There were no lights to be seen in Buffalo Coulee when the brown mare neared the police quarters again. The township was buried in sleep.
Fyles should have been well satisfied with his night’s work. He looked like bringing to a swift conclusion the work he had been sent to perform. A return to his own comfortable quarters in the Calford barracks looked to be a matter of the near future, with another flattering entry of good work accomplished, on his police record. But he was not satisfied. He was far from satisfied.
He had seen the frozen corpse of his murdered comrade. He had discovered the source of the flood of poisonous liquor that was pouring from his district across the United States border, and causing an element of friction between the authorities of the two countries. He had had clear demonstration of the manner of the murder, and the murderer’s provocation. Annette’s story seemed without flaw.
But he was not satisfied. As he turned into his quarters, and off-saddled his mare, he was thinking of the murderer’s gun. He was thinking of Annette’s witness of the murder, the subject of which he was reserving for to-morrow night. And then, too, he was thinking of the girl herself, and of that elusive something about her of which he could not free his mind.
And as he passed into his sleeping quarters and prepared for his blankets, he once more repeated to himself the warning that had first leaped to his mind. The whole thing was “too easy—too darned easy.”
CHAPTER XI
THE BATTLE
PIDEAU ate noisily. There was something of animal greed in his obvious appreciation of his food. It was a revolting spectacle. His appetite was always large, and he greedily devoured large mouthfuls, breathing stertorously in the process, while he belched without disguise.
The man was at the table alone. A table that was without cover, and furnished only with the implements imperative for his feeding. Annette was there to minister to him. But the Wolf was back in the store until such time as his partner returned.
Annette had already eaten her supper. That was her custom. At no time did she take her meals with her menfolk. As for her father, no familiarity, no use could accustom her to the revolting with which his eating filled her.
But on the evening following her night journey with Stanley Fyles she had more than disgust to make her desire to avoid her parent. She knew she must be there. She knew she must do the work that was hers. But nothing, no effort of hers could conceal the brooding which was writ large in her smouldering eyes.