Chapter IV
I
In the early springtime, over a year after Hector's receipt of MacFarlane's bitter apology, a notorious half-breed horse-thief and cattle-rustler named Whitewash Bill was being conveyed, under escort, to the cells at Broncho. A favourable opportunity presenting itself, the said Whitewash Bill succeeded in making his escape. Hector turned out scouts and patrols, which traced the wanted man to the nearest Indian reserve. At the reserve they ascertained that he had secured food and horses and had again taken flight. All detachments were warned and the entire machinery of the Broncho district was set going with the object of landing Whitewash Bill.
Thus began one of the most famous Western Canadian man-hunts; on one side the Mounted Police, parties of special constables recruited from the settlers and cowboys, Indian scouts and trackers, all directed and controlled by the sleepless brain and strong hand of the great 'Spirit-of-Iron'; on the other one lone desperado of tremendous endurance and fanatical courage, secretly aided by his own kinsmen and by others whose sympathy was with the criminal class.
Money was also on the side of the law—and money talks very freely. The big ranchers, who had suffered much at the hands of Whitewash Bill, put up a reward of several thousand dollars for the capture of the quarry, dead or alive.
The hunt ranged from the foothills to the heart of the great plains, over the 27,000 square miles of the Broncho district. The days became weeks, the weeks months; the horse-thief rode and starved himself to the point of exhaustion; the Mounted Police searched and prodded, cast and recast their net, watched, tracked, questioned—and Whitewash Bill remained untaken. The district fretted, nerves on edge, the whole country ready to see a Whitewash Bill in every swaying tree or under any shadowed boulder. The real Whitewash Bill danced to and fro through the fog of uncertainty like a will-o'-the-wisp. He stole the horses of a civilian posse from the stable while it sought a much-needed meal in a settler's kitchen. Constable Jinks, making bread on detachment, heard a noise behind him and saw Whitewash Bill in the act of riding off with a bag of oats from the store-house in rear. Jumping out, the policeman fired a shot, but his hands were thick with dough and he missed. Cornered in a tent by a party under Lone-Elk-Facing-the-Wind, the criminal cut his way out through the back and shot off the scout's hat as he sped away. Trapped in a barn wherein he sought temporary refuge and a sleep, he was smoked out but managed somehow to give his enemies the slip under cover of the flames from the barn, which he set on fire. In the course of his meanderings, he killed a settler who refused to help him and shot down a buck policeman, who was now in hospital on the verge of dying. After that, Broncho district lay in bed and trembled, not daring to move, while Whitewash Bill rummaged like a great rat in the larder and galloped off into the night as soon as satisfied.
When the chase had lasted long enough to cause anxiety and give the critics of the Police a chance, the worst happened.
Mr. Steven Molyneux saw the glorious opportunity and opened fire with all his broadsides on the director of the hunt, 'Spirit-of-Iron.'
II
Mr. Molyneux's energies had not been fully turned against Hector for over a year—not, in fact, since his attempt to discredit his opponent through the story told him by MacFarlane had failed. In relying on that story, the politician had not taken into account the lapse of time. Most people had forgotten the minor events which preceded the coming of the railway, and even the romantic tale of the Indian girl who died in the arms of a Mounted Police officer during the revolt was remembered by few. He had also failed to account for the feelings held by this handful for Adair—feelings which kept their mouths close shut. Again, he had not calculated on the sporting spirit which favours the weaker side. Finally, he had overlooked the ignorance of Easterners on Western matters. The story had lived a long time, but the principals had remained anonymous in spite of the politician's broadest hints. So the dirty coup was by this time in its grave.
Molyneux—formerly Joseph Welland—was much too clever to go on fighting with a broken sword. He decided that the only way to kill his man was by catching him in some glaring inefficiency. So he had lain low, awaiting that inefficiency, which, he argued, must come sooner or later.
In the meantime, he went on organising his political forces and undermining Hector's position.
His power constantly increased. He was fast making money, in real estate, railway stocks and cattle. In a few years he hoped to become a director in one of the big lines. Sedulously serving their interests, he had been rewarded by admission to their inner ring. He had built up a small combine in cattle, which was soon to become a large one, giving him a decisive voice in the market throughout the Territories. And so with grain. Politically, he possessed much strong support.
The skyrocket was climbing steadily towards its zenith.
On the face of it, the politician should have found it easy to crush the policeman, for he enjoyed wide power.
That power was now let loose.
Welland chose his time admirably. A restless, frightened country found in the Prophet's first tirade only an echo of their own sentiments. What more natural than that the Eastern papers should gradually follow suit? What more natural than that paternal M.P.'s, animated by only the purest motives, should in their turn rise to their feet in the Dominion House and ask the Right Hon. This and the Hon. That whether, in view of the so-and-so in the Territories, they did not think, etc., etc., etc.? These things fanned the flames. In due course it became evident that public opinion, as a whole, believed that the Mounted Police were lamentably failing. Thence it was an easy step to the day when wise-acres in every part of the Dominion showered the hunters with advice and criticism. And gradually the matter crystallised into one indisputable fact: that if Mr. Whitewash Bill was not taken, and taken soon, someone would have to resign.
That someone was Superintendent Adair.
Led by the big ranchers—Jim Jackson could not control them—the people and the papers did their best to assist the hunt by hounding on the Police in general and the commander of the Broncho district in particular. 'What are the Police doing?' shrieked the papers. They censured Hector's dispositions, recommending marvellous sweepings and watchings, as if the hunt had an army at its command or was playing blind-man's buff in a nursery rather than a perilous game of you or me over an area as large as Scotland. When he exercised patience, they demanded vigorous action. When he gave them vigorous action, they talked of needless loss of life.
So they hounded him. Yet the hounding did no good. What is the use of lashing a dog when he is definitely checked on a lost scent?
Behind it all, carefully encouraging the detractors, stood the disinterested but righteously indignant Mr. Molyneux.
On the other hand, one paper alone maintained a violent counter-offensive—the Branding-Iron. Tom Williams believed in plain words, thrown straight. He threw them. At a critical stage, unfortunately, Mr. Molyneux sued Mr. Williams for libel. Pending trial, the judge ordered the Branding-Iron to leave the politician alone. Justice was thus deprived of a powerful ally. Injustice ranted on.
In the midst of this storm, apparently sublimely indifferent either to friend or foe, invulnerable, immovable, acting only as he thought best and not as others thought, cunning when he thought it wisest to be cunning, reckless when, in his view, the need arose, the leader of the hunt, 'Spirit-of-Iron,' stood up alone, 'four-square'—as Williams put it—'to every wind that blew.'
Whitewash Bill?—merely the pawn in this great contest between Right and Wrong!
Upon his escape or capture depended now—as Hector knew and Molyneux knew—whether Superintendent Adair or Joseph Welland was to be victorious in their private battle.
III
One afternoon in May, when the hunt had been in progress nearly three months and the unrest was at its height, there came to Superintendent Adair a certain Broncho clergyman. His name was Northcote. He was a big man—big physically, mentally, spiritually, with a fine, deep voice that reminded one of his own pipe organ, and a noble head, as dignified as a Cæsar's. In fact, he looked like a Cæsar, for he was clean-shaven, ruddy and strong of face and besides was blessed with a look of kindliness seldom seen in portraits of the old Emperors. Sensible, broad-minded, tolerant, the Rev. Mr. Northcote well deserved his nickname of the 'Human Parson.' Naturally, he was now, and always had been, on Hector's side.
Hector had just come in from thirty-six hours in the saddle, covered with mud, hungry and quite comfortably tired—he had almost lived in the saddle for weeks now—but he welcomed the clergyman, who never bothered him without good cause.
They shook hands warmly. Northcote began.
"I've no idea of the present situation as regards Whitewash Bill, Major, except that he's still at liberty and I don't want to worry you with questions that don't concern me. But I want to give you some information I think you ought to know; and it's on good authority." The clergyman dropped his voice and spoke with great caution. "There's a certain element—smaller ranchers, low-class men in Broncho, cowboys who know no better—that is planning just now—to lynch Whitewash Bill when you take him!"
"I see. The details?"
"Well, so far as they go, are simply this: as soon as Whitewash Bill is arrested, they'll ride out to the scene of action, take him away from the escort, and string him up. If they don't do that, they're to storm the barracks and hang him from a telegraph pole."
"The idea being, I suppose, to take it out of the man who's terrorized the country and to set an example to would-be outlaws of the future?"
"That's about it, Major."
"Perhaps it will also show that we can't protect our prisoners when we have got them or see that the law takes its course—eh?"
"That also may have influenced them."
"Do you know who's at the bottom of it? Or the ringleaders?"
"No. But men with the country's good at heart who are yet afraid to be seen giving information to you or even to mention any names to me, have tipped me off."
"And you—?"
The big parson smiled.
"Well, you've had enough trouble, Major, without this thing being added; and there's never been a lynching in Canada—"
"It's good of you, Northcote. It happens I already know of this plot. Despite what's said of us, we're not quite asleep."
"Good. Well, I won't waste your time any further."
"Just a minute," said Hector. "You may be interested in the present situation."
"Yes!" said the parson eagerly.
"It's this. Whitewash Bill has worked his way to very near the boundary. Three days ago we thought we had him cornered. He slipped away during the night—the party on the spot was too small to hem him in. Since then we've completely lost him. I'm afraid, if we don't pick him up again in a very short time, it will mean—"
"Don't say—"
"—That he's slipped into the States. And that means the end—and my resignation."
"Oh, that's impossible."
"It isn't. The uproar is so great that the man who fails will have to suffer. We're at the climax now. It will all be over in two or three days."
"But the people won't stand for it, Major. They know you've done your best. They trust you."
"Do they? We'll see. Of course, there's hope yet. The men are at boiling point. If they sight Whitewash Bill again, he'll never get away. I've ordered him taken alive, though, which makes it rather more difficult."
"You've every honest man behind you, Major."
"Pleased to hear it. Well, there's the situation."
At the door, the clergyman paused.
"Can you give me any message—to those who sent me?"
"You can tell them—first, that Whitewash Bill will be taken alive; second, there will be no lynching."
The Rev. Mr. Northcote beamed.
"There's a big mob thinks otherwise, I'm pretty sure, Major. But what Manitou-pewabic says is pretty sure to go. The rest of us are satisfied."
And he closed the door softly behind him.
IV
At dawn, two days after Mr. Northcote's visit, a despatch rider clattered into barracks with word that Cranbrook had again cornered Whitewash Bill, this time at a point fifteen miles south of the Piegan Crossing.
This put an end to a terrible period of suspense, which had held Hector inactive at Broncho—where, as director of operations, he had been forced to remain while his whole future was being decided somewhere out in the vast darkness.
He could now take action. He had already decided what to do. He feared neither the outlaw nor the would-be lynchers. The latter, especially, he held in contempt.
Awaiting news, he had spent the whole night awake, and fully dressed. It was a matter of a moment to fling on cap, gauntlets and revolver and hurry over to the orderly-room, where Forshaw was keeping watch, a matter of a minute or two to order out Donaldson's four-horse team and the two constables, Dunsmuir and Kellett, who were standing by.
The railway from Broncho approached the Piegan Crossing by such a circuitous route that it was quicker to proceed to the scene of action across country. Except for Donny's team and the Superintendent's own horse, which was played out with the hard work of the past few weeks, the only horses in barracks were crocks. Every sound animal was out with the hunting patrols. Hector wanted to take Forshaw and the two constables with him because he knew Cranbrook was short-handed. The only way to do so was for the whole party to drive with Donaldson the thirty miles to the spot where Whitewash Bill was lurking.
In less than twenty minutes after the receipt of the despatch they were on the trail.
The trumpeter sounded 'Reveille' as they rattled out of the barrack-gate—just as his long-silent predecessor had sounded it when, as a buck constable, Hector left Fort Macleod with Sergeant-Major Whittaker to make his first arrest twenty long years before. Was this a sign that the present arrest would be his last?
As the sun rose, they came full upon an immense herd of drifting cattle. It was the time of the spring round-up and the punchers all over the Broncho district were hard at work. The herders, statuesque on their ponies against the cool glow of the morning, crooned a cowboys' lullaby while the trap slowly made its way through the herd. They touched their hats to the Superintendent. In a little gully, beside the chuck-wagon, the cook was boiling coffee.
Hector's mind went back to the day when, in company with the old 'originals' of the Force, he had cleaved his way through as immense a herd, a herd of the vanished buffalo.
What changes he had seen! Twenty years in the North-West, growing with it and watching it grow, developing with it and helping it to develop! A lifetime given to his country—and was he to be broken, now, by an upstart parasite battening on the blood and sweat of better men?
"Push on, Donaldson, push on!"
"Can't go any quicker till we're out o' this, sir," answered Donny sturdily.
But get there—get there—get there—before it's too late!
Clear of the herd, they dashed onward again at breakneck speed, Donny handling the ribbons like a veritable Jehu. Round corners on two wheels; down into hollows with a terrific bump; up steep slopes at a canter; mile after mile left behind; and the two constables in the back seat, hanging on like leeches, looked at each other through the dust and grinned.
"Chief's crazy!" muttered Dunsmuir, sideways, through his teeth. "This is pounding my ruddy tail off!"
They sighted the river—broad and deep and silver-grey, winding slowly through shouldering rollers of drab brown land. Donny swung his sweating horses down towards the ford—swung them, drove them on—halted—
"What are you stopping for?"
The chief's voice lashed him unmercifully.
"It looks very tricky, sir," Donny answered doubtfully, with a thoughtful hand to his big moustache. "Over the horses' heads, I should say, sir. How about the other ford, sir?"
"Ten miles up? No!"
"He's going to drown the lot of us," whispered Kellett.
Hector seemed to catch the thought though he had not heard the words.
"If you're afraid to go on, any of you, you can get out," he said.
Afraid to go on! Who would admit it, when he put it that way?
"All right, Forshaw?"
"All right, sir!"
"Then push on, Donaldson!"
Donny squared his jaw and put the whip to the horses. They plunged forward, into the river.
In a moment the icy water reached the hub of the wheels; then the horses' bellies; then lapped over the floor of the trap; and surged around the breasts of the gallant leaders.
"Hup there, Sir John! Hup, Laurier! Hup there, Aberdeen!" shouted Donny.
The horses were swimming now, thrashing out desperately, in the middle of the river. The wagon floated after them, like a crazy barge, rocking to and fro and occasionally grounding on unseen boulders.
"Sit still behind," ordered Hector grimly, the water round his knees. "Sit tight and don't move!"
"If she turns over, we're done," said Kellett to Dunsmuir. "Don't do that, you fool. Think we want to be drowned because you're afraid of wetting your plutocratic hoofs? How deep is it hereabouts?"
"About twenty feet, I guess!" drawled Dunsmuir.
Near the bank, Donny flogged the plunging horses and called on them with the most lurid language in the calendar. A crashing collision with a sunken rock that almost turned them over, Hector throwing his weight in the right direction in the nick of time; a wild struggle on the part of the leaders to gain a footing on the slippery ground; Donaldson, responding to a fierce 'Give me the reins!' went overboard, neck-deep, to drag his horses round; a last upheaval; and they rolled out on dry land, out of the reluctant fingers of imminent death.
Hector gave Donaldson a nip of whiskey, and a short rest. Then the trap dashed forward anew.
Far off, on the horizon, as they advanced, they saw a long train of crawling, white-tilted wagons, belonging to one of the many parties of farmer-settlers now pouring into the country,—symbol of still another change, impending, when the stockmen's supremacy would be challenged by the growers of grain. A few years more and the plains would be fenced and agleam with acres and acres of wheat, the Territories would leap to Provinces and Western Canada would take her place as a great power in the land, providing those twin necessities, bread and meat, to the whole wide world.
A lifetime given to the furtherance of these changes—and was the evil force which had come with them to cut him down?
"Push on, Donaldson, push on!"
The river was five miles behind them now, the sun well risen. Suddenly the distances conceived a horseman, who came rapidly towards them, leading two horses.
It was Dandy Jack, one of Cranbrook's party for some weeks past. Cranbrook, anticipating his chief, had sent the young puncher to meet them with horses for the Superintendent and the Adjutant, so that they might get the sooner to the scene of action.
"What news, Jack?"
Hector shot out the question as the trap pulled up.
Jack flung a hand to his sombrero and smiled. Though he had been constantly in the saddle for days, the angel-faced boy looked as fresh and faultlessly turned out as ever.
"Got him still cornered, Major. He's in a little hollow 'bout an hour's hard ride from here. Quite a big bunch o' cattlemen come up last night an' this mornin'. Mr. Cranbrook said I was to guide you an' to ask you to hurry, if it don't hurt you any."
"All right, Jack! No, never mind the stirrups! Donaldson, follow as quickly as you can. Come along, Forshaw! We've got to get there in time!"
With that, they swung to the saddle and thundered off across the prairie.
"God, I'd give my eyes to be in at the death!" groaned Kellett, as he watched his chief disappear.
V
Behind a ridge Hector found assembled a large and noisy crowd. Cranbrook, mounted, stood in the centre, heatedly arguing. Then he saw Hector, with obvious relief. Shouldering his horse through the throng, he cantered over. The stockmen, recognizing Hector, fell to uneasy muttering among themselves. If any man could baulk them of their prey it was Adair; and they knew it—and were correspondingly disgruntled.
"I've got a ring of scouts round his hiding-place, sir," Cranbrook said. "Lone-Elk-Facing-The-Wind picked up his trail near here just before dusk last night. He can't escape, but he's too dangerous to rush. So I thought I'd wait till you came."
"You did right," replied Hector. "And these—are the lynchers, I suppose? Yes? Then leave them to me."
The stern face set. Here was something physical to meet and overcome—at last.
"Boys," he told the crowd, checking his horse in front of them, "what's this I hear about lynching? That's tenderfoot talk. The man will be taken alive and properly tried. If he's guilty of murder, rest assured he'll get what's coming to him. But he's entitled to a fair trial and he's going to have it. There's never been a lynching in Canada and there's not going to be one now."
A storm of hostile shouts and a yell: "Who'll stop us?"
"I will. I will—and my men."
More tumult; and the crowd, hands on guns, grew threatening.
"Your men. Hell! You've only got five or six. We're twenty to one."
"There'll be no lynching all the same."
The crowd hooted. A huge puncher, built on the lines of a grizzly bear, shouted Hector down and began to harangue his companions, asking if they were afraid of one man and were going to let him dictate to freeborn citizens who had been deeply wronged.
"Look out!" shouted a little man on the outskirts, seeing the fighting look fast taking possession of Hector's face. But the words were lost in the tumult.
Hector quietly dismounted, tossing the reins to Cranbrook, who had also dismounted, and faced the big puncher.
"Another word from you, my friend, and—"
For answer the man whirled a violent blow at Hector's head and his hand flashed to his hip. Hector smashed in his right, all the pent-up emotion of days behind it. The big puncher hurled crashing to the ground among his friends.
"Anyone else want any? All right. We'll take him up for inciting to riot. Now, boys, do as I tell you and go home."
The spirit of the mob was broken. One prompt, telling blow, backed by absolute firmness in the face of great odds and the thing was done.
To deal with Whitewash Bill remained. And on Whitewash Bill depended everything.
Hector turned to Cranbrook and, to Cranbrook's astonishment, he was smiling.
"Now for the outlaw. I want you to point out where he is."
Cranbrook, handing the horses over to Dandy Jack, led him forward. Forshaw followed.
"Easy here, sir. Keep low," said Cranbrook.
They stole on until they could look round the shoulder of the ridge.
"He's in those bushes," Cranbrook stated, pointing to a small thicket about seventy-five yards away.
"I see," said Hector. "Well, now's the time."
And he took off his greatcoat and gauntlet, revealing his scarlet tunic.
Cranbrook and Forshaw looked at each other and Forshaw paled a little under his ruddiness.
"What—are you going to do, sir?"
"I'm going to arrest him myself. Pah, I'll be all right. He daren't shoot me. Cranbrook, go round your scouts and tell them to keep a lookout in case he runs for it."
"But—God, sir, he'll kill you! He's stopped at nothing. He'll certainly shoot you. And what a target you're making of yourself!" exclaimed Cranbrook, his concern overcoming his deference.
"Best starve him out, sir," added Forshaw.
But Hector had long ago made up his mind. Better to be shot than to face dishonour; better to attempt the arrest himself than to force it on his subordinates. The crisis of the hunt had come and he did not intend to risk failure by leaving the work to another.
If Welland was to win, it would be through no fault of his.
He had faced death before this, with less cause. He could easily face it now.
"Starve him out? And have him give us the slip again? No. Go along, Cranbrook, go along."
Cranbrook had to obey. Forshaw, sensing a little of what this business meant to his chief, said no more. But he felt that the Superintendent was going to his death—deliberately sacrificing himself to his duty.
Cranbrook returned.
"All right, sir."
"Good. When I throw up my right hand, come after me."
The lynchers—lynchers no longer, but firm admirers of the law—gathered in a tense, awe-struck group behind the Police officers.
Hector loosed, but did not draw, his revolver. Then he walked straight out into the open, holding his arms wide, to show the hidden half-breed that he held no weapon.
Absolute stillness held the world. In the sunshine, the steadily advancing scarlet coat gleamed like a flame, inviting disaster. Forshaw and Cranbrook awaited the sound of a rifle-shot.
When within a few paces of the outlaw's hiding-place, Hector heard the click of the breech-bolt. A brown face, ferociously set, peeped from among the leaves.
"Keep off, you, keep off!" whispered Whitewash Bill.
But the man in scarlet had three great forces on his side—the tremendous moral force of the coat he wore, badge, as it was, of the terrible North-West Mounted Police, the Keepers of the Law, the whole corps embodied in one lone individual; the great moral force of absolute fearlessness and determination shown in the teeth of certain destruction; the stupendous moral force of the personality which the Indians dreaded and respected and which the outlaw himself had long known—the personality typified in the name 'Spirit-of-Iron.'
These three moral forces faced the half-breed now.
"Keep off," he repeated, "or I shoot."
"You daren't shoot me," the white man's voice came to him, remorselessly. "D'you hear, Bill? You dare not shoot me. See! My hands are empty—but you dare not shoot me, just the same...."
VI
That night, in every part of Canada, the printing-presses roared out their headlines, headlines which were once to have doomed and damned:
WHITEWASH BILL CAPTURED! SUPERINTENDENT ADAIR'S
GREAT VICTORY! GALLANT COMMANDER OF HUNT
TAKES MURDEROUS OUTLAW SINGLE-HANDED!
WITHOUT USING A WEAPON! A LYNCHING
AVERTED! ENEMIES DISCOMFITED!
SPIRIT-OF-IRON!