SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.
AFTER a seventeen-hour ride in pursuit of Jim Cowley, a crook, who has cheated a settler named Ballard, “Big Ben” Stewart, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, arrives at his home, where he finds his father, Dugald Stewart, and his younger brother, Denis. After resting, Ben takes up the pursuit, but is wounded and returns home. Denis dons his brother’s uniform and takes up Cowley’s trail. The “substitute trooper” meets with various exciting adventures, and is eventually made a prisoner by Cowley and Smoking Duck, a Cree Indian. Stewart is removed to Cowley’s camp, where he is left in charge of Smoking Duck. He succeeds in making his escape, and, without weapons, he continues his flight. He meets Napoleon McShayne, a French Canadian, in whose company Stewart encounters Bray, a fur trader, who is on his way to Cowley’s camp on Hay Lake. From the trader Stewart learns that Cowley has been purchasing an unusually large amount of corn. Stewart orders Bray to return to Fort Vermilion. A plan is arranged with McShayne to secure Stewart’s canoe and rifle, which had been left on the river bank when Stewart was captured. The trooper swims the river, and while he stands drying himself and clothing over a fire, two canoes appear on the river, which prove to be occupied by Ballard and his friends, all of whom are in search of Cowley. The settlers have made up their minds to deal with Cowley in their own way, without the interference of the law. During the night Stewart escapes from Ballard’s camp, and makes his way to the point where he is to meet Napoleon McShayne.
CHAPTER XII.
Tightening Up.
CLOSE beside his tiny signal fire, Denis waited there in the night. As he watched, he remembered one thing to which he had given little thought.
This was that Cowley was going to the foot of the lakes some time that same night to meet Bray. Presumably Cowley would not start until an hour or so before dawn. But what would happen when he reached the foot of the lake?
“He’ll take Ballard’s camp fire for that of Bray,” mused Denis, frowning. “When he gets close up, he’ll discover his mistake and put for home. Then I’ll be there to nab him—if nothing happens. Well, no use gathering trouble till the time comes.”
Perhaps half an hour later, Denis sighted a dark blur on the lake, and heard a low hail. He flung a few scraps of birch bark on the fire, allowed them to blaze up until he himself was fully revealed; then he stamped out the fire and scattered it.
Waiting at the edge of the shore, he presently saw two craft come gliding in. The first was Napoleon’s dugout, with Napoleon himself wielding his clumsy paddle. Towing after this was the light canoe which Denis had left at the head of the lake on his unfortunate attempt to arrest Cowley.
“B’jou’!” came the half-breed’s voice. “I got heem. What you do dat man Bray, huh?”
“I took care of him, all right,” said Denis, smiling. “He’s gone back to Fort Vermilion, and you’ll find your camp waiting as you left it. When you’re at the fort, go in to Bray’s store and he’ll settle with you for whatever grub he used.”
The ’breed grunted deep satisfaction at this information. Denis pulled in the canoe. To his delight, he found his duffel bag, blankets, and the rifle exactly as he had left them.
“Mebbeso you make for pay?” suggested Napoleon diffidently.
Denis reflected.
“The man Bray sent you to find—the man named Cowley—has a camp halfway up this shore,” he returned. “I’m going to arrest him. Also a ’breed named Petwanisip. Cowley has some fine pelts up there, and you can have your pick. Want to come along?”
This did not strike Napoleon’s fancy.
“Mebbeso I come back. I’m want for sleep now,” he said, which was a lie, since he had probably slept all the preceding afternoon, after reaching the head of the lake. “Huh? Mebbeso I come back dere to-morrow.”
Denis chuckled.
“There’s a bunch of four white men down at the foot of the lake,” he rejoined. “They have rifles, and they’ll be up here to-morrow——”
That was enough for Napoleon, who grunted deep:
“Mebbeso I go ’way quick, whatever. Got um pain in belly. Want for sleep. Mebbeso I come back, mebbeso not. Whatcheer!”
He edged his dugout toward the lake shadows. Denis laughed, glad to be rid of the fellow, who would be of no use in a fight.
“Run along, then, ’Poleon. You come back to-morrow afternoon, and the coast will be clear, I think. Then I’ll pay you—and pay you pretty well, too. Don’t come later than that, but come then sure. Sure?”
“Huh! Sure!” was the answer. Napoleon would keep his word also—to the police.
Denis watched the dark, slim shape of the dugout float out into the night and disappear into a speck under the starlight. Then he turned to his own canoe, and, with a feeling of deep relief, knelt once more on his blankets and took up his paddle, the rifle ready to hand. Ballard’s canoe he left on the bank.
To land at Cowley’s Creek about dawn would be time enough for his purposes. He could let Cowley go to the foot of the lake—probably to return faster than he had gone. In the meantime he could arrest Smoking Duck and make an investigation.
That was an important point—the investigation. Besides the original charge against Cowley, and that of resisting arrest, the police must know what the man was doing here, how he had gained possession of so much fur, and just what kind of an illegal game was forward. It might be that he was simply dealing out whisky without a permit, which was in itself a grave offense in a land where the vanishing Indians are protected by laws of iron against such men as Cowley.
With ten miles to travel against a steadily increasing headwind, and three hours in which to cover it, Denis fell into a steady, even stroke that he could keep up for days on end if need were. Keeping close to shore, he worked his way gradually along up the lake, noticing a perceptible increase in the wind as the night wore onward.
When the stars began to dim and die, and the grayness of dawn slowly lifted the darkness, Denis ran to the beach and landed. It was vital that he make no mistake now, and he must be sure of his ground before going ahead.
For half an hour he lay on the bank, watching and waiting. Then an exclamation of satisfaction broke from him. Through the lifting gray dawn light he could discern the hills a half mile farther along the shore, where Cowley’s camp was located. Sweeping the waters of the lake with his eyes, he then caught a moving speck halfway across, in line between the hills and the foot of the lake, and moving toward the latter.
Cowley was well on his way down the lake!
“Looks as though things were breaking my way at last,” thought Denis, as he scrambled down the steep bank to his canoe. “Now I think that I’ll have a little surprise for Mr. Smoking Duck before he gets through his breakfast.”
Save for the cartridges which The Pigeon had expended, the Winchester rifle had a full magazine. Certain of this, Denis pumped in a fresh cartridge, knelt in the canoe, placed the rifle in front of him, and shoved out.
Now he paddled swiftly, putting all his strength into the work. In a short fifteen minutes he found himself lying outside the almost concealed creek entrance. Into this he headed, scanning the bushes and trees ahead for any sign of Smoking Duck.
No danger threatened, however. Without sighting a moving thing, he reached the log landing, jumped out, and lifted his canoe from the water. Then, rifle in hand, he stepped out on the trail to the shack.
Five minutes later, he was standing at the edge of the clearing, eying that odd cluster of buildings. From the chimney of the shack itself no smoke ascended, but from what seemed to be the lean-to just behind, a thin trail of wispy smoke was winding into the sky.
“That must be the ‘fire’ to which Cowley referred,” thought Denis, frowning. “If Smoking Duck isn’t asleep, he’s probably around there in back.”
Hesitating no longer, he went across the clearing at a run, half expecting a rifle shot from the silent shack front. None came. Reaching the door of the shack, he peered inside and found the place empty, but from the back came the regular strokes of an ax!
Slipping around the side wall of the shack, to the right, Denis passed the lean-to which held the baled peltries. At the corner he paused, cocking his rifle, then stepped out around the end.
A dozen feet away stood Petwanisip, leaning on an ax; even that cocking of the rifle had attracted the half-breed’s attention. Denis covered the man instantly.
“Hands up, Smoking Duck!”
Smoking Duck stared as if at an apparition. Then he cast a wild glance around, and Denis saw a rifle leaning against the wall. But it was three yards distant, and not even the desperate half-breed dared risk it. His hands rose slowly.
Each lean-to adjoined the other, here at the back. To the left of the rifle was a low doorway, near which Smoking Duck had been throwing the wood as he had cut it. Denis observed that this was firewood.
“Go to the left of that door, stand with your face to the wall, and stick your hands out behind your back!” commanded Denis.
There was a snap to his voice that spelled earnestness. His brown face convulsed with helpless rage, the half-breed did as Denis had ordered. Advancing to the man, Denis stuck his rifle in Petwanisip’s back.
“Be mighty careful, now—this gun is cocked!”
With one hand he unlaced his moccasins, knotted the lacing, and drew it about the swarthy wrists. Then he set down his rifle, and in a few seconds had knotted the buckskin thongs stoutly. Smoking Duck was trapped beyond escape.
“Walk around to the front of the cabin.”
Driven by that relentless rifle, the sullen half-breed led the way around the shack to the door. Denis ordered him on inside, and so to the same little room where he himself had been confined. Removing the fellow’s knife, he locked him in the inner room.
“Things are certainly coming fine for me!” he reflected, as from Cowley’s stores he replaced his moccasin lacing. “Now we’ll begin our investigations—and I’d better start right here.”
Ben’s Ross service rifle was in a rack, as was the revolver with its lanyard. Denis gladly took back these weapons, and found Cowley’s revolver hanging to a nail. No other rifle was in evidence, however, and he conjectured that Cowley had not gone forth unarmed. This, however, he had expected.
Leaving Smoking Duck locked up safely, Denis sallied forth on his tour of inspection. First he visited the lean-to at the right, and in this he found a few sacks of corn, together with several sacks marked “Beans” and “Potatoes.” A slash with his knife showed that all these were filled with corn.
“So Cowley has been importing all the corn he could, under every disguise possible!” thought Denis, looking down at the sacks. “The question is, why? In about two minutes your little game will be up, my friend!”
As he closed the rude door of the lean-to and stepped out into the early-morning sunshine, he paused suddenly. The night wind had died away; the morning was perfectly calm and clear. He stood motionless, listening—and the sound came again. It was a distant but still recognizable rifle crack. A third sounded instantly, then two or three shots came almost together. After that, silence.
“That’s Cowley and Ballard!” thought Denis, his blue eyes narrowing. “If they haven’t got him, he’ll be back presently. If they have—then it’s up to me to arrest Ballard’s crowd. By Jasper, I don’t like this business a little bit!”
No further sounds of conflict reached him. While he could sympathize with Ballard and the latter’s friends, he knew perfectly well that he must arrest them if they had killed Cowley. He was representing Big Ben Stewart, and his uniform typified the law, and Ben would be held responsible for the upholding of the law.
Frowning uneasily, he passed on around the corner of the log structure, and again came to where he had found Smoking Duck at work. He stepped to the doorway, set down his rifle beside that of the half-breed, and entered the mysterious lean-to.
This proved to be unlighted save by the door, and for a moment his eyes could not pierce the semidarkness. Then, as he saw what manner of place this was, an exclamation of slow surprise broke from his lips.
“By Jasper! And to think that I never even suspected it—and dad was the closest guesser of all!”
To either side of him were piled small kegs, and above these were neat rows of glass half-pint flasks, precisely similar to that which he had found on the person of The Pigeon a few days previously. About half of them were filled with a white liquid, and the subtle odor of whisky which pervaded the room betrayed the nature of that liquid. But Denis merely noted these things in passing—his gaze, was riveted on what lay beyond, across the room from him.
There, with a small fire still burning, was a complicated arrangement of metal which he did not understand at all, but whose usage was quite evident to him. He had seen pictures of stills before this, and knew at once that he had solved the mystery of Cowley’s corn and trading and illegal work. Every detail lay clear before him.
Here on Hay Lake, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Cowley had located a private whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion to the summer Hudson Bay Post, farther down the Hay, he had brought up corn under various disguises, to avert possible suspicion, and had calmly proceeded to manufacture his own whisky and trade it to the Indians in the neighborhood.
“This is going the whisky-running game one better, all right!” exclaimed Denis, as he eyed the place. “Well, my job is clear—so here goes!”
Stepping outside, he took up Smoking Duck’s ax and reëntered. First drawing what was left of the fire and carefully stamping it out, he then waded into the still, ripping the copper worm and everything else into useless shreds of metal. He did his work thoroughly and left nothing undestroyed.
Then he turned his attention to the kegs and bottles. The latter he smashed where they were; the former he rolled out into the yard. Ten of the kegs were full of whisky, and these he smashed in and emptied. Satisfied at length that the whole affair had been destroyed, with the exception of one flask to be used as evidence if necessary, he wiped his dripping face and took up the two rifles.
“Here’s a good morning’s work for Ben, anyhow!” he muttered happily. “Now I’d better prepare my little reception committee for Mr. Cowley—or Ballard. I wonder which will come?”
CHAPTER XIII.
Cowley Cries “Enough!”
FROM the front of the shack, the lake was, of course, hidden by the intervening hill. Denis remembered that the presence of his canoe would warn Cowley if the latter arrived in flight from Ballard, and struck off to the creek at a sharp trot.
Once here, he went on to the edge of the lake, and scrambled through the bushes to a vantage point. And here his mental question was answered instantly.
A scant quarter mile away was a canoe bearing a single paddler—evidently Cowley. The canoe was heading for the creek entrance, and was traveling fast. A mile or more behind it was another canoe bearing four men, and for a moment Denis eyed them, wondering why they did not catch up with Cowley. Then he laughed shortly.
“Overloaded, by Jasper! All four of ’em in her, and she must be right down to the water, so they don’t dare put on speed. This simplifies things for me, then.”
So, apparently, it did, since Cowley was coming squarely into the trap. At the moment it did not occur to Denis that Ballard’s arrival might bring him a new problem, and the most difficult one which he had yet faced.
Returning to the log landing, he picked up his canoe and carried it a dozen yards away, placing it among the bushes, where the hurrying Cowley would never notice it. This done, he made his way back to the shack.
With his Ross rifle under his arm, he set the other weapons out of reach in a corner. A glitter on the floor caught his eye, and he stooped to pick up the handcuffs which he had intended to place on Cowley and had worn himself by the irony of circumstance. He slipped them into his pocket and opened the door of the prison chamber.
Smoking Duck was sitting on the floor, in sour apathy, his wrists as Denis had left them. Denis smiled cheerfully at him.
“I suppose you heard the sound of wreckage, my friend? Yes, your little game is up for good and all. By the way, where’s the key of those handcuffs? I want to use them on your precious partner pretty quick.”
Smoking Duck glared up at him, and finally grunted out that the key was lost.
“So much the worse for Cowley, then—he’ll have to reach headquarters before getting released from bondage. I see you still have some coffee on the fire—want a hot cup that’ll cheer but not inebriate?”
The scowling half-breed emitted a flood of mingled Cree and English, which Denis rightly imagined to be a profane refusal, so he barred the door and left Smoking Duck to his own reflections.
A pot of coffee stood on the tiny fish-shanty stove, and in a couple of moments Denis had a fire going, for he had not eaten since the previous evening. Keeping one eye on the edge of the clearing, he swallowed some half-warmed coffee and a cold sour-dough biscuit—and looked out to see the figure of Cowley coming at a run, rifle in hand.
Denis cocked his own rifle, drew to one side of the doorway, and waited. On his way across the clearing, Cowley let out a roar for Smoking Duck, but the half-breed had not the presence of mind to call out a warning, or else he had not yet comprehended the full situation of affairs.
Thus Cowley came leaping into the trap. At sight of the man’s brutal face, Denis saw that he had been badly frightened; but that would further his own ends.
“Hands up—hurry!”
That snappy, curt command stopped Cowley as if shot. He was looking squarely into the muzzle of the Ross rifle.
For a moment he was paralyzed. His undershot jaw dropped in blank amazement, and the ragged mustache drew back from his yellow teeth in a snarl. Over the rifle sights the blue eyes of Denis were blazing at him, and with a single curse Cowley dropped his rifle and lifted his hands. As he did so, he took a backward step toward the door.
“Stop that!” snapped Denis. “Walk this way and put out your hands, wrists together. I mean business, Cowley, and you’d better believe it.”
Cowley flung a hunted look over his shoulder at the clearing, then slowly obeyed the command, advancing toward Denis.
His heavy face showed mingled fear, bewilderment, and fury. But when Denis took the handcuffs from his pocket Cowley cried out sharply:
“Not that, Mister Trooper—fer Gawd’s sake, don’t iron me! There’s four fellers right after me——”
“I know that,” said Denis warily. “And one of them’s Ballard, the man you cheated down on the Peace River. Your chickens are coming home to roost with a vengeance, eh? Stick out your hands!”
He held out the open handcuffs. But Cowley, breathing hoarsely, drew back in fear that was by no means assumed.
“I tell ye they’re after me!” he repeated. “Look-a-here, don’t lay me up where I can’t shoot, ye fool! Them fellers aims to murder me, an’ I got to handle a gun in about two minutes!”
“You’ll handle no more guns for a while.” Denis was smiling slightly, his eyes steady. “Bray has gone back to Vermilion, and I’ve just had the pleasure of smashing up your liquor stock and distillery. So you ran into Ballard, eh? I heard some shots—what happened down there?”
Cowley made as if to wipe his dripping brow, but halted as Denis’ linger tightened on the trigger.
“They seen me first an’ let drive. I dropped one o’ them—leastways I winged him a bit, then I shoved fer home. Now, use sense! You ain’t a-goin’ to fix me where they’ll pump lead into me without me gettin’ a chance to shoot——”
“Shut up that nonsense!” broke in Denis. “You’re not going to be hurt unless you get gay with me. If you don’t stick your hands here in ten seconds, I’m going to drop you with a bullet in your leg—take your choice!”
He meant the words, for he saw that the situation was grave in the extreme. Cowley had shot one of the four pursuers, and that meant trouble. Men of Ballard’s stamp would require tenfold vengeance for that shot. None the less, Denis saw his duty clear-cut before him, and intended to protect his prisoner to the utmost.
With a growling snarl, Cowley advanced and held forth his hands, wrists together. Denis lifted the open handcuffs in his left hand—and, as he did so, Cowley swiftly struck the rifle aside and bore him down with a pantherlike leap.
Taken utterly by surprise, Denis went back and the rifle was knocked across the shack with a clatter. Cowley’s fist drove home on his cheek, knocking him into the wall; but as the ruffian followed, Denis flung himself to one side and scrambled up.
A fierce rush of anger swept from his mind all thought of the revolver at his belt, and he went into the man with both fists, his blue eyes blazing. He landed right and left to the face, then went staggering away, groaning, as Cowley’s heavy boot took him squarely in the side. Cowley was after him with a roar.
That foul kick infuriated Denis as nothing else had the power to madden him, and when the ruffian tried the same tactics again his anger drove new life into his veins. Disdaining to employ such tricks himself, he lifted a blow through the other’s guard that went straight to the mouth and sent Cowley reeling back with broken teeth. On into him went Denis, placing blow after blow, his lips clenched in silent fury and his fists beating a tattoo on the man’s face.
Cowley lurched into the wall, cursing; flung back, met a smashing left hook that rocked him on his heels, and then swung himself bodily into a clinch. At the same instant, Denis stepped into a bearskin heaped loosely on the floor. Endeavoring to get clear of Cowley’s hug, the bearskin tripped and brought him down on the floor—underneath.
The breath was knocked out of Denis by the impact. He lay gasping and helpless while Cowley, above, hit him twice heavily. Then the ruffian gripped Denis by the throat in an effort at systematic choking. Aware of his advantage, without pity, he was deliberately trying to get Denis out of the way.
Vainly and ineffectually Denis struck upward—a man flat on his back cannot hit much of a blow. Cowley tore at him with snarling oaths, the great fingers digging into his throat until it seemed that his flesh was coming asunder. His breath was stopped.
With all things going black, and the black changing to specks of fire that danced through his brain, a final coherent thought came to him. It was the recollection of his revolver.
His fumbling hands went to the lanyard in blind desperation. Even in that moment Denis fought against himself; he must not fire! He must take Cowley alive, he must bring in this man a prisoner. With that great thought pounding against his brain, Denis pulled out the gun and struck upward with it wildly.
Cowley caught the full effect of that blow. The fore sight of the revolver took him just above the temple and ripped to the bone. Again Denis struck out blindly, and again the heavy revolver landed, almost in the same place.
Those two blows were enough. Denis felt the terrible grip on his throat relax, and felt Cowley’s weight tumble away from him. Little more than conscious himself, he rolled over and dragged himself up by the logs of the wall.
He leaned against the wall, hanging on weakly and panting for breath, fighting against the terrible faintness that oppressed him and threatened to conquer his reeling brain. That life-and-death struggle had all but drowned him.
Gradually his sight cleared, as air returned to his gasping lungs. There at his feet lay Cowley, stretched out, his head bleeding. Denis’ first thought was that he had struck too hard; dropping to his knees, he breathed quick relief at finding Cowley’s heart beating. The man was only stunned.
A glance at the clearing showed no sign of Ballard’s forces. After all, that battle had taken only a few moments, though it had seemed an age to Denis.
For a little he stood gazing down at Cowley, while strength came back to him and his throbbing lungs drank in the sweet air. To one side lay the handcuffs where he had dropped them. Picking them up, he drew Cowley’s wrists together and snapped the bracelets in place.
“I’ve landed him at last,” he muttered, with a deep sigh of relief. “And it’s a lucky thing for me that I made sure of Smoking Duck first! I can’t leave this fellow to bleed to death, though.”
Searching through Cowley’s pockets, he discovered a ragged bandanna. With this and his own handkerchief he bandaged the man’s bleeding scalp, roughly but effectively. While doing so, Cowley’s eyelids fluttered, then opened.
“Lie still!” cautioned Denis. “You can get up in a minute.”
Cowley lifted his wrists, saw the handcuffs, and relaxed with a low growl. When the bandaging was finished, Denis went to the door of the smaller room and unbarred it. Smoking Duck still reposed on the floor, wide awake and glaring like a trapped beast. Denis turned to the watching Cowley.
“Come along, now, and get in here! Ballard may show up at any minute, and I want you off my hands——”
“Ballard!”
Cowley sat up, fright stamped anew in his coarse features.
“Ye ain’t goin’ to let ’em have me, Mister Trooper? Fer the love of——”
“Shut up!” snapped Denis curtly. “Ballard and his friends won’t lay a finger on you, I’ll promise you that. You join your friend and fellow citizen in here, and go to sleep. I’ll attend to the rest.”
Cowley looked at him. Into the man’s rough face crept a slow gleam of admiration as he met the steady gaze of Denis.
“Mister, ye sure are some man!” he exclaimed. “Ye got me—ye got me proper, and I give ye the best I had at that. I thought I’d slide out o’ here with a good wad, but ye sure played the game hard. No, I reckon I got to take my med’cine now, and I ain’t got any kick comin’. You blasted redcoat!”
With this grudging tribute to his conqueror, Crowley lifted himself and staggered into the smaller room, sinking down beside Smoking Duck. Denis shut the door and dropped the heavy bar into place.
The clearing was still empty of life outside the shack. Sinking down on one of the two bunks, Denis rested his aching head in his hands.
“The worst of the job is done,” he thought, “unless—unless that lynching party is after gore. If they are, it looks to me as if they’ll have to get it. By Jasper, I have Cowley safe, and I mean to keep him!”
He lifted his head at sound of a distant shout. Then, picking up his Ross rifle, he laid it across his knees and waited, facing the doorway.
CHAPTER XIV.
Ballard Shows Fight.
DENIS STEWART was unutterably weary, both physically and mentally.
He had been on a tremendous strain for the past three days, and the sleep which he had gained had been fitful and at odd intervals. He had drawn heavily on his splendid physique, and as he waited for Ballard’s coming he realized that he could not endure another physical struggle. Nor did he intend to.
“If I can’t down him by sheer will power, I’m gone,” he thought wearily. “If I add a bit of target practice, I may pull through—but it may not come to that.”
No false hopes were his. He knew the temper of those settlers, and knew that they would be savagely determined to get hold of Cowley. He was there to prevent their doing so—that was all.
Another shout sounded, closer this time, and another. Denis realized that they were trailing Cowley, having found the creek entrance and evidently being without knowledge of what lay ahead. He sat quietly, gazing through the open doorway at the sunny clearing, and waited.
There was a note in those shouts which he did not like, a menacing, bloodhound note which spelled danger. This was a man hunt, firing the hunters’ blood with ferocity, demanding a victim, knowing neither reason nor mercy. And at the end of the trail sat Denis, his blue eyes cold as ice.
Then he sighted the hunters.
They appeared in a group, running, and halted abruptly at the edge of the clearing as they scanned the cabin. One of the men, that same “Ed” who had on the previous evening pierced through Denis’ similarity to his brother, had left his arm in a sling, but held a revolver in his right hand.
That silent cabin evidently puzzled them, and they were not sure whether they had run Cowley to earth, or whether he had taken horse and fled. They discussed matters; then, at a gesture from Ballard, the other three scattered and took to cover along the edge of the clearing. Ballard himself, rifle under his arm, stepped out and walked toward the shack, his eyes flitting over it searchingly.
“If Cowley was here with his rifle, Ballard would be a dead man—and knows it,” thought Denis admiringly. “There’s one brave man, at all events!”
Ballard evinced no hesitation, though he must have known that he was taking his life in his hand by that open advance. He strode across the clearing, and paused at the doorway, too dazzled by the sunlight to make out objects within.
“Come in, Ballard!” spoke up Denis quietly. “Come in; this is Stewart speaking. But leave your men where they are.”
Ballard stared in blank astonishment, as his eyes finally made out the figure of Denis sitting on the bunk opposite the door. With one swift glance around the otherwise empty room, he stepped inside and eyed Denis.
“Well, for the love of Mike!” he ejaculated slowly. “Thought you had vamosed down the river last night.”
“No,” smiled Denis. “I borrowed one of your canoes and left it on the shore, half a mile below here. You’ll find it waiting.”
“Hang the canoe!” snapped the other. “Where’s Cowley? We want that cuss.”
“That’s really too bad,” returned Denis pleasantly, keeping his finger on the trigger of the rifle across his lap. “You won’t find him.”
“Eh?” Ballard’s face set savagely. “Has he cleared out o’ here?”
“Not exactly. By the way, there’s some coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”
Ballard was puzzled by this cool reception. With a bare nod, he crossed to the stove and poured out some of the bitter black coffee, swallowing it at a gulp. Then he set down the cup, his eyes fastened on the barred door.
“What’s behind that door, Stewart?”
Denis shifted his rifle a trifle.
“Hold your rifle just as it is, Ballard!” he said, his voice biting like a whip. “Cowley is behind that door.”
The settler stiffened. His eyes went to Denis in keen surmise, noted the rifle trained on him, and rested on the eyes of Denis. The two looked at each other steadily, neither wavering. But Ballard did not lift his rifle.
“Look a’ here, Stewart; we’d better have a little talk. I want to know where you stand, and I want to know mighty quick.”
“I’m not standing at present,” and Denis smiled. “I’m sitting on Cowley’s bunk. Meanwhile, you have the floor, and I’m ready to listen. Shoot ahead!”
“I’ll do it,” nodded Ballard, his face hard and inflexible. “You know what we come here for, and why. Mebbe you don’t know what happened at the foot o’ the lake this mornin’, do ye?”
“I do,” assented Denis quietly. “I believe you shot at Cowley.”
“Uh-huh. And the skunk put a bullet into Ed’s shoulder, curse him! Now we aim to life him in a rope necklace, where he belongs, and we don’t aim to be interfered with, none whatever. I hope you get me.”
Denis smiled again—that same deceptive smile.
“I understand you perfectly well, Ballard. You intend to commit murder by hanging Cowley. Cowley may deserve it, of course, but I’d hate to see you four men getting into court on a murder charge.”
Ballard stared at him.
“Out with it, Stewart—what’s your position? You ain’t figgering on playin’ any low-down tricks, are you?”
“Quite the contrary, Ballard. I came here this morning and arrested Smoking Duck, a half-breed. I then arrested Cowley, when he returned from meeting you. The two are in the next room together. Cowley has been making white whisky up here, or what passes for whisky with the Indians, and has been trading it for peltries.”
“Making whisky?” ejaculated Ballard. “You sure?”
“You’d better take a look at what’s left of the still and whisky around in back. As I told you last night, I’m representing my brother, Big Ben. Also, I’m representing the law. That’s exactly where I stand, Ballard.”
The other looked steadily at him.
“There’s four of us, all told, and one o’ you,” he rejoined slowly. “D’you mean to say you’re goin’ to stop us takin’ Cowley?”
“Exactly,” nodded Denis.
“Mebbe you figger on releasin’ Cowley and the ’breed to take a hand?”
“They are my prisoners, Ballard. They remain my prisoners—in that room. I have promised them protection from your lynching party, and intend to keep my promise.”
“Then all I can say is, you’re a durned fool,” exploded Ballard angrily. “We’re goin’ to get Cowley, hear me? If you start any foolin’ like you talk about, we’ll pile into you and make you wish you was somewhere else——”
“Don’t forget, I’m representing the law here,” interposed Denis.
The settler spat scornfully.
“Law—thunder! You ain’t representin’ nothin’, no more’n I am! Just ’cause your brother is Trooper Stewart don’t give you no license to parade around in them clothes, does it? Not much. You ain’t no soldier at all; you’re just an ordinary man like me, and a blamed fool to boot. Are you goin’ to get out the way or not?”
Denis smiled again.
“I’m very sorry, but I must refuse your invitation to move, Mr. Ballard. Please observe that this rifle of mine is cocked, and is trained on your left knee. Now step outside and tell your friends what you’ve heard.”
Without a word more the settler turned and departed scornfully. Striding a dozen feet from the shack door, he waved an arm.
“Come on in, boys!”
The other three appeared, and Ballard went to meet them. Denis watched their meeting and saw that Ballard was evidently describing what he had found in the cabin. The other three men broke into strident laughter—and that was a bad sign.
Denis rose and walked to the door, pausing just outside. All four turned to gaze at him, and he held up a hand.
“Just a moment, my friends,” he called pleasantly. “Do you see that stump, twenty feet to your right?”
The stump which he indicated was small, and from one side a jagged splinter of wood stood up for six inches. It was white spruce, plain to see, only a hundred feet from the shack.
“Just watch that stump for a moment,” went on Denis.
Lifting his rifle to his shoulder, he sighted at the splinter and pressed the trigger—seemingly without an instant’s hesitation. At the crack the splinter seemed to blow away into nothing.
“Thank you for your kind attention,” smiled Denis. “That’s all.”
A moment’s silence greeted this display of shooting ability. Denis turned and went back to the bunk, seating himself as before, facing the door.
The four men conferred together. Then, with another laugh, they marched forward to the shack, Ballard in the lead. Denis waited until they came close to the doorway, then he lifted his rifle.
“One moment, please, gentlemen!”
They halted. Ed, the wounded man, called in rough but earnest tones:
“None o’ the old stuff, Stewart! ‘We know darned well you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot us, so don’t try no bluff. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“An’ we know you ain’t no soldier, so cut it out,” added another.
“All that is perfectly true,” Denis smiled. “Take a look at my rifle—you see where it is pointing?”
They squinted in at him, Ballard leaning over. Denis was pointing his rifle at the doorsill.
“What you say is quite correct,” he went on steadily. “I wouldn’t shoot you down at all. But I am equally correct in saying that you won’t get Cowley unless you shoot me down—which I don’t think you’ll do by a good deal. I have several cartridges in this rifle, perfectly good ones, and you’ve seen that I know how to shoot.
“Of course, you can rush me. Very likely you will. But let me impress on you just one thing. I can fire at least two shots before you reach me, and then I have a revolver for quick work. The first man of you who sets his foot on that door threshold will get a bullet in it—in his foot. It’ll make a nasty wound, too. Step right along, Ballard! You’ll have to murder me to get Cowley, you know. Step up, gentlemen!”
No one accepted the invitation.
The seated figure of Denis, the rifle leveled and waiting, gave them pause. By his steady voice and cold blue eye they knew that he was in deathly earnest. The first to step on the threshold would probably be crippled for life.
“Hurry up!” snapped Denis suddenly. “Ballard, you’re the prime mover of this lynching expedition, so step along with you! If you don’t choose to chance it, put a bullet into me. You set out to do murder, so here’s your opportunity. Step out, Ballard!”
“Don’t ye do it!” cried one of the men hastily. “He means it—look at his face! Don’t ye do it!”
Most certainly Denis meant it, and his resolution was reflected in his battered face. Under the blaze of his cold eyes the four men paused, irresolute.
Then, with an oath, Ballard shoved forward, throwing up his rifle.
“You shoot me an’ you get a bullet!” he cried.
“Step up!” said Denis coldly.
The settler heaved forward, but his face was whiter than that of Denis, and sweat was on his brow. With a quick motion he raised his right foot over the threshold, brought it down, and then poised it an inch from the floor.
“Touch the floor!” said Denis. “I’m ready.”
Ballard heaved his shoulders forward, straining, as if some invisible wall were holding him back; then—he turned and stepped away.
“Go to thunder!” he snapped. “Come on home, boys. I guess Stewart is competent to get that skunk into jail without us helpin’.”
Denis lay back weakly in the bunk and watched them go.
CHAPTER XV.
The Back Trail.
“SORRY, Cowley, but you’ll have to wear those clear into headquarters. I wouldn’t trust you an inch without ’em, either.”
Denis smiled genially at the swindler, who grunted sheepishly.
With Smoking Duck, they were seated about the ruins of Cowley’s table, enjoying the repast of venison and coffee which Denis had prepared.
Ballard and his friends had departed to the foot of the lake. Convinced of their going, Denis had taken a plunge in the creek and freshened himself, then had set about getting a meal.
He ate amid due precautions, however. Cowley wore his irons. Smoking Duck, with his hands free to eat, sat in the corner across the room from Denis’ rifle.
“I heard what you said to them fellers,” said Cowley gruffly. “Mister, I take off my hat to ye. As I said, I’ll have to take my med’cine, an’ I’ll hold it agin’ ye for a while, too—but you’re some man, believe me! Any one who can lick Jim Cowley, an’ then pull off the stunt ye pulled off on them——”
“Forget it!” smiled Denis.
“Ye would ha’ shot, wouldn’t ye?”
“Maybe I would,” nodded Denis, keeping a wary eye on Smoking Duck.
Before he could say more he was startled by a shadow’ at the doorway. Catching at his rifle, he whirled—to see the grinning face of the half-breed, Napoleon McShayne.
Behind McShayne were two other figures. One was the Slave Indian whom Denis had encountered on the upper Hay River, old John Tadeteecha, the other was a Slave unknown to Denis. These last two paused outside, while Napoleon entered.
Before the “Whatcheer!” of greeting had been exchanged, Denis had swiftly leaped at a scheme which would relieve him of much labor and trouble. No more speech passed for a moment, Napoleon filling a pipe with whittled tobacco; then, seeing that Smoking Duck had finished his meal, Denis ordered him to stand up.
“Tie that fellow’s hands behind his back, Poleon!” he directed. “Tie ’em tight, and do the job well!”
When the scowling Petwanisip was safely secured, Denis ordered him and Cowley outside, following them promptly.
“Now’, Poleon,” he went on, “you go around to that left-hand lean-to, and you’ll find a very good bunch of fur. Haul it all out here. You go and help him. John; I expect you traded some of those furs yourself, didn’t you? Well, you’ll get no more whisky here. Hop along, all of you!”
The two Slave Indians grinned as if at some excellent joke, and followed Napoleon. The three broke into the fur cache, and presently began to haul forth bale after bale of fur. Most of the pelts were common, two or three bales being separately wrapped and proving to contain some dark marten and cross fox pelts of better promise.
Two of these better bales Denis handed over to Napoleon, as the pay which he had promised for assistance rendered. The second Slave gave his name as Tommy, and it proved that he had come to get some whisky in return for a few sorry muskrat pelts. Dennis addressed him straightly:
“Tommy, you clear out of here in a hurry! These pelts are going to stay here till your people come for them. Spread the word that whoever has traded to Cowley for whisky can come and get his furs back; that ought to be simple enough, because each fur is marked by the man who caught it. Don’t try any stealing, or you’ll go to jail. Run along now!”
Tommy departed toward the creek, wondering.
“You ain’t goin’ to hand back all them peltries!” groaned Cowley, seeing the fruits of his long illegal labors thus scattered. “You got to take ’em along, by law——”
“I’m the law in this case,” snapped Denis. “You shut up! John, you and Napoleon come here!”
The two stood before him, grinning vacuously.
“I have to take these two prisoners up the Hay to my father’s homestead—you know the place, John. Did you take that message to my father?”
Old John nodded his head, and reported that all was well at the homestead. Denis continued:
“Napoleon, I want you to paddle them up in your dugout. John and I will come with you in my canoe. I’ll have to go all the way without sleep, and I won’t be able to put in any work at the paddle. After we get there, my brother will want to take these men on to the Peace River, and will probably hire you to help him. You take us up, as I have said, and I’ll promise you good pay in goods and tobacco. How about it?”
Neither of the aborigines was anxious to work, but on the other hand, Denis represented the law to them, and it is not wise to refuse aid to the law.
Five minutes later, with the two prisoners safely barred in the smaller room, Denis rolled up and lay down across the door. They were to start up lake at sunset, and until that time he was going to make up sleep in anticipation of his long watch on the river trail, for he would not dare trust either Indian to guard the prisoners.
“By Jasper!” he thought sleepily. “I’ve made good for Ben, after all. But, believe me, I’ve changed my mind about going into the mounted. Yes, sir; I’m contented to remain a plain, unadorned American—this law-and-order business is just a bit too strenuous for Trooper Stewart, substitute!”
The End.