Pideau looked after her. He watched her till she reached the door, and opened it. He saw the darkness of the store, beyond, swallow her up. Then, and not till then, he dropped back into his chair.
But he was soon bestirring again. He reached the fuel box and fed the stove. He pulled open the damper, and leaned forward with his hands outspread to the warmth, for he hated the cold and worshipped the warmth that so pleasantly eased his body.
And, somehow, as he sat there contemplating the iron that was again reddening, there was no trace of any disturbance in the eyes that were no longer forced to mask the thoughts behind them. He was almost smiling.
CHAPTER XIII
THE WOLF AT BAY
STANLEY FYLES was back in his quarters at Calford. And Buffalo Coulee was left behind him somewhat chastened by his visit.
The Buffalo Coulees of the prairie were everyday experiences of Sergeant Fyles. And the people of them were his most intimate study. No one knew better than he how swiftly human nature, in these far-flung places, can drift back to the primitive. No one knew better than he that human nature without stern control was by no means a pleasing thing. He was fully conscious that his visit of less than a week and his arrest of the Wolf for the murder of Constable Sinclair had had an extremely salutary effect upon the men of the prairie township.
His quarters overlooked Calford’s barrack square. They were just a single small room furnished in the usual scant fashion ruling in Mounted Police life. But the sergeant had contrived to impress his own personality even on such an unpromising background.
Sergeant Fyles had completed a long morning’s work. He was sitting at the small whitewood table which served him as a desk. It was set under the double-glassed window, through which he could see such movement as went on in the snow-covered square, centred by its water tower, and surrounded by the barrack buildings. His work had been the setting forth of his case against the Wolf, and it occupied the many sheets of official foolscap which were scattered over the table.
His gaze was focussed on a small fatigue party engaged in clearing snow from the barrack sidewalks. But he was not seriously interested in it. He was pondering, sorting, sifting, arguing to himself the points of the case he had just set out for his superior officer.
The truth was Stanley Fyles was more troubled and less sure of himself than he would have cared to admit. He knew his case was complete. The Wolf was not only arrested, but safely under bolt and bar in the barrack guardroom. He had arranged for Annette’s quarters in Calford. And furthermore Sinclair’s body had been brought back for official identification and burial. Then the illicit still in the hills had been duly destroyed, while he had received Superintendent Croisette’s congratulations and commendations for his work.