Never Fire First: A Canadian Northwest Mounted Story

by James French Dorrance

So, that was the lay of the cards, he mused darkly—the explanation of the surprise attack. After their talk in Brewster's room at the Bonanza, the fat deputy must have located Kaw—shod in front but plain behind—and his 30-30 rifle which he had left in the stable. Hardley had realized, then, that his ill-considered revelation of clews would have put his man on guard. Learning that Seymour, supposed murderer and robber of the stage, was in the restaurant he had made ambush and effected his arrest along safety-first lines.

There the deputy's caution seemed to have stopped, thought the sergeant, enjoying again the reinforcing feel of his gun. Neglect to search his prisoner was quite in keeping with other official blunders which the fat man had made. Seymour would have to give Hardley credit, however, for effecting a silent, bloodless capture—with a blanket, as he remembered it.

Full assurance on this point awaited his glance. Almost at his feet lay the thing—a worn horse-blanket. Possibly the deputy had covered him with it before locking him in and, in the restlessness of thud-impelled slumber, Seymour had kicked it off.

A bottle that stood on the sheet iron stove invited inspection. Even before he picked it up, the stars on its label prepared him for the brandy smell which a sniff at its neck brought forth. If Hardley had been fortifying his courage with that high-powered stuff, it was no wonder he overlooked the gun. A drink of the liquor might have strengthened Seymour; but he realized he would need all his wit in the heated session which he meant should begin with the deputy's arrival at the jail. Lifting the stove top, he permitted the pint which remained in the bottle to gurgle into the ashes of some long-ago fire.

Seated on the edge of one of the bunks, he took stock of the situation. He had missed the late-night appointment at the O'Malley cabin on Glacier Creek. The missionary folk would think, probably, that they had left too much to his intuition in their excess of caution. That, however, meant only delay and, while hours were precious, he would make up for lost time once free of Hardley's detecting.

It began to look as though he was not a huge success as a plain clothes man. He had taken off his mask for Bart's widow. Ruth Duperow evidently believed him to be a constable come to aid the murdered "sergeant." Now it seemed likely that he would be forced to make a confidant of the talkative Hardley in order to be able to carry on at all. If Bart had not made the uniform a conspicuous target for one bad outfit of that region, he'd be tempted to at once climb into the scarlet which the bandit had left unworn. Never had he liked under-cover patrols, but in this particular case, he felt that "civies" were essential.

An hour had passed since his awakening and he was beginning to wonder when the obese deputy fed his prisoners at his perforce boarding house. If the surmise taken from the half-filled bottle of "Four Star" had been freely partaken, Hardley might sleep late that morning and awaken with a "head" that would make his visit to the guard house a second thought.

Seymour thought of firing his pistol through the window in a hope of attracting attention to his plight; he even went so far as to unlimber the weapon. But he recalled that he had not the slightest idea of where the calaboose was situated, for it had not come to his notice in the course of his one crowded day in Gold. That it did not stand immediately back of the sheriff's office he was certain, and it might be on the camp's outskirts for all he knew to the contrary. It seemed the part of wisdom to reserve his ammunition; at least to give the deputy another half-hour of grace.

In his impatience to be out and going, the sergeant began to pace the floor. Already, his physical fitness was asserting itself, returning him rapidly to normal. There was a pair of bumps on the back of his head where the two put-out blows had landed, but there was no sign of a scalp wound, thanks to the protection the thick blanket had afforded. Except for the confining bars and that ice-box door, he was entirely able to be out, carrying the law where it sadly was needed.

On his fourth or fifth round of the small room, he paused before the door, seized with a commanding impulse to expend his surplus energy in beating upon it. He had seen prisoners behave in that same futile fashion in his own guard rooms and, for the sake of quiet, had put irons on them when they persisted. But there was no one in this inhospitable place to put irons on him, so he yielded to the extent of beating a tattoo on the stout planking.