Of the intervening time there is nothing worthy of chronicling. During the time it took Sergeant Hubbel and his troopers to bring us in we rode, ate, slept, and rode again, and little else befell. If Barreau and the two Sanders worried over the outcome, if they indulged any thought of escape, or laid plans to that end, they kept these things to themselves. I perforce, did likewise. Altogether, we were a company of few words. And one evening, when dusk was closing in, the journey ended, and we lay down to sleep with barred doors and windows between us and other men.
Little as we spoke I gathered stray odds and ends of the affair, and pieced them as best I could. Most of it came from the troopers. After all, the thing was simple enough. At that time the sale of liquor was strictly prohibited in the Canadian Territories, and naturally whisky was at a premium. Thus the Sanders ranch, lying just across the American line, furnished an ideal base of operations for men inclined to gather in the shekels of the thirsty. Proof of the traffic in contraband whisky lay ready for use, at least so the Policemen had it—but they could never catch the wily Sanders brothers on the right side of the boundary. So with a fine disregard for all but the object to be gained, they violated an international technicality. The result justified the raid; that is, from the Mounted Police point of view. My arrest followed logically, from the company I was in. Barreau’s connection, however, was a little beyond me. “Slowfoot George,” as they called him, came in for cautious handling. Not once were his wrists free of the steel bands till the guardhouse door closed upon him. From this, and certain pointed remarks that I failed to catch in their entirety, I conceived the idea that he was wanted for worse than whisky-running. But like the other two, Barreau neither denied nor affirmed. Once the sergeant tried to draw him out and the curl of his lip and a caustic word or two cut short the Policeman’s effort.
Our “apartment” was singularly free from furniture. A wide plank ranged on either side, and a few not overclean quilts served for a bed. There was no room for more in that vile box. I had managed to get paper and a pen from the guard, and was curled up on my plank setting forth in a letter to Bolton all the unbelievable things that had occurred, when Barreau uttered his observation anent the workings of Destiny. Something in the way he spoke caused me to look up, and I saw that he was looking fixedly out into the guard-room through the grated opening in our cell door. There was none too much light, but with what there was I made out a paleness of face and a compression of his lips that were strangely at odds with his general bearing.
“What now?” I asked, wondering at the sudden change in him.
“Something I had hoped to be spared,” he said under his breath; more to himself than to me. Then he turned his eyes from the little window, drew up his knees till his fingers locked before them, and so sat hunched against the wall. Wholly absorbed in my letter-writing I had heard nothing out of the common. Now I distinguished voices, the deep tones of a man and following that the clear treble of a woman. During a brief interval of quiet she laughed, and after that I heard footsteps coming toward the row, out of which our cell faced.
Presently the shadow of them darkened the little window in our door. The red coat of the guard passed. Barreau shifted uneasily. I, too, leaned forward listening to the light footfall drawing near, for I had a vivid recollection of that voice—or one that was its twin. It did not seem strange that she should be there; Benton is not so far from MacLeod in that land of great distances. And my recollection was not at fault. An instant later her small, elfish face bent to the opening and she peered in on us—as one who views caged beasts of the jungle.
But there was none of the human fear of wild things in her attitude.
“So,” she said coolly, tucking a lock of hair under the same ridiculous little cap she had worn on the Moon, “this is how the Northwest would have you, is it, Mr. Bar—Mr. Brown. Alas! ‘To what base uses we do return.’ I cannot say you have my sympathy.”
“If that is the least cruel thing you can say,” Barreau flung back at her, putting his feet on the floor and resting his hands on the edge of his seat, “I thank you. But my trail is my own, and I have never yet asked you to follow in my stumbling footsteps.”
She colored at that, and from where I sat I could see the Police guard lift his eyebrows inquiringly. But she had other shafts at hand.