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.