The long patrol

by Albert M. Treynor

Before the disconcerting discovery that he was trapped on the island, Dexter had already framed his tentative plans for the future. The capture of the Chicago outlaw at such a time had left him in a rather embarrassing situation. The man was too important a prisoner to take any chance on his escape. But to keep him in custody meant constant danger. Stark was not a person to let a belt full of gold slip through his fingers, and he undoubtedly would scour the woods to find its wearer.

Dexter had decided to play safe. It would be suicidal to push on northward where he was almost certain to encounter members of Stark's crowd; so he had made up his mind to turn back through the valley he had just quitted, make his way out through the southern gateway, and escort his two prisoners to Fort Dauntless. It was entirely possible that he might meet a party of re-enforcing police somewhere on the way. In any event he had discovered the route through the north pass, and after he had delivered Alison and Crill into safekeeping he could have returned with comrades to renew the hunt. Stark probably would continue his operations, and in some way or another the old trail could have been picked up.

But it was too late now to adopt the wiser course. There was nothing to be done but to sit still to wait until the stream might be forded again. And if Crill's companions put in their expected appearance, the corporal must fight them single-handed, with a thousand to one chance against his winning.

Dexter's face was an unreadable mask as he surveyed the turbulent waters, but Crill evidently understood the situation as well as he did. The outlaw exhibited his yellow teeth in a grin of saturnine gloating.

"Got yourself in a hole that you won't get out of alive," he remarked. "My gang'll be here after me, you bet, and when they come there'll be one less cop on the royal police force."

"The cops of the mounted do drop out at intervals," admitted the corporal calmly. "But there's always a new one to fill up the ranks. So that's all right." He smiled almost genially. "Meanwhile I advise you to step very carefully. Come on. We'll go back."

The three island castaways spent a long and tedious day in the cabin between the thundering rapids. Dexter found a few old dog-eared magazines that helped him beguile the dragging hours, but he was forced to do his reading in broken snatches, with one eye watching Crill or shifting restlessly towards the open door, through which he could see along the farther bank of the water-course.

The outlaw for his part did everything he could to keep his captor's nerves on edge. He had opened a window shutter, and found himself a seat on a bench under the sill. Part of the time he stared off downstream with an air of grim expectancy, as though he were confident that his friends would soon appear. At other moments he would swing around to fix Dexter with venomous, unwinking eyes. At intervals he would spring up from his stool and peer out the window, pretending that he had caught sight of some one approaching through the forest; only to sit down again with a mocking, throaty laugh when the corporal also lifted his head to look. Twice he lurched to his feet and started truculently across the room, moved apparently by a sudden savage impulse to hurl himself upon his captor. On one such occasion he advanced so near that the officer dropped the magazine he was reading and reached for his revolver. Whereupon Crill's face relaxed in an evil smirk, and he swaggered back to the bench to renew his vigil at the window.

Dexter would have liked to put an end to the man's antics by tying him hand and foot; but he could not hope to accomplish the job with only one serviceable arm. If Crill once laid hands on him he unquestionably would be crushed and beaten down by sheer bulk and weight of flesh. His only dependence were the three cartridges left in Alison Rayne's revolver, and the outlaw well knew that he would not fire, except in an extreme emergency.

The officer could have called on Alison to help him, and because of her fear of the murderer she probably would have consented; but the girl was also his prisoner, and it was a matter of pride and honor with him not to seek favors where duty forbade him to grant favors in return. So he made the best of matters by keeping his temper and patience, and maintaining unceasing vigilance.