Chapter III
I
But there was more work than play for the Police in those early days, when they were striking at the roots of disorder.
The most powerful of their foes was the whiskey-trader. To the extermination of the whiskey-trader they directed a special campaign. Hardly a day went by through all the winter which did not see an expedition starting out to raid some distant outfit or returning with prisoners and spoil. A long ride through solitary darkness, a careful bit of scouting to surround the blissfully ignorant camp, a sudden swoop at dawn with levelled carbines and sometimes with a flurry of resistance; the guilty parties taken, the robes and liquor confiscated—thus went the programme. Courage, endurance, cunning, endless patience were all required to win success in the great game and no man employed on a whiskey raid could claim that his talents were wasted.
'Red-hot' Dan was operator, single-handed, of a den near the boundary-line. He was also a desperate character.
But no law-breaker, however desperate, could go unchallenged now. The Police must deal with him as with all. An exception, however, was made to this extent: the party was picked unusually carefully.
Sergeant-Major Whittaker led it. Martin Brent went with him as scout and guide. The three others were Constable Cranbrook; Constable Bland, the finest marksman in the Force; and Constable Adair.
The trumpeter was sounding 'Reveille' as they left Fort Macleod and turned their horses southward.
At dusk they reached Joe Welland's shack, where they proposed to pass the night. A light gleamed through the grimy panes.
"The King's in his Castle," remarked Cranbrook.
Sergeant-Major Whittaker knocked. Welland opened the door, a startled exclamation springing to his lips at sight of the scarlet coats.
"Good God!" he cried sharply. Then, "Oh, it's you! You scared me, boys. I never know who's prowling 'round in parts like these. But welcome—come right in."
"Did you think we'd come for you, old chap?" laughed Cranbrook, as they clanked across the threshold.
"You might have done, at that!" Welland grinned. "But what's the game, boys? Eh? Never mind that now, though. Whatever it is, you'll eat and spend the night here. I won't take 'No.'"
"Here's our orders to you, Welland," replied the Sergeant-Major. "A place for five horses; water for the same; use of your fire for cooking grub for four hungry men and a boy"—with a smiling nod at Hector—"and shelter till we choose to move."
"Done! I know you're after some darn whiskey-trader; so you're welcome more than ever," cried Welland. "Hey, Lizzie; fix fire, get table ready—quick, mighty quick. You're going to eat on me, Sergeant-Major."
At Welland's command, his squaw, a poor, bedraggled object, in home-made skirt and blanket, her hair braided and looped up behind, emerged from a corner and began to obey the orders of her lord and master.
"Now, the stable. Not a soul will guess your horses are there!"
He was a shrewd customer.
The horses put up, they all sat down to supper, while Lizzie waited on them. Welland treated her roughly and Hector's estimation of him bumped down suddenly. As they ate, Hector studied the room, which he had never seen before. It gave a not unfavourable insight into the owner's character. Surprisingly well furnished, it was carpeted in buffalo robes, its walls were hung with wolf skins, and pictures of places and people dear to Welland alternated with cuts from magazines to give it a touch of civilization. A couch covered by a gay Navajo blanket occupied a corner. Several first-class rifles stood in racks. There were books on shelves. This was the home of a man of at least some culture.
"Think it funny to see those bindings here, Hec'?" the observant Welland asked. "I tell you, Joe's not as rough a diamond as he looks. I couldn't leave Bill Shakespeare behind me when I first came West; and I find a lot of people in these parts remind me of Don Quixote!"
Hector wondered if that was a dig at the Police. But he let it pass.
After supper, Welland for the first time broached the subject of their expedition.
"You'll find that 'Red-hot' Dan a real tough nut to crack," he said.
Hector wondered how Welland had guessed. Trained by this time to conceal his thoughts, however, he gave no sign. The laconic Martin did not move a muscle. The road was clear for Sergeant-Major Whittaker.
"I've heard he is," he answered smoothly. No blind betrayal of their purpose there!
"You have? Then you'll be careful what you do."
"When we arrest him—yes."
"I'd shoot at sight if I were you."
"We never shoot at sight in the Police, Joe."
"But 'Red-hot' Dan does."
"What's he got to do with us?"
"See here, Sergeant-Major—why not trust me? You needn't play you're not going after Dan, because I know you are. He's the only whiskey-trader operating 'round here and——"
"Trust you? Why, of course we trust you!" laughed the cunning Sergeant-Major. "But we don't talk about our work to—outsiders."
"I guess I should be snubbed!" said Welland. "That's a nasty slap to a man who wants to help you. I'm talking for your good when I tell you Dan's a devil. Wait till I tell you——"
And he narrated several stories of the trader's daring.
"Now," he concluded, "if that won't satisfy you, ask Martin there. Isn't Dan a dangerous man, Martin?"
Martin, apparently asleep, pricked up his ears like a dozing dog.
"You bet," he said.
"There!" Welland declared. "The whole country knows these things. You're new—and you should be warned."
"Trying to frighten us?" the Sergeant-Major asked.
"Yes, I am. If you'll take my tip, you'll go back to Fort Macleod for reinforcements. Five of you can't take Dan without bloodshed."
"You don't think much of us, that's sure." Whittaker smiled. "Now look, Joe Welland! We appreciate your warnings—but—how d'you know we're after 'Red-hot' Dan? And suppose we were—could we go back to the fort without trying to get him? How about Dan? Wouldn't he get wind of us and skip while we were away? How about our orders? But what's the use? Who said we're after him?"
"You're taking chances!"
"We can take 'em!" said the Sergeant-Major, fiercely brushing his moustaches.
"All right. Have it your own way! I've warned you, anyhow." Welland was obviously disappointed. "My hands are clean!"
II
At four o'clock, having covered the twenty miles between Welland's and the trader's in excellent time, they found themselves near the scene of action. The Sergeant-Major ordered Cranbrook to stay behind with the horses and the rest of them crawled to the edge of the ridge overlooking 'Red-hot' Dan's cabin.
Hector's heart beat fast. This was the first experience promising real danger which had fallen to him since he joined the Force.
Down in the long valley they saw the hut—grey, lonely, forbidding, in the dawn. But—unexpected blow!—it seemed deserted. In all the valley there was no sign of life. The shack was like a skull in the desert. Life had been there. It was there no longer. Had the wolf scented their coming and—taken to his heels?
"By the Lord!" muttered the Sergeant-Major, between clenched teeth, "the beggar's gone!"
Martin smiled cunningly.
"You think so? I don't! You see no trail going away—no. The beggar home, all right! But he play dead. No time get away, so he think: 'Pretend me gone. Foolum.' See?"
Light dawned on the Sergeant-Major's countenance.
"Now, listen: Dead snake always most bad snake. Always be more careful with dead snake. Make good plan now—he there, I bet you."
And so, assuming Dan at home, they made their plan. Keeping under cover, they crept to a point very near the shack. Sergeant-Major Whittaker posted Bland to cover the door from one hand, Martin from the other. To order the trader to come out was, they knew, quite useless. He would not surrender while the shack afforded him shelter. They must persuade him to admit them—then seize him. At the first sign of resistance, Martin and Bland were to shoot the man dead as he stood in the doorway.
"Come on, Adair," the Sergeant-Major smiled coolly. "You an' me must do the dirty work. Keep the bracelets handy."
So, their revolvers in their holsters, the pair of them approached the shack on the blind or windowless side. The sun was almost over the horizon. No sound, no movement betrayed a human presence in the shack. But one significant fact became obvious as they crept 'round to the front. The windows had been stoutly barricaded.
Close to the door they were, now—the air taut as a violin string.
The Sergeant-Major, motioning to Hector to remain where he was, strode boldly from cover and rapped thunderously on the heavy portal.
They heard only the echoes dapping through the rooms. Was there really no one there?
Again the Sergeant-Major knocked—twice—three times—without result. Then, like a drill instructor on the square, he bellowed:
"Open that door there—in the Queen's name!"
And then the answer came. A streak of flame flashed out, and a deafening report. Hector heard the bullet zip past him. The Sergeant-Major pitched down upon his face.
'Red-hot' Dan was 'Red-hot' Dan indeed—and decidedly at home!
III
Hector acted as his natural courage bade him; but how he got the Sergeant-Major away he never rightly knew. Bullets buzzed all 'round him as Martin and Bland maintained a rapid fire to cover his retreat. Through a tiny loophole in one of the barricaded windows keen eyes watched him as he dropped on his knees and crawled out to the motionless form. From this loophole other bullets came ringing, in quest of his life. Mechanically he lifted the little Sergeant-Major and slung him over his shoulders—his hot young strength standing him in good stead. A minute more and he was safely back with Bland and Martin, gazing stupidly at the Sergeant-Major, now lying on the ground, and asking, "Is he dead?"
His clothes were shot through, his hands bloody and he felt sick and shaken. But the spasm passed, leaving him—ready for anything.
Bred and trained for leadership, this was his opportunity. The Sergeant-Major knocked out, command of the party fell naturally into Hector's hands, hands preordained and long prepared to grapple with just such a menace. He had no thought of the benefits which would come to him if he dealt with it successfully. He only saw that someone must take the Sergeant-Major's place. He felt his powers rising to the occasion like a thoroughbred rising to a leap.
The Sergeant-Major, shot through the chest, was not dead but in great pain. Obviously, he must be sent away at once. Hector, now firmly in the saddle of authority, was already at grips with his problems.
"Tommy," he said to Bland, "I want you to take the Sergeant-Major back to Cranbrook. He'll manage it if you take your time. Then get on your horse, put the S.-M. on his, and ride back to Welland's. After you get there, leave him with Welland and go on to the fort. Report to the Colonel and he'll send a cart and medical help to Welland's. Is that all clear?"
Bland nodded.
"Then listen. When you start for Welland's, ride with the Sergeant-Major over that ridge there, in front of the shack. Tell Cranbrook to follow you, leaving the other horses hobbled for the time being. After you're over that ridge, make straight for Welland's, while Cranbrook will go back by a detour, under cover, to where he leaves the horses and wait till we come. I'll tell you why I want this done. The fellow in that shack only knows that there are three of us—the S.-M. and myself, because he saw us, and someone else who fired at the house while I brought the S.-M. back. So when he sees three of you, one wounded, ride back over that ridge, he'll think you the whole party—that we've all gone off. Then he'll come out or get careless and we can surprise him. Savvy?"
"You're a corker, Hec'!" said Bland.
Hector's instructions were carried out precisely. In half an hour he saw three horsemen move slowly over the ridge, one supported by a rider on each side. They were in full view from the barricaded windows and their scarlet coats could be seen.
But the garrison of the shack was in no hurry to emerge. An hour passed—two—three. Hunger dug its claws into Hector. Nevertheless, he decided to wait till doomsday. Patience, he knew, would decide this battle. The force that held out longest would win.
If only 'Red-hot' Dan and his colleagues—if he had any—would show their noses for just a minute, the whole thing would be over. Hector's game was to hold them up, keeping under cover himself and to shoot them out of hand if they resisted. Dan, however, was too sly a bird. The afternoon wore on and still no sign of him was seen. Either he feared a trap or was perfectly content to spend the day indoors.
It was when his patience was exhausted that Hector evolved his second scheme. Pondering the situation, it came to him in a flash of inspiration. He confided in Martin. The interpreter's patience was inexhaustible and, knowing that the waiting game was the sure game, he had not troubled to seek out any other. But now he vowed that the little tenderfoot was a clever little fellow and threw himself whole-heartedly into the plan.
Hector, taking off his boots, crawled up behind the shack and so to the roof, taking pains to make no noise. Then he awaited developments.
In time another actor came upon the scene, but from the front and marching openly forward. He was a half-naked Indian carrying a rifle in his hand. He knocked at the door. Hector's spirits leaped. The first sound of a human voice from within came floating gruffly upward:
"Who's there?"
The Indian, in Blackfoot, demanded fire-water. A panel in the door was opened and a face looked out cautiously. The moment, now, was at hand. Would the trader open the door?
'Red-hot' Dan, the Police forgotten, emerged, a cupful of liquor in his hand. The Indian raised his eyes—the signal meaning they had only one man to conquer. Straight and true, with deadly force and swiftness, Hector launched himself full upon the trader. The Blackfoot dropped his rifle, too. Their enemy resisted desperately, the atmosphere electric with his fair round oaths. But Hector's weight and strength and Martin's powerful aid—the Blackfoot was only Martin, undressed for the occasion—were far too much for him. In half a minute all was over. Hector had the handcuffs on his victim and 'Red-hot' Dan, terror of the plains, fiercest whiskey-trader in the country, lay sprawling beneath him, a hoodwinked prisoner.
IV
The Assistant-Commissioner promoted Hector to corporal for that day's capture, and set his feet on the long, steep road to victory.