But the whole thing left him dissatisfied and uneasy. Ever since his arrest of the Wolf his mind had been haunted by the thought of a bad time yet to come. For the life of him he was unable to rid himself of the vision of a pair of derisively smiling black eyes, and those two clenched fists with their massive, bared wrists thrust out at him, inviting the cold embrace of steel handcuffs.
The haunt of that grim picture was very disturbing. Fyles was too familiar with crime and criminals of all sorts to be easily affected by their tricks. But the picture stuck with him, and somehow it robbed him of considerable confidence.
To his mind the Wolf was certainly the murderer of Sinclair. The matter of bootlegging did not arise now. That aspect of the case was lost under the greater charge of murder. The gang had been clever enough to clear all liquor. There was only the hidden still. That in itself was insufficient evidence. A conviction required that the men should have been taken red-handed with the making of their liquor.
No. He had only to consider the murder of Sinclair. And of that the case looked clear enough against the Wolf. There was the motive clear as daylight. There was the eyewitness’ evidence. But it made no difference. As he sat gazing out of his window, it was not the snow-sweeping fatigue party he beheld, it was not the many barrack buildings or the water tower, it was not even the gray sky frowning down upon his world. He saw only those two clenched fists thrust out at him, and the derision in the Wolf’s laughing eyes.
Of course he knew the Wolf’s gesture might have been a simple act of bravado. That sort of thing was not uncommon in youthful criminals. But somehow bravado did not fit the Wolf. He was clearly a man of unusual nerve, a criminal of simple, but utterly fearless type. But he was also a man with only the strangling grip of the hangman’s rope to which to look forward. Then why? He had invited arrest.
Fyles’ conclusion had been obvious from the first, in a man of cold reason. He warned himself that the Wolf was confident in his defence. He was certain of his own innocence.
Fyles stirred irritably. He turned from the window and stood up. Then he began to pace the narrow limits of his room.
His conclusion drove him to a further consideration of the girl Annette and of her evidence. He had done it all before, not once but many times. With tireless concentration, however, he went over the ground again as he strode to and fro.
He could see nothing unusual in her. He knew the type so well. There were all too many Annettes amongst the bastard races of the prairie. Beyond her beauty and youth she had nothing to recommend her. She was just a foolish, headlong, half-breed wench, whose native treachery had been brought to the surface the moment she had captured her white lover. She was ready to betray anybody in the interests of the white man who had promised to marry her. Her father—the Wolf, with whom she had been raised—she would sacrifice everything in fact, so long as Sinclair would——
Fyles ceased his perambulation. He halted abruptly and stood staring out of the window. And staring thus his whole expression transformed. Then came a grim smile.