' fellers is come. That ther 'Windy Moran's' bin raisin' hell over in the hotel th' las' two days. He got to fightin' ag'in las' night with Larry Blake—over that hawss. Bob Ingalls an' Chuck Reed an' th' bunch dragged 'em apart an' tol' Larry to beat it back to his ranch—which he did. Windy—they got him to bed, an' kep' him ther all night, as he swore he'd shoot Larry. He's still over ther, nasty-drunk an' shootin' off what he's goin' t' do."

He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, gloating deeply in his throat: "Stirrin' times! ar! stirrin' times! . . . Now—'bout that ther hobo, Sargint—"

"Aw! damn th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show me Windy's harse. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll know all 'bout that later."

His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air, indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the Police team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. With fierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg—and found what they sought for.

For there—where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the "coronet"—was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoof itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavin picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in calks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of the shoe and glanced at his note-book.

Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust the book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him tie it up again.

Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances. "See here; look, Nick!" Slavin grasped the livery-man's fat shoulder and looked grimly into the startled, rubicund face. "I'm a-goin' tu put a question tu yeh, an' 'member now. . . . I want yeh tu think harrd! . . . Now—whin Larry Blake came in tu saddle-up an' pull out last night was that ther sorrel o' Windy's still in th' stable—or not?"

"Eh?" gasped Lee at last, "I dunno! Me nor Lanky wasn't around when Larry pulled out. We was over t' th' hotel, Sarjint."

Slavin released the man's shoulder with a testy, balked gesture. "Yes! enjoyin' th' racket an' dhrunk like th' rist, I guess! . . . 'Tis a foine sort av town-constable yez are!"

Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence. "I came round here 'bout midnight, anyways!" he protested. "I always do—jes' t' see 'f everythin's all right. That hawss was in then, I will swear—'cause I 'member his halter-shank'd come untied and I fixed it. Ev'rythin' in th' garden was lovely 'cep' fur that 'damned hobo sneakin' round. He was gettin' a drink at th' trough an' I chased him. But he beat it up inta th' loft an'—I'm that scared of fire," he ended lamely, "I never lock up fur that."

Slavin nodded wisely. "Yes! I guess he made his getaway from yu'—easy. Mighty long toime since yuh've bin able tu dhrag yeh're guts up that ladder—lit alone squeege thru' th' thrap-dhure. Bet Lanky does all th' chorin'." He glanced around him impatiently, "But this here's all talk—it don't lead nowheres. Hullo! this is Gully's team, ain't it?" He indicated a splendid pair of roans standing in a double stall nearby.

"Yes!" said Lee, "he pulled in las' night t' catch th' nine-thirty down t' Calgary. He ain't back yet."

"Fwas he—" Slavin checked himself abruptly—"fwhat toime did he get in here?"

"'Bout nine."

"Fwhat toime 'bout fwas ut whin this racket shtarted up betune Windy an' Larry?"

"Oh, I dunno, Sarjint!—'bout nine, may be—as I say I—"

"Come on!" said the sergeant, abruptly, to his men, "let's go an' eat. Luk afther thim harses good, Nick," he flung back in a kind tone.

Outside in the dark road they gathered together, bandying mystified conjecture in low tones. "'Tis no use arguin', bhoys," snapped Slavin at last, wearily, "we've got tu see Chuck Reed an' Bob Ingalls an' Brophy av th' hotel. Their wurrd goes—they're straight men. If they had Windy corralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let's Windy out."

He was silent awhile, then: "That harse av Windy's," he burst out with an oath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' passin' rum 'bout all this. There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' harse. Somebody in this god-forsaken burg must ha' used him tu du th' killin' wid. Well, let's get on."

Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upon their ears, apparently from inside that hostelry—men shouting, a dog barking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.

The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the office and across the passage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproar proceeded.

"Help! Murder! Pleece!" some apparently high-strung individual was bawling. A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.

A motley crowd, composed mainly of well-dressed passengers from off the temporarily-stalled West-bound train and a sprinkling of townsfolk, were backed—hands up—into a corner of the bar by a big, hard-faced man clad in range attire who was menacing them with a long-barrelled revolver. He was dark-haired and swarthy, with sinister, glittering eyes. One red-headed, red-nosed individual had apparently resented parting with the drink that he had paid for; as in one decidedly-shaky elevated hand he still clutched his glass, its whiskey and water contents slopping down the neck of his nearest unfortunate neighbour.

"Mon!" he apologized, in tearful accents, "Ah juist canna help it!"

"Pitch up!" the "bad man" was shrieking, "Pitch up! yu' ——s!—That d——d Blake—that d——d Gully! Stealin' my hawss away'f me an' gittin' me fined! I'll git back at somebody fur this! Pleece! yes!—yeh kin holler 'Pleece!'—Let me get th' drop on th' red-coated, yelluh-laigged sons of ——! Ah-hh!"—His eyes glittered with his insane passion, "Here they come! Now! watch th' ——s try an' arrest me!"

Fairly frothing at the mouth, the man, at that moment working himself into a frenzy, was plainly as dangerous as a mad dog. Drunk though he undoubtedly was, he did not stagger as he stepped to and fro with cat-like activity, his gun levelled at the policemen's heads. It was an ugly situation. Slavin and his men taken utterly by surprise hesitated, as well they might; for a single attempt to draw their sidearms might easily bring inglorious death upon one or another of them.

We have noted that on a previous occasion Redmond demonstrated his ability to think and act quickly. He upheld that reputation now. Like a flash he ducked behind Slavin's broad shoulders and backed into the passage. Picking up at random the first missile available—to wit—an empty soda-water bottle, he tip-toed swiftly along the passage to a door opening into the bar lower down. This practically brought him broadside-on to his man. A moment he peered and judged his distance then, drawing back his arm he flung the bottle with all his force. At McGill he had been a base-ball pitcher of some renown, so his aim was true. The bottle caught its objective full in the ear. With a scream of pain the man staggered forward and clutched with one hand at his head, his gun still in his grip sagging floorwards.

Instantly then, Yorke, who was the nearest, sprang at him like a tiger and, ranging one arm around his enemy's bull neck, strove with the other to wrest the gun from his grasp. It was a feat however, more easily imagined than accomplished—to disarm a powerful, active man. The tense fingers tightened immediately upon the weapon and resisted to their uttermost. Slavin and Redmond both had their side-arms drawn now, but they were afraid to use them, on Yorke's account. The combatants were whirling giddily to and fro, the muzzle of the gun describing every point of the compass.

Taking a risky chance, Slavin, watching his opportunity suddenly closed with the struggling men and, raising his arm brought the barrel of his heavy Colt's .45 smashing down on the knuckles of the crazed man's gun-hand. Instantaneously the latter's weapon dropped to the floor.

Bang! The cocked hammer discharged one chamber—the bullet ricocheting off the brass bar-rail deflected through a cluster of glasses and bottles, smashing them and a long saloon-mirror into a myriad splinters. But few of the company there escaped the deadly flying glass, as badly-gashed faces immediately testified. It all happened in quicker time than it takes to relate.

"'Crown' him!" gasped Yorke, still grimly hanging onto his man, "'Crown' the —— good and hard!"

Redmond sprang forward, grasping a small, shot-loaded police "billy," but Slavin interposed a huge arm.

"Nay!" he said sharply, and with curious eagerness, "Du not 'chrown' um bhoy! lave um tu me!" And he grasped one of the big, struggling man's wrists firmly in a vise-like grip. "Leggo, Yorkey!"

The latter obeyed with alacrity, and stooping he picked up the fallen gun. He had an inkling of what was coming.

"Ah-hh!" Slavin gloated gutterally, as he whirled his victim giddily around and brought the man up facing him with a violent jerk—"Windy Moran, avick!"—softly and cruelly—"me wud-be cock av a wan-harse dump!—me wud-be 'bad-man'! . . . Oh, yes! 'tis both shockin' an' brutil tu misthreat ye I know but—surely, surely yeh desarve somethin' for all this!" And he drew back his formidable right arm.

Smack! The terrific impact of that one, terrible open-handed slap nearly knocked his victim through the bar-room wall. The head rocked sideways and the big body turned completely round. Eyes rushing water and one profile now resembling a slab of bloodied liver, the man reeled about in a circle as if bereft of sight.

"Oh-hh!—Ooh!—No-o!—Ah-hh!" The wild, moaning cry for quarter came gaspingly out of puffed, blood-foamed lips. But there was no mercy in Slavin. He looked round at the wrecked bar, the glass-slashed bleeding faces of his men and the rest of the saloon's occupants. He thought upon many things—how near ignoble death many of them had been but a few minutes before—upon insult and threat flaunted at them by a drunken, ruffling braggadocio!—and he jerked the latter to him once more.

But his two subordinates jumped forward and made violent protest. "Steady!" It was Yorke now who appealed for leniency—"Go easy, Burke! for God's sake! You've handed him one good swipe—if he get's another like that he'll be all in—won't be able to talk. Let it go at that!"

The sergeant remained silent, breathing thickly and glaring at his prisoner with sinister, glittering eyes, and still retaining the latter's wrist in his iron grip. But eventually the force of Yorke's reasoning prevailed with him. Drawing out his hand-cuffs he snapped them on the man's wrists and haled him roughly out of the bar into the hotel office. The crowd, recovering somewhat from their scare, would have followed, but he curtly ordered them back and closed the door.

"Brophy!" He beckoned the angry, frightened hotel-proprietor forward. "Is Bob Ingalls and Chuck Reed still in town?"

"Sure!" replied the latter, "They was both in here 'bout half an hour ago, anyways."

Slavin turned to Yorke. "Go yu an' hunt up thim fellers an' bring thim here!" he ordered.

"Ravin'—clean bug-house! that's what he is!" wailed Brophy. "That bar o' mine! oh, Lord! Yu'll git it soaked to yu' this time, Windy, an' don't yu' furgit it!"

The prisoner paid no attention to the landlord's revilings. Slumped down in a chair he had relapsed into a sort of sulky stupor, though he cringed visibly whenever Slavin bent on him his thoughtful, sinister gaze.

Presently Yorke returned, bringing with him two respectable-looking men, apparently ranchers, from their appearance.

Slavin nodded familiarly to them. "Ingalls!" he addressed one of them "I'm given tu undhershtand that yuh an' Chuck Reed there tuk charge av this feller—" he indicated the prisoner—"last night, whin he had that racket wid Larry Blake in th' bar? Fwhat was they rowin' over?"

"That hawss o' Blake's mostly," was Ingalls' laconic answer. "Course they was slingin' everythin' else they could dig down an' drag up, too." He chewed thoughtfully a moment, "We had some time with 'em," he added.

"Shore did!" struck in Reed. "We was scared fur Larry, so we told him to beat it home—which he did—an' then we got Windy up to bed an' stayed with him nigh all night."

Slavin looked at Brophy interrogatively. "Yuh can vouch for this, tu, Billy? He's bin in yu're place iver since th' throuble smarted?"

Brophy nodded. "Yes! d——n him! I wish he had got out before this bizness started. Yes! he's bin here right along, Sarjint! why?—what's up?"

Slavin evaded the direct question for the moment. Silently awhile he gazed at the three wondering faces. "Now, I'll tell yez!" he said slowly. And briefly he informed them of the murder—omitting all detail of the clues obtained later. They listened with wide eyes and broke out into startled exclamations. The prisoner struggled up from the chair, his bruised, ghastly face registering fear and genuine astonishment. Redmond shoved him back again.

"If any feller thinks—" Moran relapsed into maudlin, hysterical protestations of innocence, calling upon the Deity to bear witness that he was innocent and had no knowledge whatever of how Blake came to his death.

Eventually silence fell upon all. Slavin cogitated awhile, then he turned to Brophy. "Who else was in, Billy? Out av town fellers I mean, fwhin this racket occurred betune these tu? Thry an' think now!"

Brophy pondered long and presently reeled off a few names. Slavin heard him out and shook his head negatively. "Nothin' doin' there!" he announced finally, "Mr. Gully was in, yuh say? Did he see anythin' av this row?"

"Cudn't help it, I guess," replied Brophy. "He just come inta th' office for his grip while it was a-goin' on. He beat it out quick for th' East-bound as had just come in. Said he was runnin' down to Calgary. He ain't back yet. Guess he wudn't want to go gettin' mixed up in anythin' like that, either—him bein' a J. P."

Slavin looked at Yorke. "Let's have a luk at that gun av Moran's!" he remarked. "Fwhat is ut?"

Yorke handed the weapon over. "'Smith and Wesson' single-action," he said. "Just that one round gone."

"Nothin doin' agin'," muttered Slavin disappointedly. He broke the gun and, ejecting the shells put all in his pocket. He then turned to Moran. "D——d good job for yu'—havin' this alibi, Mister Windy!" he growled, "don't seem anythin' on yu' over this killin'—as yet! But yez are goin' tu get ut fwhere th' bottle got th' cork for this other bizness, me man!"

And he proceeded to formally charge and warn his prisoner.

"Give us a room, Brophy!" he said, "a big wan for th' bunch av us—an' lave a shake-down on th' flure for this feller!"

Preceded by the landlord the trio departed upstairs, escorting their prisoner. Alone in the room they discussed matters in lowered tones; Slavin and Yorke not forgetting to compliment Redmond on his presence of mind—or, as the sergeant put it: "Divartin' his attenshun."

The big Irishman scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I must go wire th' O.C. report av all this. Sind Gully comes back on th' same thrain wid Inspector Kilbride to-morrow. Thin we can go ahead—wid two J.P.s tu handle things. Yuh take charge av Mr. Man, Ridmond! Me an' Yorke will go an' eat now, an' relieve yuh later."



CHAPTER VIII

"The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met, The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!" As Captain Macheath says,—and when one's arraigned, The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know. THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.

"Orrrdher in Coort!" rang out Sergeant Slavin's abrupt command. It was about ten o'clock the following morning. The hotel parlour had been hastily transformed into a temporary court-room. A large square table had been drawn to one end of the room and two easy chairs placed conveniently behind it. Fronting it was a long bench, designed for the prisoner and escort. In the immediate rear were arranged a few rows of chairs, to accommodate the witnesses and spectators.

The sergeant's order, prompted by the entrance of the two Justices of the Peace, was the occasion of all present rising to attention, in customary deference to police-court rules. One of the newcomers, dressed in the neat blue-serge uniform of an inspector of the Force, was familiar to Redmond as Inspector Kilbride, who had been recently transferred to L Division from a northern district. He had close-cropped gray hair and a clipped, grizzled moustache. Though apparently nearing middle-age he still possessed the slim, wiry, active figure of a man long inured to the saddle.

The appearance of his judicial confrere fairly startled George. He was a huge fellow, fully as tall and as heavy a man as Slavin, though not so compactly-built or erect as the latter. Still, his wide, loosely-hung, slightly bowed shoulders suggested vast strength, and his leisurely though active movements indicated absolute muscular control. But it was the strangely sombre, mask-like face which excited Redmond's interest most. Beneath the broad, prominent brow of a thinker a pair of deep-set, shadowy dark eyes peered forth, with the lifeless, unwinking stare of an owl. Between them jutted a large, bony beak of a nose, with finely-cut nostrils. The pitiless set of the powerful jaw was only partially concealed by an enormous drooping moustache, the latter reddish in colour and streaked with gray, like his thinning, carefully brushed hair. His age was hard to determine. Somewhere around forty-five, George decided, as he regarded with covert interest Ruthven Gully, Esq., gentleman-rancher and Justice of the Peace for the district.

The two Justices took their places with magisterial decorum, the witnesses seated themselves again, and, all being ready, the sergeant opened the court with its time-honoured formula.

The inspector glanced over the various "informations" and handed them over to his confrere for perusal. A brief whispered colloquy ensued between them, and then the local justice settled himself back in his chair, chin in hand. Inspector Kilbride addressed the prisoner who had remained standing between Yorke and Redmond, and in a clear, passionless voice proceeded to read out the several charges.

"Do you wish to ask for a remand, Moran?" he enquired, "to enable you to procure counsel?"

"No, sir!" Moran's sullen, insolent eyes suddenly encountering a dangerous, steely glare from Kilbride's gray orbs he wilted and immediately dropped his belligerent attitude. "No use me hirin' a mouthpiece," he added, "as I'm a-goin' t' plead guilty t' all them charges."

"Ah!" The inspector thoughtfully conned over the "informations" once more. "Sergeant Slavin," said he presently, "what are the particulars of this man's disorderly conduct?"

He listened awhile to the sergeant's evidence, occasionally asking a question or two, but Mr. Gully remained in the same silent, brooding, inscrutable attitude which he had adopted at the commencement of the proceedings. Though apparently listening keenly, his shadowy eyes betrayed no interest whatever in the case.

Of that face Yorke had once remarked to Slavin: "That beggar's mug fairly haunts me sometimes. . . . He's a good fellow, Gully,—but, you know—when he gets that brooding look on his face . . . he's the living personification of a western Eugene Aram."

And Slavin, engaged in shredding a pipeful of tobacco had mumbled absently "So?—Ujin Airum!—I du not mind th' ould shtiff—fwhat was his reg'minthal number?"

The sergeant finished his evidence; Kilbride swung round to his fellow-justice once more and they held a whispered consultation, the latter making emphatic gestures throughout the colloquy. This ending the inspector turned to the prisoner.

"You have pleaded guilty to each of these charges. Have you anything to say?—any explanation to offer for your reckless, disorderly conduct?"

The prisoner swallowed nervously and shuffled with his feet. "Guess I was drunk," he said finally, "didn't know what I was doin'."

The inspector's grey eyes glittered coldly. "So?" he drawled ironically, "the sergeant's evidence is to the contrary. It would appear that you were not so very drunk. You were neither staggering nor incapable at the time. It was merely a rehearsal of a cheap bit of dime novel sort of bar-room, rough-house black-guardism that no doubt in various other places you have got away with and emerged the swaggering hero. Where do you come from? Whom are you working for now?"

"Havre, Montana. I'm ridin' fur th' North-West Cattle Company."

"Ah! well, let me tell you that sort of stuff doesn't go over on this side, my man." He considered a moment and picked up a Criminal Code. "In view of your pleading guilty to these charges, and therefore not wasting the time of this court unnecessarily, I propose dealing with you in more lenient fashion than you deserve. For being unlawfully in possession of firearms you are fined twenty dollars and costs. For 'pointing fire-arms,' fifty dollars and costs. On the charge of 'resisting the police in the execution of their duty' you are sentenced to six months imprisonment with hard labour in the Mounted Police Guard-room at Calgary. You are also required to make restitution for all damage caused as the result of your fracas."

Moran squirmed and mumbled: "If I've got t' do time on the one charge I might as well do it on th' rest, an' save th' money fur t' pay fur th' damage."

"Very good!" agreed the inspector coldly. He bent again to his confrere and they conferred awhile. Then he turned to the prisoner. "Thirty days hard labour then—on each of the first two charges—sentences to run concurrently." He paused a space, resuming sternly: "And let me tell you this, Moran: in view of certain wild threats uttered by you in public you have narrowly escaped being charged with the greatest of all crimes. It is indeed a fortunate thing for you that you have been able to produce a reliable alibi. All right, Sergeant! you can close the court. Make out that warrant of commitment and I and Mr. Gully will sign it later. We're going over to see the coroner."

The two Justices arose and passed out, the few witnesses and onlookers drifting aimlessly in their wake. Slavin lowered himself ponderously into the chair just vacated by the inspector, lit his pipe, and, whistling softly, commenced to fill out a legal form. Yorke and Redmond also took the opportunity to indulge in a quiet smoke as they chatted together in low tones. The former good-naturedly tossed a cigarette over to the prisoner, with the remark: "Have a smoke, Windy—it's the last you'll get for some time."

Moran, slumped in a tipped-back chair, blew a whiff of smoke from a lop-sided mouth. "Six months!" chanted he lugubriously, "an' they call this a free country!—free hell!—

"Oh, bury me out on th' lone prair-ee, Where th' wild ki-oot'll howl over me,—

"—might as well an' ha' done with it!"

They all laughed unsympathetically. "'Tis mighty lucky for yuh thim sintences run concurrently instid av consecutively," was the sergeant's rejoinder, "or ut'd be eight months yez ud be doin' stid av six."

The front legs of Moran's chair suddenly hit the floor with a crash. "Lookit here, boys," he said earnestly, "that ther big mag'strate—him as you call Gully—is that his real name? Wher does he come from? What countryman is he?"

"English!" answered Yorke shortly. "Why? D'ye think an Englishman has to run around with a blooming alias?"

"Well, now, yu' needn't go t' git huffy with a man!" expostulated Moran, with an injured air. "Th' reason I'm askin' yu' is this": He paused impressively, with puckered, thoughtful eyes. "That same man—if it ain't him—is th' dead spit of a man as once hit —— County, in Montana 'bout ten years back. Dep'ty Sheriff—I can't mind his name now. It was a hell of a tough county that—then. Th' devil himself 'ud ha' bin scairt t' start up in bizness ther." He shook his head slowly. "But I tell yu'—when Mr. Man let up with his fancy shootin' it was th' peaceablest place in th' Union. Th' rough stuff'd drifted—what was left above ground. He dragged it too, later. I never heered wher he went."

"Ah!" remarked Slavin pityingly, knocking out his pipe. "Th' few shots av hootch ye had tu throw inta yu' last night tu get ye're Dutch up must be makin' ye see double, me man. If th' rough stuff he run inta there was on'y th' loikes av yersilf he must have shtruck a soft snap." He arose. "Put th' stringers on him agin, Ridmond, an' take um upstairs an' lock um up! Yu'll be escort wid um tu Calgary whin th' East-bound comes in—an' see here, look! . . . I want ye tu be back here agin as soon as iver ye can make ut back. Tchkk!" he clucked fretfully, "I wish this autopsy an' inquest was thru', so's we cud git down tu bizness. Phew! this dive's stuffy—let's beat ut out a bit!"

Standing on the sidewalk they gazed casually at the slowly approaching figures of Inspector Kilbride and Mr. Gully. The two latter appeared to be engaged in a vehement, though guarded conversation—stopping every now and again, as if to debate a point.

"Here cometh Moran's 'dep'ty sheriff,'" was Yorke's facetious comment.

"By gum, though!" Redmond ejaculated, "the beggar would make a good stage marshal, wouldn't he? . . . with that Bret Harte, forty-niner's moustache and undertaker's mug, and top-boots and all, what?"

"And a glittering star badge," supplemented Yorke dramatically, "don't forget that! and two murderous-looking guns slanted across his hips and—"

"Arrah, thin! shut up, Yorkey!" hissed the sergeant in a warning aside, "they'll hear yez. Here they come."

Presently the five were grouped together. Inspector Kilbride's stern features were set in a thoughtful, lowering scowl. Mr. Gully's tanned, leathery countenance looked curiously mottled.

"Sergeant!" The inspector clicked off his words sharply. "This is a bad case. We've just been viewing the body—Mr. Gully and I." With mechanical caution he glanced swiftly round. "Let's get inside and go over things again," he added.

Seated in the privacy of the hotel parlour the crime was discussed from every angle with callous, professional interest. Kilbride and Slavin did most of the talking, though occasionally Gully interpolated with question and comment. He possessed a deep, booming bass voice well-suited to his vast frame. His speech, despite a slightly languid drawl, was unquestionably that of an educated Englishman. Yorke and Redmond maintained a respectful silence in the presence of their officer, except to answer promptly and quietly any questions put directly to them.

Personal revenge they decided eventually could be the only motive. Robbery was out of the question, as the personal belongings of the dead man had been found to be intact, including a valuable diamond ring, about a hundred and fifty dollars in bills, and his watch, papers, etc. A jovial, light-hearted young rancher, hailing originally from the Old Country, a bachelor of more or less convivial habits, he had enjoyed the hearty good-will of the country-side, incurring the enmity of no one, with the exception of Moran, as far as they knew. The latter's alibi having established his innocence beyond doubt, no definite clues were forthcoming as yet, beyond the foot-prints, the horse, and the "Luger" shell. Moran, too, they ascertained had ridden in alone, and was not in the habit of chumming with anyone in particular. Slavin had prepared a list of all known out-going and incoming individuals on and about the date of the crime. This was carefully conned over. All were, without exception, well-known respectable ranchers, and citizens of Cow Run, to whom no suspicion could be attached.

"No!" commented the inspector wearily, at length. "In my opinion this has been done by someone living right here in this burg—a man whom we could go and put our hands on this very minute—if we only had something to work on. You'll see . . . it'll turn out to be that later. Just about the last man you'd suspect, either. Cases like this—where the individual has nerve enough to stay right on the job and go about his business as usual—are often the hardest nuts to crack. You remember that Huggard case, Sergeant?"

Many years previous he and Slavin had been non-coms together in the Yukon, and other divisions of the Force, and now, delving back into their memories of crime and criminals, they cited many old and grim cases, more or less similar to the one in hand. Yorke and Redmond listened eagerly to their narration, but Gully betrayed only a sort of taciturn interest. If he had any experiences of his own, he apparently did not consider it worth while to contribute them just then; though to Slavin and Yorke he was known to be a man who had travelled far and wide.

"Ah!" remarked the inspector, a trifle bitterly. "If only some of these smart individuals who write fool detective stories, with their utterly impracticable methods, theories, and deductions, were to climb out of their arm-chairs and tackle the real thing—had to do it for their living—they'd make a pretty ghastly mess of things I'm thinking. It all looks so mighty easy—in a book. You can see exactly how the thing happened, put your hand on the man who did it, and all that, right from the start. And you begin to wonder, pityingly, why the police were such fools as Dot to have seen through everything right away."

He paused a moment, continuing: "This is a law-abiding country. Crimes like this are exceptional. We're bound to get to the bottom of this sooner or later. When we do—there'll be quite a lot of things crop up in our minds that we'll be wondering we never thought of before. Let me have another look at that paper imprint of that over-shoe, Sergeant!"

Silently, Slavin handed it over. Kilbride scrutinized it carefully, and again went over all notes and figures connected with the crime. "Must have been a tall man—possibly six feet, or over, from the length of the stride," he muttered, "and heavy, from the depth of the imprint." He noted the distance from the big boulder to where the body had first fallen. "Gad! what shooting! . . . The man must have been a holy fright with a revolver—to have confidence in himself to be able to kill at that range. I've never known anything like it. Well! . . . One sure thing"—he laughed grimly—"you can't go searching every decent citizen here for a Luger gun, or demanding to measure his feet—without reasonable suspicion. Why! It might be you, Sergeant—or Mr. Gully, here . . . you're both big men. . . ."

Long afterwards, well they remembered the inspector's random jest—how Gully, with one hand slid into his breast, and the other dragging at his great drooping moustache (mannerisms of his) had joined in the general laugh with his hollow, guttural "Ha! ha!"

The inspector's levity suddenly vanished. "That old fool of a livery-stable keeper, Lee, or whatever his name is . . . if only he, or someone had been around when the horse was brought back that night! D——n it! there must have been somebody around, surely. That's what this case hinges on."

He looked at his watch. "Well! Work on that—to your utmost, Sergeant. Stay right with it until you get that evidence. You'll drop onto your man sooner or later, I know. That train should be in soon, now. I'll have to get back. The Commissioner's due from Regina, sometime today, and I've got to be on hand. Wire the finding of the inquest as soon as it's over, and send in a full crime-report of everything!"

He glanced casually at the bruised faces of Yorke and Redmond. "You men must have had quite a tussle with that fellow, Moran!" he remarked whimsically. "You seem to have come off the best, Sergeant. You're not marked at all."

"Some tussle all right, Sorr!" agreed that worthy evenly, his tongue in his cheek. "Yu' go git yu're prisoner, Ridmond, an' be ready whin that thrain comes in. Come back on the next way-freight west, if there's wan behfure th' passenger. We'll need yez."

Gully murmured some hospitable suggestion to Kilbride, and the two gentlemen strolled into the wrecked bar. The train presently arrived and departed eastwards, bearing on it the inspector, Redmond, and his prisoner.

"Strange thing," the officer had remarked musingly to Slavin, just prior to his departure, "I seem to know that man Gully's face, but somehow I can't place him. He introduced himself to me on the train coming up. Of course I'm familiar with his name, as the J.P. here, but I can't recall ever meeting him before."

Sometime later, Slavin and Yorke, who had just returned from the gruesome autopsy and were busily making arrangements for the afternoon's inquest, heard a loud, cackling commotion out in the main street. They immediately stepped outside the hotel to see what was the matter.

Advancing towards them, and puffing with exertion and importance, they beheld Nick Lee, haling along at arm's length an unkempt individual whom they judged to be the hobo who had disturbed his peace of mind. A small retinue of dirty urchins, jeering loafers, and barking dogs brought up the rear. The village "Dogberry" drew nigh with his victim and halted, as empurpled as probably the elder Weller was, after ducking Mr. Stiggins in the horse-trough.

"Sarjint!" he panted triumphantly "I did clim up that ther ladder! I did git thru' th' trap-door! . . . an'—I did ketch that feller!" Suddenly his jaw dropped, and he wilted like a pricked bladder. "Why! what's up?" he queried with a crestfallen air, as he beheld Slavin's angry, worried countenance.

"Damnation!" muttered the latter softly and savagely to Yorke. "This means another thrip tu Calgary—wid this 'bo'—an' me not able tu shpare ye just now. Fwhat wid all this other bizness I'd forgotten all 'bout him. An' we'd vagged him sooner Ridmond might have taken th' tu av thim down tugither. Da——." The oath died on his lips and he remained staring at the hobo as a sudden thought struck him. His gaze flickered to Yorke's face, and his subordinate nodded comprehensively.

Slavin beckoned to Lee. "Take um inside the hotel parlour, Nick," he ordered, "fwhere we hild coort this mornin.' Yorkey, yu' go an' hunt up Mr. Gully. I don't think he's pulled out yet, has he, Nick?" He spoke now with a certain grim eagerness.

The livery-man made a gesture in the negative, and Yorke departed upon his quest. Slavin ushered Lee and the hobo into the room. To the sergeant's surprise he beheld the justice sitting at the table writing. He concluded that that gentleman must have just stepped in from the rear entrance of the hotel, or the bar, during his own and Yorke's temporary absence.

At the entrance of the trio Gully raised his head and, with the pen poised in his fingers, sat perfectly motionless, staring at them strangely out of his shadowy eyes. His face seemed transformed into a blank, expressionless mask. The sergeant leaned over the table and spoke to him in a rapid aside.

"Ah!" murmured Mr. Gully, and he remained for a space in deep thought. "Sergeant," he began presently, "I'll have to be pulling out soon. Before we start in with this man . . . will you kindly step down to Doctor Cox's with these papers and ask him to sign them?"

It seemed an ordinary request. Slavin complied.

Returning some ten or fifteen minutes later he noticed Lee was absent. The magistrate answered his query. "Sent him round to throw the harness on my team," he drawled, as he pored over a Criminal Code, "he'll be back in a moment—ah! here he is." And just then the latter entered, along with Yorke. The hobo was sitting slumped in a chair, as Slavin had left him. With one accord they all centred their gaze upon the unkempt delinquent. Ragged and unwashed, he presented a decidedly unlovely appearance, which was heightened by his stubble-coated visage showing signs as of recent ill-usage. His age might have been anything between thirty and forty.

The sergeant, a huge, menacing figure of a man, stepped forward and motioned to him to stand. "Now, see here; look, me man!" he said slowly and distinctly, a sort of tense eagerness underlying his soft tones, "behfure I shtart in charrgin' ye wid anythin' I'm goin' tu put a few questions tu ye in front av this ginthleman"—he indicated the justice—"He's a mag'strate, so ye'd best tell th' trute. Now—th' night behfure last—betune say, nine an' twelve o'clock . . . fwhere was ye?"—he paused—"Think harrd, an' come across wid th' straight goods."

A tense silence succeeded. The hobo, the cynosure of a ring of watchful expectant faces, mumbled indistinctly, "I was sleepin'—up in th' loft o' th' livery-stable."

"Did yeh—" Slavin eyed the man keenly—"did yeh see—or hear—any fella take a harse out av th' shtable durin' that time?"

Gully moved slightly. With the mannerism he affected, his left hand dragging at his moustache and his right slid between the lapels of his coat, he leaned forward and fixed his eyes full upon the hobo's battered visage.

Meeting that strange, compelling gaze the latter: stared back at him, his face an ugly, expressionless mask. He shuffled with his feet. "Why, yes!" he said finally, "I did heer a bunch o' fellers come in. They was a-talkin' all excited-like 'bout a fight, or sumphin'. They was a-hollerin', 'Beat it, Larry! beat it!' t' somewun, an' I heered some feller say: 'All right! give us my —— saddle!' an' then it sounded like as if a horse was bein' taken out. I didn't heer no more after that—went t' sleep. I 'member comin' down 'bout th' middle o' th' night t' git a drink at th' trough. This feller come in then,"—he indicated Lee. "He hollered sumphin' an' started in t' chase me . . . so I beat it up inta th' loft agin'." He shivered. "'T'was cold up ther—I well-nigh froze," he whined.

The sergeant exhausted his no mean powers of exhortation. It was all in vain. The hobo protested that he had neither seen nor heard anyone else taking out, or bringing in, a horse during the night.

Slavin finally ceased his efforts and glowered at the man in silent impotence. "How come yez tu get th' face av yez bashed up so?" he demanded.

"Fell thru' one o' th' feed-holes up in th' loft," was the sulky response.

"Fwhat name du ye thravel undher?"

"Dick Drinkwater."

"Eh?" the sergeant glanced critically at the red, bulbous nose. "Fwhat's in a name?" he murmured. "Eyah! fwhat's in a name?"

Glibly the tramp commenced an impassioned harangue, dwelling upon the hardness of life in general, snuffling and whining after the manner of his kind. How could a crippled-up man like him obtain work? He thrust out a grimy right hand—minus two fingers. He had been a sawyer, he averred.

Slavin sniffed suspiciously. "Ye shtink av whiskey, fella!" he said sharply. "That nose, yeh name, an' a hard-luck spiel du not go well together. Fwhere did yu' get yu're dhrink?"

The hobo was silent. "Come across," said Slavin sternly, "fwhere did ye get ut?"

"I had a bottle with me when I come off th' train," said the other, "ther was a drop left in an' I had it just now."

In the light of after events, well did Slavin and Yorke recall the furtive appealing glance the hobo threw at Gully; well did they also remember certain of Kilbride's words: "There'll be quite a lot of things crop up in our minds that we'll be wondering we never thought of before."

The justice cleared his throat. "Sergeant" came his guttural, booming bass, "suppose!—suppose!" he reiterated suavely "on this occasion we—er—temper justice with mercy—ha! ha!" His deep hollow laugh jarred on their nerves most unpleasantly. "I need a man at my place just now," he went on, "to buck wood and do a little odd choring around. Times are rather hard just now, as this poor fellow says. If you insist—er—why, of course I've no other option but to send him down . . . you understand? I would not presume to dictate to you your duty. On the other hand . . . if you are not specially anxious to press a charge of vagrancy against this man I—er—am willing to give him a chance to obtain this work—that he insists he is so anxious to find."

Slavin's face cleared and he emitted a weary sigh of relief. "As you will, yeh're Worship," he said. "T'will be helpin' me out, tu . . . yeh undhershtand?" His meaning stare drew a comprehensive nod from Gully. "I have not a man tu shpare for escort just now."

He turned to the hobo. "Fwhat say yu', me man?" was his curt ultimatum, "Fwhat say yu'—tu th' kindniss av his Worship? Will yeh go wurrk for him? . . . Or be charged wid vagrancy?"

The offer was accepted with alacrity. In the hobo's one uninjured optic shone a momentary gleam of intelligence, as he continued to stare at Gully, like a dog at its master. The gleam was reflected in a pair of shadowy, deep-set eyes, unblinking as an owl's.

Gully arose and looked at Lee. "All right then! you can hitch up my team, Nick!" he said, and that rotund worthy waddled away on his mission. "Come on, my man" he continued to the hobo, "we'll go round to the stable." He turned to Slavin and Yorke, shedding his magisterial deportment. "Well, good-bye, you fellows!" he said, with careless bonhomie. He lowered his voice in an aside to Slavin. "Sergeant, I trust I shall see, or hear from you again shortly. I would like to hear the result of the inquest and—er—how you are progressing with the case."

A few minutes later they heard the silvery jingle of his cutter's bells gradually dying away in the distance. Slavin aroused himself from a scowling, brooding reverie. "G——d d——n!" he spat out to Yorke, from between clenched teeth, "ther' goes another forlorn hope. 'Tis no manner av use worryin' tho'—let's go get that jury empannelled!" He uttered a snorting chuckle as a thought seemed to strike him. "H-mm! Gully must be getthin' tindher-hearthed! Th' last vag we had up behfure him he sint um down for sixty days."



CHAPTER IX

Take order now, Gehazi, That no man talk aside In secret with his judges The while his case is tried, Lest he should show them—reason To keep a matter hid, And subtly lead the questions Away from what he did. KIPLING.

"Hullo!" quoth Constable Yorke facetiously, "behold one cometh, with blood in her eye! Egad! Don't old gal Lee look mad? Like a wet hen. I guess she's just off the train and Nick hasn't met her. There'll be something doing when she lands home."

It was about ten o'clock on the following morning. The three policemen (Redmond had returned on a freight during the night) were standing outside the small cottage, next the livery-stable, the abode of Nick Lee and his spouse. After a casual inspection of their horses they were debating as to possible suspects and their next course of action. Yorke's remarks were directed at a stout, red-faced, middle-aged woman who was just then approaching them. She looked flustered and angry and was burdened down with parcels great and small. As she halted outside the gate one of the packages slipped from her grasp and fell in the mud. Unable to bend down, she gazed at it helplessly a moment. Yorke, stepping forward promptly, picked up the parcel, wiped it and tucked it under her huge arm.

"Thank ye, Mister Yorke," she ejaculated gratefully, "'tis a gentleman ye are," she glowered a moment at the cottage, "which is more'n I kin say fur that mon o' mine, th' lazy good-fur-nothin', . . . leavin' me t' pack all these things from th' train!"

Like a tug drawing nigh to its mooring—and nearly as broad in the beam—she came to anchor on the front steps and kicked savagely at the door. A momentary glimpse they got of Nick Lee's face, in all its rubicund helplessness, and then the door banged to. From an open window soon emerged the sounds as of a domestic broil.

"Talk av Home Rule, an' 'Th' Voice that breathed o'er Eden'," murmured Slavin. "Blarney me sowl! just hark tu ut now?"

From the cottage's interior came several high-pitched female squawks, punctuated by the ominous sounds as of violent thumps being rained upon a soft body, and suddenly the portal disgorged Lee—in erratic haste. His hat presently followed. Dazedly awhile he surveyed the grinning trio of witnesses to his discomfiture; then, picking up his battered head-piece he crammed it down upon his bald cranium with a vicious, yet abject, gesture.

"Th' missis seems onwell this mornin'," he mumbled apologetically to Slavin, "I take it yore not a married man, Sarjint?"

"Eh?" ejaculated that worthy sharply, his levity gone on the instant. "Who—me?" Blankly he regarded the miserable face of his interlocutor, one huge paw of a hand softly and surreptitiously caressing its fellow, "Nay—glory be! I am not."

"Har!" shrilled the Voice, its owner, fat red arms akimbo, blocking up the doorway, "Nick, me useless man! ye kin prate t' me 'bout arrestin' hoboes. I tell ye right now—that hobo that was a-bummin' roun' here t'other mornin's got nothin' on you fur sheer, blowed-in-th'-glass laziness."

"Fwhat?" Slavin violently contorting his grim face into a horrible semblance of persuasive gallantry edged cautiously towards the irate dame—much the same as a rough-rider will "So, ho, now!" and sidle up to a bad horse. "Mishtress Lee," began he, in wheedling, dulcet tones, "fwhat mornin' was that?"

That lady, her capacious, matronly bosom heaving with emotion, eyed him suspiciously a moment. "Eh?" she snapped. "Why th' mornin' after th' night of racket between them two men at th' hotel. Th' feller come bummin' roun' th' back-door fur a hand-out—all starved t' death—just before I took th' train t' Calgary." She dabbed at the false-front of red hair, which had become somewhat disarranged. "La, la!" she murmured, "I'm all of a twitter!"

"Some hand-out tu," remarked Slavin politely, "from th' face av um. . . . Fwhat was ut ye handed him, Mishtress Lee, might I ask?—th' flat-iron or th' rollin' pin?"

"I did not!" the dame retorted indignantly. "I gave him a cup of coffee an' sumphin' t' eat—he was that cold, poor feller—an' I arst him how his face come t' be in such a state. He said sumphin 'bout it bein' so cold up in th' loft he come down amongst th' horses 'bout midnight—t' get warmed up. He said he was lyin' in one o' th' mangers asleep when a feller brought a horse in—an' th' light woke him up an' when he went t' climm outa th' manger th' horse got scared an' pulled back an' musta stepped on this feller's foot—fur th' feller started swearin' at him an' pulled him outa th' manger an' beat him up an'—"

But Slavin had heard enough. With a most ungallant ejaculation he swung on his heel and started towards the stable, beckoning hastily to Yorke and Redmond to follow.

"Yu hear that?" he burst out on them, with lowered, savage tones. "I knew ut—I felt ut at th' toime—that shtinkin' rapparee av a hobo was lyin'—whin he said he did not renumber a harse bein' brought back. We must go get um—right-away!" His grim face wore a terribly ruthless expression just then. "My God!" he groaned out from between clenched teeth, "but I will put th' third degree tu um, an' make um come across this toime! Saddle up, bhoys! while I go an' hitch up T an' B. Damnation! I wish Gully's place was on the phone!"

Some quarter of an hour later they were proceeding rapidly towards Gully's ranch which lay some fifteen miles west of Cow Run, on the lower or river trail. A cold wind had sprung up and the weather had turned cloudy and dull, as if presaging snow, two iridescent "sun-dogs" indicating a forthcoming drop in the temperature.

Yorke and Redmond, riding in the cutter's wake, carried on a desultory. Jerky conversation anent the many baffling aspects of the case in hand. Gully's name came up. His strange personality was discussed by them from every angle; impartially by Yorke—frankly antagonistically by Redmond.

"Yes! he is a rum beggar, in a way," admitted Yorke, "not a bad sort of duck, though, when you get to know him—when he's not in one of his rotten, brooding fits. He sure gets 'Charley-on-his-back' sometimes. Used to hit the booze pretty hard one time, they say. Tried the 'gold-cure'—then broke out again"—he lowered his voice at the huge, bear-like back of the sergeant—"all same him. I don't know—somehow—it always seems to leave em' cranky an' queer—that. Neither of 'em married either—'baching it,' living alone, year after year, and all that, too."

"Better for you—if you took the cure, too!" George flung at him grinning rudely. He neck-reined Fox sharply and dodged a playful punch from his comrade. "Yorkey, old cock, I'm goin' to break you from 'hard stuff' to beer—if I have to pitch into you every day."

"You're an insultin', bullyin' young beggar," remarked Yorke ruefully. "I'll have to 'take shteps,' as Burke says, and discipline you a bit, young fellow-me-lad! I don't wonder the old man pulled you in from Gleichen. Come to think of it, why, you're the bright boy that they say well-nigh started a mutiny down Regina! We heard a rumour about it up here. Say, what was that mix-up, Reddy?"

George chuckled vaingloriously. "All over old 'Laddie'," he said. "'Member that white horse? I forget his regimental number, but he was about twenty-five years old. You remember how they'd taught him to chuck up his head and 'laugh'? I was grooming him at 'midday stables.' Old Harry Hawker was the sergeant taking 'stables' that day. He was stalking up and down the gangway, blind as a bat, with his crop under his arm, and his glasses stuck on the end of his nose—peering, peering. Well, old Laddie happened to stretch himself, as a horse will, you know, stuck out his hind leg, and old Harry fell wallop over it and tore his riding-pants, and just then I said 'Laugh, Laddie!' and he chucked his old head up and wrinkled his lips back. Of course the fellows fairly howled and Harry lost his temper and let in to poor old Laddie with his crop. It made me mad when he started that and I guess I gave him some lip about it. He 'pegged' me for Orderly-room right-away for insubordination.'