"I pleaded 'not guilty' and got away with it, too. Got all kinds of witnesses—most of 'em only too d——d glad to be able to get back at Harry for little things. Laddie was a proper pet of the Commissioner's. He used to go into No. Four Stable and play with the old beggar and feed him sugar nearly every day."

Yorke laughed mischievously, and was silent awhile. "Gully's knocked about a deuce of a lot," he resumed presently. "Now and again he'll open up a bit and talk, but mostly he's as close as an oyster—and the way he can drop that drawl and come out 'flat-footed' with the straight turkey—why, it'd surprise you! You'd think he was an out and out Westerner, born and bred. He's a mighty good man on a horse, and around cattle—and with a lariat. I don't know where the beggar's picked it up. He claims he's only been in this country five years. Talks mostly about the Gold Coast, and Shanghai, and the Congo. A proper 'Bully Hayes' of a man he was there, too, I'll bet! He never says much about the States, though I did hear him talking to a Southerner once, and begad, it was funny! You could hardly tell their accents apart.

"Oh, he's not a bad chap to have for a J.P. It's mighty hard to get any local man to accept a J.P.'s commission, anyway. They're most of 'em scared of it getting them in bad with their neighbours. Gully—he doesn't care a d——n for any of 'em, though. He'll sit on any case. It's a good thing to have a man who's absolutely independent, like that. I sure have known some spineless rotters. No, we might have a worse J.P. than Gully."

"Oh, I don't know," rejoined Redmond thoughtfully, "may be he's all right, but, somehow . . . the man's a kind of 'Doctor Fell' to me—has been—right from the first time I 'mugged' him. Chances are though, that it's only one of those false impressions a fellow gets. What's up?"

Yorke, shading his eyes from the cutting wind was staring ahead down the long vista of trail. "Talk of the Devil!" he muttered, "why! here the —— comes!" Aloud, he called out to Slavin. "Oh, Burke! here comes Gully—riding like hell, I know that Silver horse of his."

And, far-off as yet, but rapidly approaching them at a gallop, they beheld a rider.

"Sure is hittin' th' high spots," remarked the sergeant wonderingly, "fwhat th' divil's up now?"

Gradually the distance lessened between them and presently Gully, mounted upon a splendid, powerfully-built gray, checked his furious pace and reined in with an impatient jerk, a few lengths from the police team. Redmond could not help noticing that Gully, for a heavy man, possessed a singularly-perfect seat in the saddle, riding with the sure, free, unconscious grace of an habitue of the range. He was roughly dressed now, in overalls, short sheepskin coat, and "chaps."

He shouted a salutation to the trio, his usually immobile face transformed into an expression of scowling anxiety. "Hullo!" he boomed, his guttural bass sounding hoarse with passion, "You fellows didn't meet that d——d hobo on the trail, I suppose? . . . I'm looking for him—in the worst way!"

He flung out of saddle and strode alongside the cutter. "About two hours ago—'not more, I'll swear—I pulled out to take a ride around the cattle—like I usually do, every day. I left the beggar busy enough, bucking fire-wood. I wasn't away much over an hour, but when I got back I found he'd drifted—couldn't locate him anywhere.

"Then I remembered I'd left some money lying around—inside the drawer of a bureau in my bedroom—'bout a hundred, I guess—in one of these black-leather bill-folders. Sure enough, it's gone, too. Damnation!"

He leaned up against the cutter and mopped his streaming forehead. "I was a fool to ever attempt to help a man like that out," he concluded bitterly. "It serves me right!"

"Well," said Slavin, with an oath, "th' shtiff cannot have got far-away in that toime. I want um as bad as yuh, Mr. Gully. We were on th' way tu yu're place for um. See here; luk!"

Gully heard him out and whistled softly at the conclusion of the narrative. "Once collar this man, Sergeant," said he, "and—you've practically got your case. Make him talk?"—the low, guttural laugh was not good to hear—"Oh, yes! . . . I think between us we could accomplish that all right! . . . Yes-s!"

His voice died away in a murmur, a cruel glint flickered in his shadowy eyes, and for a space he remained with folded arms and his head sunk in a sort of brooding reverie. Suddenly, with an effort, he seemed to arouse himself. "Oh, about that inquest, Sergeant," he queried casually, "what was the jury's finding? I was forgetting all about that."

"Eyah; on'y fwhat yuh might expect," replied the latter. "Death by shootin', at th' hand av some person unknown. I wired headquarthers right-away." He made a slightly impatient movement. "Well, we must get busy, Mr. Gully; this shtiff connot be far away. Not bein' on th' thrail, betune us an' yu', means he's either beat ut shtraight south from yu're place an' over th' ice tu th' railway-thrack, or west a piece, an' thin onto th' thrack. Yu'll niver find a hobo far away from th' line. He'd niver go thrapsein' thru' th' snow tu th' high ground beyant. Yuh cud shpot him plain for miles—doin' that—comin' along."

"He's wearing old, worn-out boots," said Yorke, "got awful big feet, too, I remember. Of course this trail's too beaten up from end to end to be able to get a line on foot-prints. We might work slowly back to your place, though, Mr. Gully, and keep a lookout for any place where he may have struck south off the trail, as the Sergeant says."

It seemed the only thing to do. The party moved leisurely forward, Gully riding ahead of the cutter, Yorke and Redmond in its wake, as before, well-spread out on either side of the well-worn trail. Here, the snow was practically undisturbed, affording them every opportunity of discovering fresh foot-prints debouching from the main trail. It was rather exacting, monotonous work, necessitating cautious and leisurely progress; but they stuck to it doggedly until sometime later they rounded a bend in the river and came within sight of Gully's ranch, about a mile distant.

Presently that gentleman pulled up and swung out of saddle. "Half a minute," he said, "my saddle's slipping! I want to tighten my cinch."

The small cavalcade halted. Slavin's restless eyes roving over the expanse of unbroken snow on his left hand, suddenly dilated, and he uttered an eager exclamation, pointing downwards with outflung arm.

"Ah," said he grimly, "here we are, I'm thinkin'!" And he clambered hastily out of the cutter.

Yorke and Redmond, dismounting swiftly, stepped forward with him and examined minutely the unmistakably fresh imprints of large-sized feet angling off from the trail towards the bank of the frozen river.

"Hob-nailed boots!" ejaculated Yorke. "Guess that must be him, all right, Mr. Gully?"

The latter bent and scrutinized the imprints. "Sure must be," he rejoined, with conviction. "A man walking out on the range is a curiosity. I can't think how I could have missed them—coming along. But I guess I was so mad, and in such a devil of a hurry I didn't notice much. I made sure of catching up to him somewhere on the trail."

Slavin beckoned to Redmond and, much to that young gentleman's chagrin, bade him hold the lines of the restless team, while he (Slavin), along with Yorke and Gully, started forwards trailing the footprints. Arriving at the river's edge they slid down the bank and followed the tracks over the snow-covered ice to the centre of the river. Here was open water for some distance; the powerful current at this point keeping open a ten-foot wide steaming fissure. The tracks hugged its edge to a point about four hundred yards westward, where the fissure closed up again and enabled them to cross to the opposite bank. Clambering up this their quest led them across a long stretch of comparatively level ground to the fenced-in railway-track.

Ducking under the lower strand of wire they reached the line. At the foot of the graded road-bed, Slavin, who was ahead, halted suddenly and uttered an oath. Stooping down he picked up something and, turning round to his companions exhibited his find. It was a small, black-leather bill-folder—empty.

Gully regarded his lost property with smouldering eyes, and he uttered a ghastly imprecation. "Yes, that's it," he said simply, "beggar's boned the bills and chucked this away for fear of incriminating evidence—in case he was nabbed again, I suppose. The bills were mostly in fives and tens—Standard Bank—I remember."

They climbed up onto the track to determine whether the foot-prints turned east or west; but further quest here proved useless, on account of its being a snow-beaten section-hand trail.

Slavin balked again, swore in fluent and horrible fashion. For a space he remained in brooding thought, then he turned abruptly to his companions.

"Come on," he jerked out savagely, "let's get back."

In silence they retraced their steps and eventually reached their horses. Here the sergeant issued curt orders to his men.

"'Tis onlikely th' shtiff can have got very far away—in th' toime Mr. Gully tells us," he said, "an' he cannot shtay out in th' opin for long this weather. Get yu're harses over th' ice, bhoys, an' make th' thrack. Ye'll find an' openin' in th' fence somewheres. Thin shplit, an' hug th' line—west, yu', Yorkey—as far as Coalmore—yu', Ridmond—back tu Cow Run. Yez know fwhat tu du. Pass up nothin'—culverts, bridges, section-huts—anywhere's th' shtiff may be hidin'. If yez du not dhrop onto um betune thim tu places—shtay fwhere yez are an' search all freights. 'Phone th' agent at Davidsburg if yez want tu get me. I'm away from there now—to wire east an' west. Thin—I'm goin' tu ride freight awhile, up an' down th' thrack. I can get Clem Wilson tu luk afther T an' B. We must get this man, bhoys."

"Look here, Sergeant," broke in Gully good-naturedly, "as this is partly on my account I feel it's up to me to try and do what little I can do to help you in this case. There's not much doing at the ranch just now, so, if you've no objection, I'll put Silver along with your team and come with you. As you say—we've simply got to get this fellow, somehow."

"Thank ye, Mr. Gully," responded Slavin gratefully, "betune th' bunch av us we shud nail th' shtiff all right."

"Should!" agreed the magistrate, enigmatically, "'stiff's' the word for him." He glanced up at the lowering sky. "Hullo! It's beginning to snow again—you found those tracks just in time, Sergeant."

Six days elapsed. Six days of fruitless, monotonous work. The evening of the seventh found the trio disconsolately reunited in their detachment. Their quest had failed. Slavin, not sparing himself, had worked Yorke and Redmond to the limits of their endurance, and they, fully realizing the importance of their objective, had responded loyally.

Gully, apparently betraying a keen interest in the case, had gone out of his way to assist them—both on the railroad and in scouring the country-side. They were absolutely and utterly played out, and their nerves were jangled and snappy. No possible hiding-place had been overlooked—yet the hobo—Dick Drinkwater—the one man who undoubtedly held the key to the mysterious murder of Larry Blake—had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.

The horses cared for, and supper over, Yorke and Redmond lay back on their cots and blague'd each other wearily anent their mutual ill-luck. Slavin, critically conning over a lengthy crime-report on the case that he had prepared for headquarters, flung his composition on the table and leant back dejectedly in his chair.

"Hoboes?" quoth he, darkly, and tongue-clucked in dismal fashion. "Eyah! I just fancy I can hear th' ould man dishcoursin' tu Kilbride av th' merry, int'restin' ways an' habits av th' genus—hobo—whin he get's this report av mine. . . . Like he did wan day whin he was doin' show-man round th' cells wid a bunch av ould geezers av 'humanytaruns.' I mind I was Actin' Provo' in charge av th' Gyard-room at th1 toime."

He sighed deeply, folded up the report and thrust it into an official envelope. "Well, bhoys," he concluded, "we have done all that men can'—for th' toime bein' anyways."

Yorke laughed somewhat mirthlessly and gazed dreamily up at his pictures. "Sure have," he agreed languidly; "from now on, though, I guess we'll just have to take a leaf out of Micawber's book—'wait for something to turn up,' eh, Reddy, my old son?"

There was no answer. That young worthy, utterly exhausted, had drifted into the arms of Morpheus.



CHAPTER X

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it. SHAKESPEARE.

Number Six, from the East, drew up at the small platform of Davidsburg and presently steamed slowly on its way westward, minus three passengers.

"Well, bhoys," said Sergeant Slavin to his henchmen, "here we are—-back tu th' land av our dhreams wanst more. Glory be! But I'm glad tu be quit av that warrm, shtinkin' courthroom. Denis Ryan—th' ould rapparee, he wint afther us harrd—in that last case. Eyah! But I thrimmed um in th' finals. Wan Oirishman cannot put ut over another wan."

He softly rubbed his huge hands together. "Five years! That'll tache Mishter Joe Lawrence tu go shtickin' his brand on other people's cattle! But—blarney me sowl! Ryan sure is a bad man tu run up agin when he's actin' for th' defence."

The trio had just returned from a Supreme Court sitting where they had been handling their various cases. It was a gloriously sunny day in June. A wet spring, succeeded by a spell of hot weather, had transformed the range into a rolling expanse of green, over which meandered bunches of horses and cattle, their sleek hides and well-rounded bodies proclaiming abundant assimilation of nourishing pasture.

To men who for the past week had of necessity been confined within the stifling atmosphere of a crowded court-room, their present surroundings appealed as especially restful and exhilarating. During their absence their horses had been enjoying the luxury of a turn-out in the fenced pasture at the rear of the detachment, where there was good feed and a spring.

The murder of Larry Blake the previous winter still remained a baffling mystery. Locally it had proved, as such occurrences usually do, merely a proverbial nine days wonder. Long since, in the stress and interest of current events, it had faded more or less from the minds of all men, excepting the Mounted Police, who, though saying little concerning it, still kept keenly on the alert for any possible clue. Equally mystifying was the uncanny disappearance of the hobo—Drinkwater. So far that individual had succeeded in eluding apprehension, although minute descriptions of him had been circulated broadcast to police agencies throughout Canada and the United States.

"Eyah!" Sergeant Slavin was wont to remark sagely: "'Tis an ould saying bhoys—'Murdher will out'—we'll sure dhrop onto it sooner or lather, an' thin belike we'll get th' surprise av our lives—for I firmly believe, as Kilbride said—'t'will prove tu be some lokil man who had a grudge agin' pore Larry for somethin' or another. So—just kape on quietly watchin'—an' listh'nin, an' we'll nail that fella yet."

Just now that worthy was surveying his subordinates with a care-free smile of bonhomie. "Guess we'll dhrop inta th' shtore on our way up" suggested he, "see'f there's any mail, an' have a yarn wid ould MacDavid."

Half way up the long, winding, graded trail that led to the detachment, the trio turned into another trail which traversed it at this point. Following this for some few hundred yards westward they reached the substantial abode of Morley MacDavid, who was, as his name suggested, the hamlet's oldest settler and its original founder.

His habitation—combining store, post-office, and ranch-house—was a commodious frame dwelling, unpretentious in appearance but not wanting in evidences of prosperity. Its rear presented the usual aspect of a ranch, with huge, well-built barns and corrals. Although it was summer, many wide stacks of hay and green oats, apparently left over from the previous season, suggested that he was a cautious man with an eye to stock-feeding during the winter months. To neglect of the precaution of putting up sufficient feed to tide over the severe weather might be attributed most of the annual ranching failures in the West. The MacDavid establishment bore a well-ordered aspect, unlike many of the unthrifty, ramshackle ranches, of his neighbours. The fencing was of the best, and there were no signs of decay or dilapidation in any of the buildings. Dwarf pines were planted about and a Morning Glory vine over-ran the house, giving the place an air of restful domesticity. As they entered the store the trio noticed a saddle-horse tied to the hitching-rail outside.

They were greeted jovially by MacDavid himself. Lounging behind his store-counter, with his back up against a slung pack of coyote skins, he was listening in somewhat bored fashion to a talkative individual opposite. He evidently hailed their arrival as a welcome diversion. In personality, Morley MacDavid was an admirable type of the western pioneer. A tall, slimly-built, but wiry, active man of fifty, or thereabouts, with grizzled hair and moustache. Burnt out and totally ruined three successive times in the past by the depredations of marauding Indians, the fierce, indomitable energy of the broken man had asserted itself and enabled him finally to triumph over all his mischances. Aided in the struggle by his devoted wife, who throughout the years had bravely faced all dangers and hardships with him, he had eventually accumulated a hard-won fortune. In addition to the patronage that he received from the local ranches, he conducted an extensive business trading with the Indians from the big Reserve in the vicinity. A man of essentially simple habits, through sentiment or ingrained thriftiness, he disdained to abandon the routine and the scenes of his former active life, although his bank-balance and his holdings in land and stock probably exceeded that of many a more imposing city magnate.

The newcomers, disposing themselves comfortably upon various sacked commodities, proceeded to smoke and casually inspect the voluble stranger. He was a tallish, well-built man nearing middle-age, with a gray moustache, a thin beak of a nose, and a bleached-blue eyes. He was dressed in an old tweed suit, obviously of English cut, a pair of high-heeled, spurred riding-boots and a cowboy hat. Vouchsafing a brief nod to the visitors he continued his conversation with MacDavid.

"Ya-as," he was drawling, "one of the most extraordinary shots you ever heard of, Morley! I was between the devil and the deep sea—properly. There was the bear—rushing me at the double and there was the cougar perched growling up on the rock behind me. I made one jump sideways and let the bear have it—slap through the brain, and . . . that same shot, sir, ricocheted up the face of the rock and killed the cougar—just as he was in the act of springing! By George, y'know, it was one of the swiftest things that ever happened!"

A tense silence succeeded the conclusion of this thrilling narrative.

MacDavid re-lit his pipe and puffed thoughtfully awhile. "Eyah," he remarked reminiscently, "feller does run up against some swift propositions now an' again. I mind one time I was headin' home from Kananaskis, an' a bear jumped me from behind a fallen log. The lever of me rifle jammed so, all I could do was to beat it—in a hurry—an' I sure did hit th' high spots, you bet! It was in th' early spring an' th' snow still lay pretty deep, but—I'd got a twenty yards start of that bear, an' I finally beat him to it an' made my get-away."

The stranger whistled incredulously. "Wha-a-tt!" he almost shouted, "D'ye mean to tell me that bear got within twenty yards of you and couldn't catch you? Why, man! It's incredible!"

"Fact," replied MacDavid calmly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "It was this way: It was near th' edge of th' bush where th' bear first jumped me, an'—just as we hit th' open ground—one o' them warm Chinook winds sprung up behind us, travellin' east. . . .

"Man!" He paused impressively. "The way that wind started in to melt th' snow was a corker—just like lard in a fryin'-pan. But—I just managed to keep ahead of it an' while I had a good, hard surface of snow to run on, the bear—why he was sloppin around in th' slush in my wake—couldn't get a firm foothold, I guess. . . ."

His keen blue orbs stared full into the bleached ones of his vis-a-vis.

"I figure that there Chinook an' me an' th' bear must have been all travellin' 'bout th' same line of speed—kind of swift. After a mile or two of it, th' bear—he got fed up an' quit cold," he ended gravely. "Why—what's your hurry, Fred?"

But that individual, feebly raising both arms with a sort of hopeless gesture, suddenly grabbed up his mail and beat a hasty retreat to his horse.

The hoof-beats died away and MacDavid turned to the grinning policemen. "Fred Storey," he said, in answer to their looks of silent enquiry. "Runs th' R.U. Ranch, out south here. Not a bad head, but"—he sighed deeply—"he's such an ungodly liar. I can't resist gettin' back at him now an' again—just for luck. He's up here on a visit—stayin' with th' Sawyers."

"H-mm!" ejaculated Yorke, "seems to me I've got a hazy recollection of meeting up with that fellow before—somewhere. In a hotel in High River, I think it was. Beggar was yarning about Cuba, I remember."

"Bet it was hazy all right," was Redmond's sarcastic rejoiner, "like most of your bar-room recollections, Yorkey." He gave vent to a snorting chuckle. "That 'D'you know? Ya! ya!' accent of his reminds me of that curate in 'The Private Secretary.' I saw it played to Toronto, once."

At this juncture the door opened, and a trio of Indians padded softly into the store with gaily-beaded, moccasined feet. Two elderly bucks and a young squaw. The latter flashed a shy, roguish grin at the white men, and then with the customary effacement of Indian women withdrew to the rear of the store. Squatting down, all huddled-up in her blanket, she peered at them with the incurious, but all-seeing stare of her tribe. George got an impression of beady black eyes and a brown, rounded, child-like face framed in a dazzling yellow kerchief.

The two bucks, with a momentary gleam of welcome wrinkling their ruthless, impassive features, exchanged a salutation with MacDavid in guttural Cree, which language the latter spoke fluently. They were clothed in the customary fashion of their tribe—with a sort of blanket-capote garment reaching below the knee, their lower limbs swathed in strips of blanket, wound puttee-wise. Battered old felt hats comprised their head-gear, below which escaped two plaited pig-tails of coarse, mane-like, black hair, the latter parted at the nape of the neck and dangling forward down their broad chests.

Slavin and Yorke hailed them familiarly. The elder buck rejoiced in the sonorous title of "Minne-tronk-ske-wan," but divers convictions for insobriety under the Indian Liquor Act, and the facetious tongue of Yorke, had contorted this into the somewhat opprobrious nickname of "Many Drunks." His companion was known as "Sun Dog."

They now proceeded to shake hands all around. "How! Many Drunks!" shouted Yorke. Pointing to Redmond, he added "oweski skemoganish" (new policeman). With a ferocious grin, intended for an ingratiating smile of welcome, Many Drunks advanced upon George, with outstretched hand. In a rapid aside Yorke said: "Listen, Reddy, to what he says, he only knows six or seven words of English, but he's as proud as Punch of 'em—always likes to get 'em off on a stranger. Don't laugh!"

Within a pace of Redmond that gentleman halted. "How!" he grunted, and, pausing impressively drew himself up and tapped his inflated chest, "Minne-tronk-ske-wan! . . . great man!—me—"

And then Redmond nearly choked, as Many Drunks, with intense gravity, proudly conferred upon himself the most objectionable title that exists in four words of the English language—rounding that same off with a majestic "Wah! wah!"

Turning, George beheld himself the target of covert grins from the others, who evidently were familiar with Many Drunks' linguistic attainments. Sun Dog merely uttered "How! Shemoganish." He did not profess ability to rise to the occasion like his companion.

Yorke, who was evidently in one of his reckless, rollicking moods, proceeded to make certain teasing overtures to Many Drunks. His knowledge of Cree being nearly as limited as that worthy's knowledge of English, he enlisted the aid of MacDavid as interpreter. The dialogue that ensued was something as follows:

"Tell him I'm fed up with the Force and am thinking seriously of going to live on the reserve—monial nayanok-a-weget—turn 'squaw-man'—'take the blanket.'"

MacDavid translated swiftly, received the answer, and turned to Yorke. "He says 'Aie-ha! (yes) You make good squaw-man.'"

"Ask him—if I do—if he'll muskkatonamwat (trade) me the young lady over in the corner there, for two bottles of skutiawpwe (whiskey)."

"He says 'Nemoyah!' (no)—if he does that, you'll turn around and kojipyhok (arrest) him for having liquor in his possession."

"Tell him—Nemoyah! I won't."

"He says Aie-hat ekwece! (Yes, all right) you can have her. Says she's his brother's wife's niece. But he says you must give him the two bottles of skutiawpwe first, though."

The object of these frivolous negotiations had meanwhile covered her head with the blanket, from the folds of which issued shrill giggles. Sun Dog, who had been listening intently with hand scooped to ear (he was somewhat deaf), now precipitated himself into the discussion. Violently thrusting his elder companion aside he commenced to harangue MacDavid in an excited voice and with vehement gestures of disapprobation of the whole proceedings. The trader translated swiftly:

"He says Nemoyah!—not to give the bottles to Many Drunks, as when he gets full of skutiawpwe he raises hell on th' reserve, an' there's no livin' with him. Says he beats up his squaw an' starts in to scalp th' dogs an' chickens."

"Shtop ut!" bawled Slavin, "d'ju hear, Yorkey? . . . shtoolin' th' nitchie on tu commit a felony an' th' like, thataways!" He sniffed disgustedly. "Skutiawpwe an' squaws! . . . blarney me sowl! but ye've a quare idea av a josh. 'Tis a credit y'are tu th' Ould Counthry, an' no error. I do not wondher ye left ut."

"Sh-sh!" said that gentleman soothingly, "coarsely put, Burke! coarsely put! . . . Say Wine and Women, guv'nor! Wine and Women! If you were in India, Burke, they'd make you Bazaar-Sergeant—put you in charge of the morals of the regiment. Both items are all right—always providing you don't get a lady like Misthress Lee for a chaser. How'd you like to be in Nick's shoes? What 'shteps' would you take?"

Slavin stared at his tormentor, blankly, a moment. "Shteps?" he ejaculated sharply, "fwhat shteps?" . . . He leant back with a fervent sigh and softly rubbed his huge hands together. "Long wans, avick! . . . eyah, d——d long wans, begorrah!"

Many Drunks now realizing that he was merely the victim of a joke, scowled in turn upon Yorke. Muttering something to MacDavid he backed up against the wall and, squatting down, proceeded philosophically to fill his pipe.

"What's that he said?" queried Yorke of the interpreter, "I couldn't catch it."

The latter grinned. "He says—of all the white men he's ever met in his time, Stamixotokon[1] and my self are the only ones he's ever known to tell th' truth."

"It's my belief the beggar'd flirt with Mrs. Lee, himself, if he only got the chance" said Redmond laconically, "d'you recollect that day he picked her parcel up for her—how nice she was to him?"

"Eyah," said Slavin darkly, "I remimber ut! That man"—he darted an accusing finger at Yorke—"wud thry tu come th' Don Jewan wid anything wid a shkirrt on—from coast to coast. Flirrt? Yeh're tellin' th' trute, bhoy, yeh're tellin' th' trute! He'd a-made a good undhershtudy for ould Nobby Guy, down Regina."

He settled himself comfortably and lit his pipe. "Eyah, th' good ould days, th' good ould days!" he resumed reminiscently, between puffs, "Hark now till I tell ye th' tale av ould Nobby!"

"Is that the man they used to Josh about, down Regina?" enquired Redmond. "Used to say 'I'm a man of few words'?"

Slavin nodded affirmatively. "That's him, Sarjint in charrge av th' town station he was—years back. This is—whin I was Corp'ril at headquarthers. A foine big roosther av a man was Nobby, wid a mighty pleasant way wid um—'specially wid th' ladies. Wan night—blarney me sowl! Will I iver forghet ut? Nobby 'phones up th' Gyard-room reporthin' th' Iroquois Hotel on fire, an' requestin' th' O.C. for a shquad av men tu help fight ut, an' kape th' crowd back. So down we wint, a bunch av us. It sure was a bad fire all right. No lives was lost, but th' whole shebang was burnt tu th' ground. Kapin' th' crowd back was our hardest job. Du fwhat we cud, we cud not make some av th' silly fules kape back clear av th' danger-zone—wimmin an' all, bedad!

"By and by, a section av the wall tumbles an' quite a bunch av people got badly hurt—Nobby amongst thim. We dhragged thim out as quick as we cud an' laid them forninst th' wall av a buildin' near-by—awaithin' some stretcher-bearers. Nobby'd got his leg bruk, but he seemed chipper enough an' chewed th' rag wid us awhile. Next tu him was a wumman—cryin' something pitiful—she'd got her leg bruk, tu. Nobby rised him up on his elbow an' lukked at her.

"Now, 'tis powerful dhry wurrk, bhoys, fightin' fire, an' may be Nobby—well, I cannot account for ut otherwise—him havin' th' nerve' tu du' fwhat he did—onless p'raps 't'was just th' natch'ril tindher-hearthedness av th' man—thryin' for tu comfort her. Afther that wan luk tho', Nobby he 'comes tu th' halt,' so tu shpake, an' 'marks time' awhile considherin'—for becod, she was a harrd-lukkin ould case—long beyant mark av mouth.

"Presintly, sez he: 'I'm a man av few wurrds!—'tis of then I have kissed a young wumman!'—an' he thwirls th' big buck moustache av um very slow—'fwhy shud I not kiss an ould wan? . . .'—an' he did. . . .

"That's how th' man's throuble shtarted. Brought ut all on umsilf. Course at th' toime, fwhy! she slapped th' face av um an' called um all manner av harrd names—but, all th' same! she must have liked ut, for while they was convalescin' she was everlashtingly sendhin Nobby notes an' flowers an' such like. But for all that Nobby wud have no thruck wid her, for all she was a widder, well fixed—wid a house av her own an' lashuns av money. Whin they was both out av hospital she was afther urn again, an' du fwhat he cud he cud not shake that wumman.

"Th' ind av ut was, Nobby reports sick, an' th' reg'minthal docthor, ould 'Knockemorf' Probyn, gives um th' wance over. He luks over some papers an' sez he: 'A change an' a rist is fwhat yu' need, Sarjint Guy. There's a dhraft leavin' next week for Herschell Island[2]—I think I will mark yu up fur ut.'

"'Herschell Island?' sez pore Nobby, an' wid that he let's out a howl.

"'Tut, tut!' sez ould Knockemorf, who was wise tu th' man's throuble. 'Tis safer off there'll yu'll be, man, than here, I'm thinkin'.'

"He was shtandin' by th' Gyard-room gate that day-week whin th' dhraft marched out on their way tu enthrain—Nobby amongst thim. 'Good-bye, Docthor!' he calls out, tears in th' eyes av um, ''Tis sendhin me tu me grave y'are, God forgive yez!'

"'Nonsince!' shouts Knockemorf. 'Say yeh prayers an' kape yeh bowils opin, me man, an' ye will take no harrm!'

"Some sind-off! well!—time wint on, an' wan day I gets a letther from me ould friend, Ginger Johnson, who was stationed there tu, tellin' me all th' news. Nobby, sez he, was doin' fine, fat as a hog, an' happy as a coon in a melun patch. Wan day, sez he, a buck av th' name av Wampy Jones comes a runnin' inta th' Post, wid th' face av a ghost an' th' hair av um shtickin shtraight up. Said a Polar bear'd popped out forninst a hummock an' chased um—like tu th' tale av Morley, here. Nobby, sez Johnson, on'y grins at th' man, an' sez he: 'That's nothin'!' An' thin he shtarts in tellin' thim all 'bout this widder at Regina."

[1] Note by Author—The late Colonel Macleod, who for many years was Commissioner of the R.N.W.M. Police. He was greatly respected and trusted by all the Indian tribes.

[2] Note by Author—This island is in the Arctic Circle. The most northerly post of the R.N.W.M. Police.



CHAPTER XI

Methought I heard a voice cry, "Macbeth shall sleep no more!" MACBETH

The sergeant's story evoked a general laugh from his hearers. He arose and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "Come on, bhoys!" said he. "Let's beat ut. Morley here's a respectable married man—we've bin demoralisin' him an' his store long enough, I'm thinkin'."

Pocketing his packet of mail he and his subordinates stepped to the door, MacDavid casually following them outside. Tethered to the hitching-post, they noticed, were the team of scare-crow cayuses belonging to Sun Dog and Many Drunks.

"Poor beggars look as if a turn-out on the range wouldn't do them any harm," remarked Redmond.

The thud of hoof-beats suddenly fell upon their ears and, turning, they beheld Gully on his gray horse loping past them, about twenty yards distant. Apparently in a hurry, he merely waved to them and rode on, heading in the direction of his ranch. And then occurred a startling, sinister incident which no man there who witnessed it ever forgot.

Suddenly, with the vicious instinct of Indian curs, three dogs which had been sprawling in the shade of the dilapidated wagon-box sprang forward simultaneously in a silent, savage dash at the horse's heels. The nervous animal gave a violent jump, nearly unseating its rider, who pitched forward onto the saddlehorn.

They heard his angry, startled oath, and saw him jerk his steed up and whirl about, then, quick as conjuring, came a darting movement of his right hand between the lapels of his coat and a pistol-barrel gleamed in the sun.

The curs, by this time, were flying back to the shelter of the wagon-box, but ere they reached it—crack! crack! crack! three shots rang out in quick succession, and three lumps of quivering canine flesh sprawled grotesquely on the prairie.

The startled spectators stared aghast. Startled—for, though all of them there were more or less trained shots, such swift, deadly gunmanship as this was utterly beyond their imaginations. Gully had made no pretence at aiming. With a snapping action of his wrist he had seemed to literally fling the shots at the retreating dogs. It was the practised whirl and flip of the finished gun-man.

No less astounding was the uncanny legerdemain displayed in drawing from and replacing the weapon in its place of concealment. The Indians, attracted from the store by the sounds of shooting, began gabbling and gesticulating affrightedly, but when MacDavid spoke to them sharply in Cree they retreated inside again.

Some distance away, glaring at the dead dogs, the justice sat in his saddle, and from beneath his huge moustache he spat a volley of most un-magisterial oaths, delivered in a snarling, nasal tone foreign to the ears of his listeners. A minute or so he remained thus, then his baleful eyes met the steady, meaning stare of the motionless quartette and his face changed to a blank, irresolute expression. He made a motion of urging his horse forward, then, checking it abruptly, he wheeled about, loping away in his original direction.

The trader was the first one to find his voice. "Well, my God!" he ejaculated. "Did you ever see th' like o' that?"

His companions remained curiously silent. "Gully!" he continued, with vibrating voice, "whoever'd a-thought that that drawlin' English dude could shoot like that? . . . Fred Storey should have been here. . . ." Still getting no response to his remarks he glanced up wonderingly. The three policemen were staring strangely at each other, and something in their expression startled him.

"Eh! Why! What's up?" he queried sharply.

Then Slavin spoke grimly. "Let's go luk at thim dogs," was all he vouchsafed.

They stepped forward and inspected the carcasses critically. "Fifty yards away, if he was a foot!" said Redmond, "and he dropped them in one! two! three! . . ."

"Slap through the head, too!" muttered Yorke. "Burke!"—he added suddenly. Slavin met his eye with a steady, meaning stare; then, at something he read in his subordinate's face, the sergeant's deep-set orbs dilated strangely and he swung on his heel.

"Aye!" he ejaculated with an oath "I was forghettin' thim—come bhoys! let's go luk for thim. Shpread out, or we may miss the place."

"Empty shells," explained Yorke to the others, "automatic ejection—you remember, Reddy! We may find them."

Keeping a short distance apart, they sauntered forward, trying to recall the spot Gully had shot from. For awhile, with bent heads, they circled slowly about each other, carefully scrutinizing the short turf. Presently the trader uttered a low exclamation. "Here's th' place!" he said, pointing downwards. The others joined him and they all gazed at the cluster of deeply-indented hoof-marks, indicating where the horse had propped and whirled about.

"Aha!" said Redmond, suddenly.

"Got ut?" queried Slavin.

For answer George dropped a small discharged shell into the other's outstretched palm. The sergeant made swift examination. A shocking blasphemy escaped him, and for an instant he jerked back his arm as if to fling the article away, then, recovering himself with an effort, he handed it to Yorke, who peered in turn.

The latter made a wry face. "Hell!" he ejaculated disgustedly, "it's a 'Savage' this—thirty-two at that!" He lowered his voice. "The other was a thirty-eight Luger—what?"

"Time an' agin," Slavin was declaiming in impotent rage and with upraised fist,—"Time an' ag'in—have we shtruck a lead on this blasted case—on'y tu find ut peter out agin. . . . Oh! how long, O Lord? how long? . . ."

MacDavid stopped in turn. "Here's th' other two, Sarjint," he said. Slavin dropped the shells into his pocket and for a space he remained in deep thought. Then he turned to the trader.

"Morley," he said quietly, "yu're not a talker, I know, but—anyways! . . . I ask ye now . . . ye'll oblige me by shpakin' av this tu no man—yet awhiles. . . . I have me raysons—onnershtand?"

The eyes of the two men met, and question and answer were silently exchanged in that one significant look.

MacDavid nodded brief acquiescence to the others request. "Aye!" he replied reflectively, "I think I do—now. . . ."

The sergeant turned to his men. "Come on, bhoy!" he said. "Let's beat ut home. I'm gettin' hungry."

They bid the trader adieu, and trudged away in the direction of the detachment. They had covered some quarter of a mile in silence when Slavin, who was in the lead, suddenly halted and whirled on his subordinates with a mirthless laugh.

"Windy Moran, begod!" he burst out, "mind fwhat he said that day 'bout Gully an' that dep'ty sheriff bizness? . . . not so——'Windy' afther all, I'm thinkin', eh?"

For some few seconds they stared at him, aghast. They had forgotten Moran.

"Say, Burke, though?" ejaculated Yorke incredulously. "Good God! somehow the thing seems impossible . . . not the 'sheriff' business so much . . . the other—Gully!—a J.P.—a man of his class and standing! . . . Why! whatever motive—"

"He may have two guns," broke in Redmond.

"Eyah," agreed Slavin, grimly, "he may. . . . A Luger's a mighty diff'runt kind av a gun tu other authomatics . . . an' th' man that shot Larry Blake ain't likely tu be fule enough tu risk packin' ut around—for a chance tu thrip um up some day."

For awhile the trio cogitated in silence; each man striving desperately to arrive at some logical solution to the extraordinary problem that now faced them.

"Bhoys!" said Slavin presently, "there's no doubt there is . . . somethin' damnably wrong 'bout all this. But, all th' same, fact remains, ye cannot shtart in makin' th' Force a laughin' stock by charrgin' a man av Gully's position wid murdher—widout mighty shtrong evidence tu back ut. An' sizin' things up—fwhat have we got, afther all, . . . right now . . . tu shwear out a warrant on? . . . Nothin', really, 'cept that he's shown us he's a bad man wid a gun! A damned bad break that was, tho', an' I'll bet he's sorry for that same, tu. Mind how he kept on thravellin', widout comin' back tu shpake wid us?"

He shook his head slowly, in sinister fashion, and stared at their troubled faces in turn. "See here; luk," he resumed solemnly, with lowered voice, "honest tu God, in me own mind I du believe he is th' man that done ut." He paused—"but provin' ut's a diff'runt matther. We must foller this up an' get some shtronger evidence yet—behfure we make th' break."

Suddenly he uttered a hollow chuckle. "Kilbride!" he ejaculated. "Mind his josh that day—'bout it might be me, or Gully?—an how Gully laughed, tu, wid th' hand of um like this?"

Napoleonic fashion he thrust his huge fist between the buttons of his stable-jacket.

"Yes, by gad!" said Yorke reflectively. "I sure do, now. And I'll bet he had his right hand on his gun, too! Force of habit, I guess, if he's an ex-deputy-sheriff. From what little he's dropped he's sure knocked around some, I know. Hard to say where, and what the beggar hasn't been in his time. This accounts for him being so blooming close about the Western States. It's always struck me as being queer, that, because, say, look at the slick way he rides and ropes! He's never picked that up in five years over on this Side—and that's all he claims he's been in Canada."

"Besides" chimed in Redmond, eagerly, "that yarn of his about that hobo swiping his dough, Sergeant! 'Frame-up,' p'raps, . . . gave it to him and told him to beat it? . . ."

"Aw, rot!" said Yorke, disgustedly. He sniffed, with his peculiar mannerism, "that's dime-novel stuff, Red. D'ye think he'd be fool enough to risk that, with the chances of the fellow being picked up any minute and squealing on him?" He was silent a moment. "Rum thing, though," he murmured, "the way that hobo did beat us to it."

"'Some lokil man,' sez Kilbride," remarked Slavin musingly. "Just th' last one ye'd think av suspectin'. An' Gully, begod, sittin' right there! . . . talk 'bout nerve! . . ."

"But, good heavens!" burst out Yorke. "Whoever would have suspected him?" He laughed a trifle bitterly. "It's all very well for us to turn round now and say 'what fools we've been,' and all that. If we'd have been the smart, 'never-make-a-mistake' Alecks, like we're depicted in books, why, of course we'd have 'deducted' this right-away, I suppose? Oh, Ichabod! Ichabod! An Englishman, too, by gad! I'll forswear my nationality."

"Whatever could he have on Larry, though?" was Redmond's bewildered query. "Say, that sure was a hell of a trick of his—using Windy's horse—while the two of them were scrapping—trying to frame it up on him!"

"Eyah," soliliquised the sergeant sagely. "'Twill all come out in th' wash. Whin cliver, edjucated knockabouts like Gully du go bad; begob, they make th' very wurrst kind av criminals. They kin pass things off wid th' high hand an' kape their nerve betther'n th' roughnecks—ivry toime.

"Think av that terribul murdherer, Deeming—an' thim tu docthors—Pritchard an' Palmer, colludge men, all av thim. An' not on'y men, but wimmin, tu. 'Member Mrs. Maybrick? All movin' in th' hoighth av society!"

He was silent a moment, then his face fell. "I must take a run inta th' Post an' see th' O.C. 'bout this," he resumed. "Tis an exthornary case. There's just a possibility we may be all wrong—jumphin' at conclusions tu much. Th' ould man! . . . I think I can see th' face av um. He'll shling his pen across th' Ord'ly-room. 'Damn th' man! Damn th' man!' he'll cry. 'Go you now an' apprehend um on suspicion thin! Fwhy shud I kape a dog an' du me own barkin'?' An' thin he'll think betther av ut an' chunt 'Poppycock, all poppycock! . . . As you were, Sarjint'—an' thin he'll call in Kilbride. Eh! fwhat yez laughin' at, yeh fules?" he queried irritably.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, the expression on their superior's cadaverous face just then—its droll mixture of apprehension and perplexity was more than Yorke and Redmond could stand. Awhile they rocked up against each other—a trifle hysterically; it was the reaction to nerves worked up to a pitch of intense excitement.

"Yez gigglin' idjuts!" growled Slavin. "Come on, let's get home! No use us shtandin here longer—gassin' like a bunch av ould washer-wimmin full av gin an' throuble."

In silence they trudged on to the detachment. "'Ome, sweet 'ome! be it never so 'umble!" quoth Yorke, as they reached their destination, "Hullo! who's this coming along?" Shading his eyes with his hand he gazed down the trail. "Looks like Doctor Cox and Lanky."

The trio stared at the approaching buckboard which contained two occupants. "Sure is," said Redmond, "out to some case west of here, I suppose."

They hailed the physician cheerily, as presently he drew up to the detachment. "Fwhere away, Docthor?" queried Slavin. "Will ye not shtop an' take dinner wid us, yu' an' Lanky? 'Tis rarely we see yez in these parts now."

"Eh, sorry!" remarked that gentleman, climbing out of the rig and stretching his cramped limbs, "got to get on to Horton's, though. One of their children's sick. Thanks, all the same, Sergeant." Glancing round at his teamster he continued in lowered tones, "There's a little matter I'd like to speak to you fellows about."

"Sure!" agreed Slavin, quickly. "Come inside thin, Docthor."

The party entered the detachment and, seating themselves, gazed enquiringly at their visitor. For a space he surveyed them reflectively, a perturbed expression upon his usually genial countenance. His first words startled them.

"It's about your J.P., Mr. Gully," he began. "This incident, mind, is closed absolutely—as far as he and I are concerned; but, under the circumstances, which to say the least struck me as being mighty peculiar, I—well! . . . I don't think it's any breach of medical etiquette on my part telling you about it.

"For some time past now I've been treating Gully for insomnia. Man first came to me seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown through it.

"I prescribed him some pretty strong opiates—strong as I dare—and for a time he seemed to get relief. But a couple of days ago he came around and—my God! . . . Say! if I hadn't known him for a man who drinks very little I'd have sworn he was in the D.T.'s."

The doctor's rotund figure stiffened slightly in his seat, and his genial face hardened to a degree that was in itself a revelation to his audience. Without any semblance of bravado he continued quietly, "I hope I possess as much physical pluck as most men—I guess you fellows aren't aware of it, but many years back I too wore the Queen's uniform—Surgeon in the Navy. I served in that Alexandria affair, under Charlie Beresford.

"Well, as I was saying, . . . Gully came into my surgery that day, raving like a madman. He's a big, powerful devil, as you know. I'll confess I was a bit dubious about him—watched him pretty close for a few minutes, for he acted as if he might start running amok. 'I can't sleep!' he kept yelling at me, 'I can't sleep, I tell you! . . . That dope you're giving me's no good. . . . Christ Almighty! give me a shot of cocaine, Cox, or morphine, and get me a supply of the stuff and a needle, will you? I'll pay you any amount!'

"Naturally, I refused, I'm not the man to go laying myself open to anything like that. Well! Good God! The next minute the man came for me like a lunatic—clutching out at me with those great hands of his and with the most murderous expression on his face you can imagine. I backed away to the medicine cabinet and caught hold of a pestle and told him I'd brain him with it if he touched me. I threatened I'd lay an information against him for assault, and that seemed to quiet him down. He began to expostulate then, and eventually broke down and apologised to me—in the most abject fashion. Begged me to overlook his loss of control, and all that. Of course I let up on him then. A local scandal between two men in our position wouldn't do at all. I gave him a d——d good calling down, though, and finally advised him to go away somewhere for a complete rest and change. But he wouldn't agree to that—seemed worried over his ranch. Said he'd worked up a pretty good outfit and couldn't think of leaving his stock in somebody else's hands at this time of the year—couldn't afford it in fact. Anyway—that's his look-out. But, as a matter of fact, if that man doesn't take my advice, why . . . he's going to collapse. I know the symptoms only too well. That's the curse of men living alone on these homesteads—brooding, and worrying their heads off. It seems to get them all eventually in—"

Breaking off abruptly he glanced at his watch. "Getting late!" he ejaculated, jumping up, "I must be getting on to that case."

"Docthor!" said Slavin, reflectively, "'tis a shtrange story ye've been tellin' us. Ye'll be comin' back this way, I suppose—lather in th' day?"

The physician nodded.

"I'd like fur ye tu dhrop in agin, thin," continued the sergeant slowly, "if ye have toime? There's a little matther I wud like tu dishcuss wid yu'—'tis 'bout that same man."

Doctor Cox glanced sharply at the speaker's earnest, sombre face. A certain sinister earnestness underlay the simple words, and it startled him.

"Very good, Sergeant!" he agreed, "I'll call in on my way back. Well! good-by, all of you, for the time being!"

They followed him outside and watched the rig depart on its journey westward. It was Redmond who broke the long silence.

"Well, sacred Billy! What do you know about that?" he ejaculated tensely.

And the trio turned and looked upon each other strangely, their faces registering mutual wonderment and conviction.

"Sleep?" murmured Yorke, "No, by gum! . . . no more could Macbeth, with King Duncan and Banquo on his chest o' nights! . . . Well, that settles it!"

But Slavin made a gesture of dissent. "As you were, bhoys!" was his sober mandate. "Sleeplishness's no actual proof . . . but it's a pointer. Th' iron's getthin' warrm—eyah! d——d warrm! . . . but we cannot shtrike yet."



CHAPTER XII

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Bear soft his bones over the stones! Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns! "THE PAUPER'S DRIVE."

They ate dinner more or less in silence. Slavin had relapsed into one of his fits of morose taciturnity. At the conclusion of the meal, Yorke and Redmond drew a bench outside, and for awhile sat in the sun, smoking.

"He's got 'Charley-on-his-back' properly to-day," remarked the sophisticated Yorke, with a sidelong jerk of his head, "old beggar's best left alone, begad! when he' get's those fits on him." He sniffed the fresh air and gazed longingly out over the sunlit, peaceful landscape, flooded with a warm, sleepy, golden haze of summer. "Lord! but it's a peach of a day" he continued, "say, gossip mine, did you think to get that fishing-tackle at Martin's this morning?"

George nodded affirmatively. Yorke rose and stepped indoors. "Say, Burke," he said persuasively, "there's not much doing this afternoon—how's chances for me and Reddy going down to the Bend for a bit? The water looks pretty good just now. You'll want to have a lone chin with the Doctor, anyway, no use us sticking around."

The sergeant, engrossed in a crime-report, acceded gruffly to the request. "Run thim harses in first, tho'!" he flung after his subordinate, "an' du not yu' men get tu far away down-shtream, in case I might want yez."

"That's 'Jake,'" was Redmond's comment, a moment later, "no use trying fly-fishing to-day, though, Yorkey—too bright. We'd better fish deep. Here, you get the rods all fixed up, and catch some grasshoppers, and I'll chase out in the pasture and run the horses in."

Some half an hour later found them trudging down the long slope below the detachment that led to the nearest point of the Bow River. Here the river described a sharp bend southward for some distance, ere resuming its easterly course. Arriving thither, they fished for awhile in blissful content; their minds for the time-being devoid of aught save the sport of Old Izaak. Picking likely spots for deep casts, they meandered slowly down-stream, keeping about twenty yards apart. At intervals, their piscatorial efforts were rewarded with success. Four fine "two-pounders" of the "Cut-Throat" species had fallen to Yorke's rod—three to Redmond's. Then, for a time the fish ceased to bite.

"Here!" said Yorke suddenly. "I'm getting fed up with this! I can't get a touch. There's a big hole farther down, just up above Gully's place. Let's try it! He and I pulled some good 'uns out of there, last year."

Eventually they reached their objective. At this point the force of the current had gradually, with the years, scooped out a large, semicircular portion of the shelving bank. Also, a spit of gravel-bar, jutting far out into the water, had stranded a small boom of logs and drift-wood; the whole constituting a veritable breakwater that only a charge of dynamite could have shifted. In the shelter of this and the hollowed-out bank, a huge, slow eddy of water had formed, apparently of great depth.

As Yorke had advertised it—it did look like a likely kind of a hole for big trout. "You wouldn't think it," said he now, "but there's twenty feet of water in that pot hole." He put down his rod and slowly began to fill his pipe. "You can have first shot at it, Red," he remarked, "I'll be the unselfish big brother. You ought to land a good 'un out of there. Aha! what'd I tell you?"

Redmond's gut "leader" had barely sunk below the surface when he felt the thrilling, jarring strike of an unmistakably heavy fish. The tried, splendid "green-heart" rod he was using described a pulsating arc under the strain. He turned to Yorke gleefully. "By gum! old thing, I've sure got one this time," he said, "bet you he's ten pound if he's an ounce. Hope the line'll hold!"

Simultaneously they uttered an excited exclamation, as a huge, silvery body darted to the surface, threshed the water for the fraction of a second, and then dived.

"Look out!" cried Yorke. "Give him line, Red, give him line! Play him careful now, or you'll lose him!"

The reel screeched, as Redmond let the fish run. Then—without warning—the line slacked and the rod straightened. George, giving vent to a dismayed oath, reeled in until the line tautened again, and the point of the rod dipped.

"What's up?" queried Yorke, "he's still on, isn't he?"

"Yes," growled Redmond miserably, "feels as if I'm snagged though. He's there right enough—I can feel him jumping. Damnation! That's the worst of stringing three hooks on your leader. One of 'em's snagged on something below, I guess. Here! hold the rod a minute, Yorkey!"

The latter complied. George unbuttoned and threw off his stable-jacket and began taking off his boots. Yorke contemplated his comrade's actions in speechless amazement. "Why, what the devil?—" he began—

"I'm not going to lose that fish," mumbled Redmond sulkily, as he threw off his clothes, "I'll get him by gum! if I have to dive to the depths of Hell."

"Say, now! don't be a fool!" cried Yorke, "that water's like ice, man! You'll get cramped, and then the two of us'll drown. We-ll, of all the idiots!—"

George, by this time stripped to the buff, crept gingerly to the edge of the shelving bank. In his right hand he grasped—opened—a small pen-knife. "Aw, quit it!" he retorted rudely, "I'll only be under a minute—hold the line taut—straight up and down, Yorkey, so's I can see where to dive."

He drew a deep breath, and then, with the poise of a practised swimmer, dived—cutting the water with barely a splash. For the space of a half-minute Yorke stared apprehensively at the swirling eddy, beneath which the other had vanished. The line still remained taut. Then he gave a gasp of relief, as Redmond's head re-appeared, and that young gentleman swam to the side. Extending a hand, the senior constable lugged his comrade to terra firma.

"That's good!" he ejaculated fervently. "D——n the fish, anyway! I guess you couldn't make—" He broke off abruptly, and remained staring at the dripping George with startled eyes. The latter's face registered unutterable horror, and he shook as with the ague. Speech seemed beyond him. He could only mouth and point back to the gloomy depths whence he had just emerged.

"Here!" cried Yorke, with an oath, "whatever is the matter, Reddy? Man! you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

Then his own face blanched, as the shivering George bubbled incoherently, "B-b-body! b-b-body! My God, Yorkey! th-there's a s-s-stiff d-down th-there! Ugh! I d-d-dived right onto it!"

For a brief space they remained staring at each other; then, a strange light of understanding broke over Yorke's face, and he made a snatch at Redmond's clothes. "Come!" he jerked out briskly. "Get 'em on quick, Red, else you'll catch your death of cold—never mind about drying yourself—you can change when you get back."

In shivering silence his comrade commenced to struggle into his underclothes and "fatigue-slacks." Yorke snapped the line and reeled in the slack. "Stiff!" he kept ejaculating "stiff! Yes, by gad! and I can make a pretty good guess who that stiff is! . . . Burke'll have all the evidence he wants—now. You beat it, Reddy, as soon as you're fit and get him. A run'll warm you up. The grappling-irons are back of the stable. And say! tell him to bring a good long rope. Lord, I hope Doctor Cox hasn't left yet. I'll stay here, Reddy. Hurry up!"

An hour or so later, a morbidly expectant group gathered on the river-bank. Redmond, luckily, had reached the detachment just prior to the coroner's departure, and that gentleman now comprised one of a party. Slavin had hitched his team to a cotton-wood clump nearby, and was now busily rigging the double set of three-pronged grappling-irons. When all was ready, he motioned to his companions to stand back, and then, with a preliminary whirl or two, flung the irons into the pool, some distance ahead of the spot indicated by Redmond.

Slowly and ponderously he began the dragging recover, with the muscular skill of a man long inured to the gruesome business. His first effort was unsuccessful—weeds and refuse were all he salvaged. He tried again, with the same result. Cast after cast proved futile. After the last failure he turned and glowered morosely upon Redmond.

"'Tis either dhrunk or dhramin' ye must be, bhoy! There's nothin' there. I've a good mind," he added slowly "a d——d good mind tu shove ye undher arrest for makin' a friv'lus report tu yeh superior!"

Yorke now came to his comrade's rescue. "By gum, Burke," he flashed out "if you'd seen his mug when he came up out of that hole you wouldn't have thought there was anything frivolous about it, I can tell you!"

Poor George voiced a vehement protest, in self defense. "Good God, Sergeant!" he expostulated, "d'you think I'd come to you with a yarn like that? I tell you it is there. Have another try. Sling farther over to the right here!"

Grumblingly, the latter complied, and began the slow recover. Suddenly, the rope checked. Slavin strained a moment, then he turned around to the expectant group. "Got ut'" he announced grimly. "I can tell by th' feel av ut. Tail on tu th' rope there, all av yez! Now! Yeo! Heave ho!"

Like a tug of war team they all bowed their backs and strained with all their might; but their efforts proved futile. "Vast heavin!" said Slavin, breathing heavily. "'Tis shtuck somehow—I will have tu get th' team an' double-trees. Get a log off'n that breakwater, bhoys, so's th' rope will not cut inta th' edge av th' bank."

He crossed over to the horses. "Now!" said he, some minutes later, as he backed up the team and made all fast to the double-trees. "Yu', Reddy, an' Lanky, guide th' rope over th' log. Yu', Yorkey, get th' feel av ut, an' give me th' wurrd. I du not want to break ut."

Yorke leant over the edge of the bank, loosely feeling the rope. "All right!" he announced.

Slavin, edging his team cautiously forward, and taking the strain to avoid a violent jerk, clucked to them. With a scramble, and a steady heave of their powerful hind-quarters, they started.

With bated breath the watchers gazed at the rope—creeping foot by foot out of the discoloured water.

"Keep a-going!" Yorke shouted to Slavin. "It's coming up, all right!"

It came. Arising slowly and sullenly out of the depths they beheld a horrible, dripping, shapeless something that eventually resolved itself into a human body—clothed in torn rags and matted with river-refuse.

Then, to the salvagers, came the most astounding and sinister revelation of all. Startled oaths burst from them as they beheld now what had retarded their first pull. Bound tightly to the body with rusted wire was a huge, hand-squared block of stone. The sergeant's last and successful cast had resulted in two prongs of the grappling-irons catching in the enveloping wire.

Slowly and cautiously the whole hideous bulk was finally drawn up the shelving bank and over the log and onto dry ground. Yorke shouted, and Slavin, checking the horses, detached the rope from the double-trees. Handing the lines over to Lanky Jones he joined the others, who were critically examining their gruesome catch. To their surprise, although the features were unrecognisable, the corpse was not so decomposed as they had first imagined, the ice-cold water having preserved it to a certain extent. Still firmly hooked to the rags of clothing—a ludicrously grim joke—was the huge jumping, gasping trout which Redmond had struck and lost.

Suddenly Yorke uttered a low exclamation. "Burke! Burke!" he said tensely, "there you are! . . . Look at the right hand'"

The eyes of all were centered on the grimy, stiffened, clawlike fist. They saw that two of the fingers were missing. An exultant oath burst from Slavin. "By G——!" he said, with grim conviction, "it's him all right!—that pore hobo shtiff—Dick Drinkwater. Eyah! fwhat's in a name? Fwhat's in a name?" He pointed to the grinning jaws. "Luk at th' gold teeth av um, tu!" he added.

The coroner was examining the almost fleshless skull. He gave a cry of anger and dismay. "Good God!" he gasped. "Look here, all of you! . . . This man's been shot through the head, too!" He indicated the small, circular orifice in the occiput, and its egress below the left eye.

"Only an exceedingly powerful, high-pressure weapon could have done that," he continued significantly, "both holes are alike—bullet hasn't 'mushroomed' at all."

"Eyah!" Slavin agreed wearily. "We know fwhat kind av a gun did ut. And luk here!" he added savagely, pointing to the bare feet, "here's another of Mr. Man's little jokes—no boots. If they'd have been lift on they'd have shtuck tighter'n glue—in that water. Reddy was 'bout right, Yorkey! Gully, d——n him! did frame us that day. Must have used thim himsilf tu make thim thracks wid—early in th' mornin'—behfure he met up wid us on th' thrail. Oh, blarney my sowl! Yes! Had us chasin' for a whole silly week, all for—"

He broke off abruptly, choking with rage. For awhile, in silence, the party gazed at the pitiful, hideous monstrosity that had once been a man. Then the ever-practical Redmond proceeded, with the aid of a large pebble, to burst, strand by strand, the wire which bound the stone to the body.

"That stone, too!" said the doctor darkly. "Sergeant, in view of what you've been telling me, there seems something very, very terrible about all this. I suppose there's absolutely no doubt in your mind now, who—?"

The Irishman jerked out a great oath. "Doubt!" echoed he grimly, "doubt! So little doubt, Docthor," added he hoarsely, "that we go get 'um this very night."

"Alas, poor Yorick!" said Yorke sadly. "Say, Burke!" he continued in an awe-struck voice "this is like a leaf out of O'Brien's book, with a vengeance. You remember him, that cold-blooded devil who Pennycuik nailed up in the Yukon—used to shoot 'em and shove their bodies under the ice?"

Slavin nodded gloomily. "At Tagish, ye mane? Yeah! I 'member ut. Penny sure did some good wurrk on that case."

Redmond had by this time completed his gruesome task. "There's lots of these blocks lying around Gully's," he remarked, "I've seen 'em. Place's got a stone foundation. Look at the notches he's chipped in this one—to keep the wire from slipping!"

"Eyah!" said Slavin, with grimly-unconscious humour, "Exhibit B. We must hang on to ut, heavy as it us—an' th' wire, tu! Well, people, we'd betther shove this pore shtiff on the buckboard, an' beat ut." He turned to the doctor's laconic factotum. "Come on, Lanky!" he said briskly. "Let's go hitch up."

Presently, when all was ready, Slavin took the lines and the coroner climbed up beside him. The rest of the party followed on foot. A sombre, strange little procession it looked, as it moved slowly westward into the dusky blaze of a blood-red sunset. In the hearts of the policemen grim resolve was not unmixed with certain well-founded forebodings, as they fully realized what a sinister, dangerous mission lay ahead of them that night.



CHAPTER XIII

'Twas then—like tiger close beset At every pass with toil and net, 'Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare, By clashing arms and torches' flare, Who meditates, with furious bound, To burst on hunter, horse, and hound,— 'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose, Prompting to rush upon his foes. SCOTT

The old detachment clock struck nine wheezy notes. Yorke and Redmond, seated at a table busily engaged in cleaning their service revolvers, glanced up at each other sombrely.

"Getting near time," muttered the former, "the moon should be up soon now. Lanky," he continued, addressing that individual who was sitting nearby, "what are you and the Doctor going to do? Going back to Cow Run tonight, or what?"

"Don't think it," replied the teamster laconically. He glanced towards the open door and assumed a listening attitude. "Th' Sarjint an' him's out there now—chewin' th' rag 'bout it—hark to 'em!"

Ceasing their cleaning operations for a space, the two constables listened intently to the raised voices without. "No! no! no!" came Slavin's soft brogue, in tones of vehement protest to something the coroner had said, "I tell yu' 'tis not right, Docthor, that yu' shud run such risk! Wid us 'tis diff'runt—takin' th' chances av life an' death—just ord'nary course av juty. . . ."

"Oh, tut! tut! nonsense, Sergeant," was the physician's brisk response. "You forget. I've taken those same chances before, too, and, by Jove! I can take 'em again! All things considered," he added significantly, "seems to me—er—perhaps just as well I should be on hand."

Yorke and Redmond exchanged rueful grins. "The old sport!" quoth the latter admiringly. "Damme, but I must say the Doc's game!"

"It's the old 'ex-service spirit'," said Yorke quietly, "rum thing! Always seems to crop out, somehow, when there's real trouble on hand."

Nonchalantly puffing a huge cigar, the object of their remarks presently strolled back into the room, followed by the sergeant. "Behould th' 'last coort av appeal,' Docthor," began Slavin majestically. With a whimsical grin he indicated his subordinates. "Bhoys," he explained, "contrairy tu my wishes, th' Docthor insists on comin' wid us this night. Now fwhat yez know 'bout that?"

"Tried to shake me!" supplemented that gentleman tersely, waving his cigar at the last speaker. "What's this court's ruling?"

A stern smile flitted over Yorke's high-bred features. "Appeal sustained," he announced decisively, "eh, Reddy?"

For answer, his comrade arose and silently wrung the doctor's hand; then, without show of emotion, he resumed his seat and likewise his cleaning operations. Yorke, as silently, duplicated his comrade's actions. The ex-Naval surgeon said nothing; but his eyes glistened strangely as he dropped into an easy chair and proceeded to envelope himself in a cloud of smoke,

Suddenly the nasal voice of the teamster, Lanky Jones, made itself heard. "How 'bout me?" he drawled, "ain't I in on this, too? I kin look after th' hawsses, anyways, fur yeh!"

"Arrah thin! hark tu um?" said Slavin, in mock despair. "Docthor, 'tis a bad example ye're setting All right, thin, Lanky, ye shall come, an' ye wish ut. An' as man tu man—I thank ye! We will all go a 'moonlightin' tugither. Eyah!" he resumed reminiscently, "many's th' toime I mind me ould father—God rist him!—tellin' th' tales av thim days, whin times was harrd in Oireland, an' rints wint up an' th' pore was dhriven well-nigh desprit. How him an' his blood-cousin, Tim Moriarty, lay wan night for an' ould rapparee av a landlord, who'd evicted pore Tim out av house an' home. Tim had an' ould blundherbuss, all loaded up wid bits av nales an' screws an' such-like, wid a terribul big charrge av powther behint ut. Four solid hours did they wait for um—forninst a hedge on th' road he had tu come home by, from Ballymeen Fair.

"By an' by they hears um a-comin . . . a-hollerin' an' laughin' tu umsilf, an' roarin' an' singin' 'Th' Jug av Potheen.' Full av ut, tu, by token av th' voice av um. Tim makes all ready wid th' blundherbuss. All av a suddint tho', th' tchune shtops, an' tho' they waits for um for quite a toime, he niver shows up. By an' by they gets fed up wid lyin' belly-down in th' soakin' rain. 'H-mm! mighty quare!' sez me father, 'I wonder fwhat's happened tu th' pore ould ginthleman?' 'Let us go luk for um?' sez Tim, wid blood in his oi, ''tis may be he's on'y shtoppin' tu take another dhrink out av th' jug.'

"So, up th' road they goes a piece, till they comes tu a bog at th' side av ut. An' there they finds um—head-first shtuck in th' bog—just th' tu feet av um shtickin' out an' which boots Tim sez he can swear tu. 'Begorrah!' sez me father, 'that accounts for th' tchune shtoppin' so suddint! Let us luk for th' jug?' Well, they hunts around for th' jug awhile, but all they finds is his ould caubeen. So they shtuck that on wan of his feet, an' Tim, he pins th' warrant av evictmint tu ut, currsin' somethin' fierce th' whiles bekase he was done out av getthin' a shot at the 'ould rapparee wid th' blundherbuss."

Slavin shook his head slowly at the conclusion of the story. "Eyah!" he said wistfully, "many's th' toime have I heard me father tell that same tale. They must have been shtirrin' times, thim!" In characteristic fashion his mood suddenly changed. His face hardened, as with upraised hand he silenced the burst of laughter he had provoked from his hearers. "Ginthlemen!" he resumed quietly, "we're none av us cowards here, but—no need tu remind yu'—fwhat sort av a man we are goin' up against this night."

Unconsciously he drew himself up, with an air of simple, rugged dignity that well became his grim visage and powerful frame. In that hour of impending danger the brave, true, kindly heart of the man stood revealed—a personality which endeared him to Yorke and Redmond beyond any ties of friendship they had known.

Slowly he repeated, "we are none av us cowards here, but—remimber Larry Blake, an' that pore hobo shtiff back in th' shed there. An' remimber thim dogs this mornin'. We du not want tu undherrate um. We du not want tu cop ut like did Wilde, whin he wint tu arrest Charcoal; or Colebrook, whin he tackled Almighty Voice. Maybe he'll just come a-yawnin' tu th' dhure, wid th' dhrawlin' English spache av um, sayin' 'Well, bhoys, an' fwhat's doin'?' An' yet again—may be he's all nerves afther th' bad break he made in front av us this mornin'—expectin' us—eyah!—waithin', watchin' belike, wid his gun in his fisht. Luk at th' way he acted afther his gun play—leery as hell. . . ."

"Yes!" said Yorke thoughtfully, "egad! there was something darned queer in the way he acted, all right. Guess we'd better take carbines along, eh, Burke? . . . in case we get let in for a man hunt. For all we know, he may have beat it already. Another thing—he may start in bucking us about not having a warrant—just to gain time?"

Slavin met the other's suggestion with a grim nod of acquiescence. "Shure! we'll take thim," he said, "but"—his jaw set ruthlessly—"if I wanst get my grub-hooks on um . . . why! 'tis all up!—carbines, or no carbines—warrant or no warrant. Section thirty av th' Code covers th' warrant bizness—in a case like this, anyways. Come on, thin, bhoys, saddle up! An' Lanky!—yu give me a hand wid th' team! we must be getthin'!"

Presently all was in readiness, and the small, well-armed party left the detachment under the light of a brilliant three-quarter moon. Slavin led in the police buckboard, with the doctor seated beside him, and Lanky Jones crouched behind them. Yorke and Redmond rode in the rear, with their carbines slung at the saddle-horn. It was a hazardous mission they were bound on, as they all fully realized now, knowing the terribly ruthless character of the man they sought to apprehend.

Descending the grade which led to the bend of the river they swung due east at a smart pace, following the winding Lower Trail. This last road ran past Gully's ranch, which lay some three miles distant. As they neared their objective the sergeant slackened his team down to a walking pace.

Suddenly Redmond tongue-clucked to himself in absent fashion. The sound of it roused Yorke out of the sombre reverie into which he had fallen.

"What's up, Red?" queried he waggishly, in a low voice, "dreaming you're taking that dive again, or what?"

"No!" muttered George abstractly in the same key. "I was thinking what a rum, unfathomable old beggar Slavin is. Fancy him springing that comical old yarn at such a time as this?"

"Ah!" murmured his comrade reflectively. "When you come to know Burke as well as I do you'll find he's generally got some motive for these little things—blarney and all. You laughed, didn't you? Guess we all of us gave the giddy 'ha! ha'.' Felt quite chipper after it, too, the bunch of us . . . well then?"

"Sh-sh!" came the sergeant's back-flung, guarded growl, "quit your gab there! We're gettin' nigh, bhoys—here's th' brush forninst his place . . . must go mighty quiet an' careful now."

Looming up dark and forbidding ahead of them they beheld the all-familiar sight of the huge, shadowy thicket of pine and Balm o' Gilead clumps that fringed the west end of Gully's ranch. Entering its gloomy depths, they felt their way slowly and cautiously along the stump-dotted trail. At intervals, from somewhere overhead, came the weird, depressing hoot of a long-eared owl, and, seemingly close at hand, the shrill, mocking "ki-yip-yapping" of coyotes echoed sharply in the stillness of the night. Stray patches of moonlight began to filter upon the party once more as they gradually neared the end of the rough-hewn avenue; the thick growth of pine giving place to scattered cotton-wood clumps.

Arriving at the verge of the timber the party halted. There, some two hundred yards distant, upon a patch of open ground partially encircled by dense, willow-scrub, lay a ghostly-shadowed cluster of ranch buildings. The living habitation itself stood upon a slightly raised knoll, hard upon the river-bank. To their nostrils the night air brought the strong, not unpleasant scent of cattle, drifting up from the numerous recumbent bovine forms which dotted the ground all around the ranch.

Awhile the party gazed speculatively at the habitation of him—the undoubted perpetrator of the deadly deeds—for whom they had sought so long. The peaceful aspect of their moonlit surroundings suddenly smote the minds of all with a strange sense of unreality, as full realization of the sinister import of their errand came home to them. In uncanny telepathy with their disturbed feelings sounded the owl's derisive hooting, and the persistent mocking raillery of the coyotes.

It was Slavin who broke the long, tense silence. "Damn that 'Dismal Jimmy' owl!" he ejaculated testily, in a low tone—"an' thim ki-oots! . . . beggars all seem to be givin' us th' ha! ha! as if they knew. P'raps he has beat ut on us afther all? . . . 'Tis harrd tu say—we cannot shpot a glim from this side—winders all face east. Now! luk a-here, all av yez!" He turned to his companions with a grim, determined face, his deep-set eyes glittering ominously in the light of the moon. "Lets get things cut-an'-dhried behfure we shtart in," he whispered. "Whin he knows th' jig's up—that's if he is in—he may act like a man av sinse, an' agree tu come peaceable—but—" and Slavin shook his head slowly—"if he refuses . . . fwhy? . . . 't'wud be straight suicide tu attimpt tu rush um. There's on'y wan dhure. Hidin' in th' dark there, wid that Luger gun av his coverin' ut, we'd shtand no show at all. He'd put th' whole bunch av us out av business—in as many shots, behfure a man av us got a chance tu put fut inside. Now, let's see!" he murmured reflectively. "Fwhat is th' lay av th' shack agin? There's—"

"The door and two of the windows face east," interpolated Yorke, softly—"living-room and kitchen—one window to the south—that's his bed-room."

"Eyah! that's ut," whispered the sergeant, "now thin—Lanky—du yu' shtay right here wid th' harses. Kape yu're head—even if ye du hear shootin'. Du not shtir from here onless ye get ordhers from wan av us." Turning to the others he continued in a sibilant hiss, "Yu, Reddy, shlip along th' edge av th' brush here, an' over th' river-bank onto th' shingle. Kape well down an' thread careful ontil ye come forninst th' back winder. Thin pop yu're head up circumshpict an' cover ut wid yu're carbine. Use good judgmint tho'; none av us want tu shtart in shootin' onless we're forced tu ut. Ondher th' circumstances 'tis best we thry an' catch um alive."

For a moment Slavin stared after Redmond's crouching form, as his subordinate disappeared in the gloom, "Thrust no harm comes tu th' lad," he muttered irresolutely, "quick as a flash is th' bhoy wid his head, eyah! but he's inclined tu be over rash at toimes."

"Oh, he's all right," hissed Yorke reassuringly, "don't you get worrying over him making any bad breaks, Burke. He's as fly as they make 'em."

Presently the sergeant faced round with a dreary sigh. "Come on thin, Docthor," he murmured heavily, "wid me an' Yorke."

Making a wide detour they circled the ranch and wormed their way cautiously through the dense scrub on its eastern side. Suddenly, with a warning gesture to his companions, the sergeant halted. They had reached the verge of the scrub and the front of the ranch-house faced them—barely twenty yards distant. They could discern a faint light glimmering around the lower edge of one of the windows.

"He is in!" whispered Slavin exultantly. "Blinds down though. 'Tis a quare custom av his. Come on thin, Yorkey, me bould second-in-command! In a mighty few short minuts we shall know"—his jaw dropped—"fwhat we shall know! . . . Arrah thin, Docthor!"—he silenced a violent protest from that adventurous gentleman, who made as though to accompany them—"if ye wud help us in best fashion—shtay right here, an' mark fwhat comes off. If we shud happen tu get ut in th' neck . . . just yu' beat ut back tu Lanky! Ye know fwhat tu du—thin. I'll lave me carbine here awhile."

He stepped clear of the brush and, revolver in hand, advanced softly upon the low, one-story, log-built dwelling. Yorke followed a few steps in his rear, with his carbine held in readiness at the "port-arms."

Reaching the door, the sergeant rapped upon it sharply. There was no response from within, but—the light vanished on the instant. Yorke stepped warily to the side and covered the door with his weapon. A few tense moments passed, and then Slavin rapped again. Heavy footfalls now sounded, approaching the door from the inside, halted, and then, through the panels came Gully's hollow, booming bass: "Who's there?"

"Shlavin of th' Mounted Police, Gully. Opin up! we wud shpake wid ye."

"What do you want? What's your business at this hour of the night?"

"Fwhat do we want?"—the sergeant uttered mirthless chuckle—"fwhy 'tis yu' we want, Gully—for murdher! Come off th' perch, man, th' jig's up! There's a bunch av us here—we've got yu're shack covered properly—wid carbines—north, east, south, an' west—ye can pull nothin' off. Come now! will ye pitch up an' act reasonable? 'Tis no manner av use ye shtartin' in tu buck th' Force. Juty's juty—ye know that."

"Have you got a warrant, Sergeant?"

"Eyah!" came Slavin's sinister growl. "We've bin fishin', Gully, up in th' big pool beyant. Well ye must know that pool. Fwhat we caught there is our warrant. Opin up now, will ye? else we bust yu're dhure in!"

"Slavin—Sergeant! You and Yorke whom I've known all this time—good fellows"—the deep, imploring tones faltered slightly—"do not push me to it, man! You and your men go away and leave me in peace this night. Christ knows! I don't want to do it but—if you persist in forcing an entrance in here without a warrant—why! I'll pull on your crowd till there's not a man left."

"Gully!" the sergeant's voice shook with passion at the other's threat, "ye bloody murdherin' dog! Ye dhirty back-av-th'-head gun-artist! Thryin' for tu come th' 'good-feller' over us av th' Mounted! There's on'y wan answer tu that, an' ye know ut. Now, will ye opin up this dhure, or I'll bust her down!"

And, as if to enforce his command, Slavin set his huge shoulder against the door and gave a heave which caused the stout wood to crack ominously.

"Look out, Burke!" cried Yorke suddenly. His right arm shot out and jerked the maddened Irishman violently towards him. His hasty action was only just in time.

Bang! bang! Two muffled shots detonated within, and white splinters flew from a spot in the door covered a moment before by the sergeant's broad breast. With a startled oath Slavin flung up his gun, as if to fire back; but Yorke clutched his arm and arrested the action.

"No, no, Burke!" he hissed warningly, "no use doing that! You bet he's not there now. Lying 'doggo' behind the logs, most likely. You'd only blow a hole in the door that he could pick us off through after. We're proper marks in the moonlight here! Let's back up, and keep the front covered."

Slavin, balked of his prey, rumbled in his throat awhile, like some huge bear; then, adopting Yorke's suggestion, he slowly backed up with the latter to the sheltering brush, where they rejoined the expectant, anxious doctor.

"Hit, either of you?" he enquired tersely.

Yorke replied in the negative. "Mighty close shave for Burke here, though" he added, "lucky I heard Gully cocking that blasted Luger of his." He uttered a suppressed chuckle, "Burke's always one to go cautioning others, and then lose his temper and expose himself."

For some few minutes they canvassed the situation in tense whispers, lying prone in the brush with their carbines covering their objective.

"Sh-sh!" hissed the doctor suddenly. "Hark!"

With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and listened intently. In the stillness they heard the unmistakable noise as of a window being cautiously lifted. The sound came from the southern end of the building.

Then they heard Redmond's voice ring out sharply from the bank: "No use, Gully! I've got you covered! You can't make it from there! You'd better give in, man."

There was an instant's silence, then—crack! came the crisp report of the Luger. It was answered by the deep, reverberating bang! of a carbine, and the crash of splintered glass and woodwork was followed by a boyish laugh.

"Told you Reddy was there with the goods!" remarked Yorke, triumphantly, to his superior, "don't suppose he got him though—Gully's too fly—he'd duck into shelter the instant he'd fired. I'll bet he's doing some tall thinking just now. Beggar's between the devil and the deep sea—properly. He'll chuck up the sponge just now, you'll see."

"Eyah!" agreed Slavin, with an oath, "he's up against it. But Reddy down there—I du not like th' idea av th' bhoy bein' all alone. Yorkey, yu' shlink thru' th' brush an' down th' bank an' kape um company awhile. Th' Docthor an' me'll kape th' front here covered."

A few minutes later, Yorke, after first challenging Redmond cautiously, crept up beside his comrade below the sheltering river-bank.

"Did you get him?" he queried in a tense whisper.

"No, I don't think so," muttered Redmond disconsolately, "but—he d——d near got me—look!"

He exhibited his Stetson hat. A clean bullet perforation showed in the pinched-up top. "I could have got him—easy," he added, "when he first opened the window. Wish I had, now—but you know what Burke said—about getting him alive—I only loosed off after he'd thrown down on me. I was scared for you and Burke, though! I could see you both backing up—after he'd shot through the door."

Bang! A dull, muffled report detonated within the building. The ominous echoes gradually died away, and the stillness of the night settled over all once more.

The crouching policemen stared at each other strangely. "Hear that?" ejaculated Redmond, with a startled oath, "By G——d! he's shot himself! must have—it sounded muffled. . . . All over! I'll bet his brains—"

He broke off short and, shoving the barrel of his carbine over the edge of the bank, he commenced to clamber up. "Wait a second! . . . Good God, Red! don't do that!" snarled Yorke warningly. "He's as cunning as a blasted lobo. May be it's only a tr—"

The entreaty died in his throat. Crack! A spurt of flame shot from the opened window, and Redmond, with a gasping exclamation of rage and pain, toppled backwards onto the shingle, his carbine clattering down beside him. Fearful of relaxing his vigilance even at this crisis, the maddened Yorke flung up his weapon and sent shot after shot crashing through the open casement. All could hear the smashing, rending sounds of havoc his bullets were creating within.

"Doctor!" he shouted. "Oh, Doctor! Come on round quick!" In a hoarse aside he spat out feverishly, "Red! Red! my old son! . . . hit bad? Where'd you get it?"

"Shoulder! Oh-h!" gasped poor Redmond, moaning and rolling on the shingle in his agony, "Oh, Christ, it hurts!"

There came a crashing in the undergrowth on their right, and presently a crouching form came creeping rapidly towards them under cover of the sheltering bank. In a terse aside Yorke acquainted the doctor with the details of his comrade's mischance, keeping a wary eye meanwhile on the window. The ex-naval surgeon wasted no time in unnecessary question or comment, but with the grim composure of an old campaigner swiftly proceeded to render first aid to the wounded man.

"Right shoulder—low down!" he presently vouch-safed to the anxious Yorke. "Trust it's missed the lung! . . . can't tell yet! . . . I must get him away the best way I can. No! . . . don't move, Yorke! You keep on your mark! I can pack him I think. I'll get him to the buckboard somehow. This is going to be a long siege, I'm thinking. You'll be getting reinforcements later. Slavin told me to send for them."

Bang! crash! The crisp sounds of splintering woodwork on the east side of the shack denoted the fact of their quarry apparently attempting a second escape from the front entrance. Unaided, the doctor cleverly executed the professional fire-fighter's trick of raising, balancing on the back, and carrying an unconscious human body. With an overwhelming feeling of relief, not unmixed with admiration, at the other's gameness, Yorke watched him stagger away in the gloom, bearing poor George upon his bowed shoulders.

His momentary lack of vigilance proved well-nigh his own undoing, also. Crack! spat the Luger again from the window. His hat whirled from his head, but he kept his presence of mind. It was not the first time by many that Yorke had been under fire. Ducking down on the instant, he moved swiftly three paces to his right, and then, finger on trigger, he suddenly jerked upright and sent two more shots crashing through the aperture.