← catalogue

Benton of the Royal Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

by unknown · English · Gutenberg #41889 · 476,517 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Benton of the Royal Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Benton of the Royal Mounted: A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police

Creator: Ralph S. Kendall


        
Release date: January 20, 2013 [eBook #41889]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41889

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BENTON OF THE ROYAL MOUNTED: A TALE OF THE ROYAL NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.





                                 BENTON
                                 OF THE
                             ROYAL MOUNTED

                          A TALE OF THE ROYAL
                        NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE

                                   BY
                            RALPH S. KENDALL

                    "Let us now praise famous men"--
                         Men of little showing--
                       For their work continueth,
                       And their work continueth,
                       Broad and deep continueth,
                       Greater than their knowing!

                              _--Kipling_

                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                          PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK

                  Copyright 1918 by John Lane Company




FOREWORD

The scenes of this story belong to bygone days. As the passer-by views
the ugly half-constructed railway terminus which now sprawls itself over
the original site of that historic group of Police buildings, known as
the "Post," little does he appreciate the pangs of real regret which
stir the hearts of old members of the Force, as they recall associations
of earlier years.

Scattered now beyond the writer's ken are those good fellows with whom
he served in years gone by. They were men of a type fast disappearing,
with whom any one would have been proud to associate and call
"comrades." No longer do those once orderly grounds resound with the
clear notes of the trumpet-call, the neighing of troop-horses, or the
harsh-barked word of command. Gone is the old Guardroom at the gates of
the main entrance. The spot where the O.C.'s house lay half hidden
amidst its clustering shrubbery and trim, well-kept lawn and kitchen
garden, is now but a drab area of railway tracks. Missing is the
towering flag staff, from whose top-gaff, visible for miles around,
there flew from "Reveille" to "Retreat" the brave emblem of our Empire.

But today, while these lines are being penned, many members and
ex-members of the old Force are still sternly serving that flag; gaining
well-deserved military honors, shedding their blood, and laying down
their lives in the great and terrible struggle for supremacy between
Human Liberty, and Iron Oppression that overshadows the world.

Aye! ... small wonder that the sight of the old spot awakens strange
memories in those of us who were stationed there in our youth. Members
of a force of comparatively small numbers, it is true, but with a
reputation for efficiency, discipline, and stern adherence to duty which
has rarely been equaled, and is too widely known to need any further
eulogy in this story.

--R. S. K.




                                 PART I




CHAPTER I


    "We've some of us prospered, and some of us failed.
      But we all of us heave a sigh
    When we think of the times that we used to have
      In those happy days gone by.
    When we used to whistle, and work, and sing,
    Make love, drink, gamble, and have our fling;
    Caring little for what the morrow might bring--
      In those good old days gone by."

    --_Memories_

With the outlines of its shadowy white walls and dark roof silhouetted
in sharp relief against a glorious full moon, the big main building of
the old Mounted Police Post of L Division stood forth--like a lone
monument to the majesty of British Law. A turfed "square," framed within
a border of whitewashed stones, lay at its front like a black carpet.
Clustered about the central structure were the long, low-lying
guardroom, stables, quartermaster's store, and several smaller adjacent
buildings comprising "the Barracks." Stray patches of silvery light
illuminated the dark recesses between them. It was a perfect night
following an unparalleled June day in sunny South Alberta.

The "Post," with its shadowy outlines, presented a striking contrast to
its activity by day. In the daytime gangs of prisoners in their
checkered jail garb were to be seen tramping sedately here and there,
engaged on various jobs about the carefully kept grounds. An armed
"escort" followed grimly behind each gang. Police teams, hitched to
buck-boards and heavy, high-seated transport wagons, arrived and
departed with a clatter. Mounted men, on big upstanding horses, came and
went continually, each rider intent upon his own particular mission. At
the guardroom, the quartermaster's store, and the orderly-room the same
ordered action and busy preoccupation were noticeable.

The only sounds that disturbed the peaceful serenity of the moonlit
scene proceeded from a lighted open window in the center of the main
building, where the men's quarters and the regimental canteen were
located. An uproarious hilarity resounded through the stillness; the
shrill yaps of a pup and the tinkling of a piano rising above the tumult
of song and laughter.

These jovial evidences of good fellowship floated across the square, not
unwelcomely, to the ears of a solitary rider, whose weary horse was
bearing him slowly along the hard graveled driveway which led from the
main gateway to the stables. Dismounting somewhat stiffly, the man stood
for a moment, listening to the sounds of revelry. He gazed silently
toward the beacon of good cheer which seemed to beckon him. Then
suddenly turning on his heel, he trudged wearily on to his destination,
leading his mount.

After spending half an hour or more in off-saddling, rubbing down, and
attending scrupulously, if mechanically, to his animal's wants, the
horseman emerged from the stable, locked the door, and walked slowly
across the square to the Canteen.

Duly arriving at his cheerful haven, the newcomer opened the canteen
door and for a moment or two silently contemplated the all-familiar
scene of a large, well-lighted room with a bar at one end, behind which,
on rows of shelves, were stacked various kinds of dry provisions,
tobacco in all its forms, and miscellaneous odds and ends of a mounted
policeman's requirements supplementary to his regular "kit."

Seated around small tables, playing cards, or else perched upon high
stools against the bar, he beheld a score or so of bronzed,
soldierly-looking men of all ages, ranging from twenty to forty. They
were dressed variously--some in the regulation uniform of the
Force--i.e., scarlet serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding-breeches with
the broad yellow stripe down the side, and high brown "Strathcona" boots
with straight-shanked, "cavalry jack" spurs attached. Some again--with
an eye to comfort alone--just in loose, easy, brown duck "fatigue
slacks." Many of the older members might have been remarked wearing the
active-service ribbons of former campaigns in which they had served.

Their day's duty over, careless and jovial they sat, amidst the
tobacco-smoke-hazy atmosphere, smoking and drinking their beer and
exchanging good-natured repartee which occasionally was of a nature that
has caused a certain great writer to affirm, with well-grounded
conviction, that "single men in barricks don't grow into plaster
saints." Poor enough stuff it was for the most part, I fancy, but there!
... we were easily satisfied--we were not inclined to be over-fastidious
in the Canteen, and anyhow ... it passed the time away.

At the piano was an ex-Dublin Fusileer, with a comical face and an
accent suggestive of "Silver Street," who acted as general accompanyist.
His own vocal talent was being contributed just now, and a chorus of
shouts, banging of beer tankards and stamping of feet greeted the final
verse of his song, the burden of which was--

    "An' whin we gits to Donnybrook Fair, comes Thady, with his
            fiddle,
    An' all th' bhoys an' colleens there a-dancin' down th' middle;
    Shpuds, shillaleghs, pigs an' potheen--all as ye thrapsed
            along--
    Hurroo! for a chune on th' nob av 'um who'd intherrrupt me
            song!".

A little fox terrier pup, clinging with ludicrous gravity to a somewhat
precarious position behind a man who was perched all doubled up on one
of the high stools aforesaid, growled and snapped with puppy viciousness
at all teasing attempts to dislodge him, adding to the general uproar.
His master, Constable Markham, who, from certain indisputably "simian"
peculiarities of feature and habits, was not inaptly designated "the
Monk," had, as the result of his frequent libations, succeeded in
cultivating--what, in canteen parlance was termed--"a singing jag." Now,
elbows on bar, he began to bellow out a lone doggerel ditty for his own
exclusive benefit. Something where each bucolic verse wound up with--

    "O be I I, or bain't I I--
    I tell ee I bain't zuch a vule as I luke!"

The Orderly-room Sergeant, Dudley, a tall, good-looking fair man about
thirty, who, leaning on the bar alongside was endeavoring amidst the din
to carry on a conversation with a corporal named Harrison, turned
somewhat wearily to the maudlin vocalist.

"Oh, now, for the love of Mike! ... try an' forget it, Monk, do!" he
drawled. "Charity begins at home! ... as if there wasn't _enough_ racket
in here without you adding _your_ little pipe! ... sitting there all
humped up an' hawkin' away like a--old crow on his native muck-heap! ...
Be I I, or bain't I I?" he exploded, with a snort of derision at the
other's uncouth Somersetshire dialect, and after a long pause: "By gum!
there's no mistake about you ... you're well named! You'd be quite at
home in the jungle!"

He faced round again to the grinning corporal. "Say, Harrison," he
resumed, "don't know if Benton's come in yet, do you?" He lowered his
voice confidentially. "'Father's' called him in about something and I
want to see him directly he lands in--first crack out of the box."

His eyes, wandering vaguely over the noisy crowd as he spoke, suddenly
dilated with surprised recognition as they lighted upon the newcomer,
whose unobtrusive entrance amidst the general revelry had somehow
escaped his notice.

"Talk of the devil!" he ejaculated with easy incivility; "why here the
---- is! Why, hello, Ben! How's things goin' in Elbow Vale?"

The object of this familiarity, walking silently forward to the bar with
a whimsical smile on his bronzed, dusty countenance, merely opened his
mouth to which he pointed in dumb show.

"Dear me!" remarked the Orderly-room Sergeant sympathetically, "as bad
as all that? Here, Bob! set 'em up! ... give Sergeant Benton a 'long
'un'!"

The "long 'un" tendered by the canteen orderly arrived and disappeared,
another following speedily on top of it; their recipient then, his
thirst temporarily appeased, turned to the two non-coms.

There remains engraven indelibly upon the memory of the writer, as he
recalls the striking personal appearance and quietly forceful character
of Ellis Benton, a slightly saturnine, _still_ face, with high, bold,
regular features, suggestive rather of the ancient Roman type; coldly
handsome in its clean-cut patrician mold but marred somewhat by a
peculiar thin old scar, like a whip-lash, which extended from an angle
of the grim-lipped yet tender mouth up to the left cheek bone. This
facial disfigurement contrived to give him an expression of faint
perpetual cynicism, as it were, which was accentuated by a pair of
tired-looking pale gray eyes, deeply set under thick, dark, level
brows--eyes which seemed to glow at times with a somber light like
smoldering fire in their depths--eyes that were vaguely disturbing,
bidding you beware of the man's ruthless anger when aroused.

Altogether it was a remarkable face with its indefinable stamp of
iron-willed, quietly reckless courage, indicative of a strenuous past
and open with the possibilities for good or evil alike, as caprice
should happen to sway its possessor's varying moods.

And yet, strange to say, in spite of his hard-bitten, cynical exterior
and characteristics that verged sometimes on actual brutality, deep,
deep down in his complex soul Ellis Benton hid an almost womanish
tenderness, coupled with a sensitive artistic temperament that few were
aware of or would have credited. In figure he was splendidly
proportioned. Not overly tall, but with the lean, wiry flanks, broad,
square shoulders, and slim waist of the trained athlete that denoted
great activity, and the possession of immense concentrated strength
whenever he chose to use it. The "Stetson" hat, tipped back, exposed
slightly graying, closely cropped brown hair. But the young-looking face
dispelled at once the first impression of age, for Ellis was only
thirty-eight.

His well-fitting uniform, consisting of a "stable jacket" of the
regulation brown duck, on which were noticeable the "Distinguished
Conduct," and the "King's" and "Queen's" South African campaign ribbons,
riding-breeches, boots and spurs, was thickly covered with dust, for he
had ridden into the Post from his detachment which lay many weary miles
to the south.

"Well," he remarked to the Orderly-room Sergeant and, with significant
emphasis, "what's doin' now?"

For the most part he spoke lazily in the slipshod, drawling vernacular
acquired from long residence in the West, though when occasion arose he
could revert naturally and easily to the educated speech of his early
upbringing.

Dudley did not reply at first but shot a warning, almost imperceptible,
sidelong glance towards the crowd, enjoining silence. Obeying the
other's gesture, the detachment sergeant held his peace awhile, and
presently the two men, moving away from the bar, seated themselves at
one of the small tables and began to talk together earnestly in low
tones.

The clamor around them increased. Out broke the old barrack-room chorus
"Johnny Green," which, to the tune of the "Sailor's Hornpipe" goes, as
all Service men are aware:

    "Oh, say, Johnny Green! did you ever see the Queen?
    Did you ever catch a Blue-jacket lovin' a Marine?
    May the Rock of Gibraltar take a runnin' jump at Malta
    If I ever see a nigger with a white--rum-tum."

"So _that_," concluded the Orderly-room Sergeant, "is what the old man's
got you in for. Did you make a _good_ job of it?"

Benton's pale, deeply set eyes began to glow with their peculiar baleful
light.

"Did I?" he echoed mirthlessly. "Well, I should smile!... An' I'll make
a better one still when I go back. I'll bash that ---- till he spits
blood!"

He uttered the threat in an even, passionless, unraised voice, as if it
were just the merest commonplace remark. A canteen-chant held its own
with steady insistence:

    Three--men--in-a-boat, inaboat,
    Three--men--all-very-dry,
    Three--men--ridin'-a-Nannygoat,
    Go it you--! you've only one eye.

Dudley summarized briefly, in a tense undertone, the thing that Benton
need not be, regarding him closely meanwhile with slightly anxious eyes.
The bronzed, reckless face--naturally somber when in repose--wore a
terribly ruthless expression just then.

"Oh, now, forget it, Ben," was his half joking admonition. "What the
d--l's the use of you runnin' amuck again an' makin' bad worse?... That
won't help matters one little bit ... an' you know it."

Ever and anon--above the roar of the Canteen, not unlike the booming
note of a bittern amid the croaking and chirping of all the other lesser
denizens of some swamp--would rise the mighty brogue of the genial
Constable O'Hara, in a general exhortation to:

"Come on! Fwet yure whustles an' sing-g, ye scutts, with 'gr-reat
gusto.' For ut was:

    Down, down, in swate Counthy Down,
    An' th' pore ol' night-watchman was jus' passin' roun;
    Puts his hand to his nob to feel where he was hit--
    Sez he "Holy Shmoke! but Oi'm--"

The stentorian voice broke off short as the vocalist glanced
suspiciously at the empty glass at his elbow which a minute before had
been full.

"Here," quoth he with some heat; "who was ut dhrunk my beer?... Was ut
you, Tabuteau?... Eyah, now! but thot's a Galway man's thrick ivry
toime!... Fill ut up agin, an' kape ut filled contihnuous, tu, ye Fenian
rapparees, d'ye hear?... else, begob! ye can get some other shtiff tu
blow the 'Pipes av Pan' for ye!... Come on, now!... fwet yure whustles
an' opin yure thraps an' sing-g, ye half-baked omadhauns! ... Now, thin!
all together! For ut was:

    Not las' night, but th' night behfure,
    Tu tohm-cahts come a-knockin' at th' dhure"

Ellis remained very still for some time, staring at his companion with
an absent, brooding face.

"Just think what it'd mean," pursued Dudley. "As this matter stands just
now you _have_ got a reasonable show of getting away with it; but, I
tell you flat, old man ... a _second_ edition of it wouldn't go.... You
know what 'Father's' like in Orderly-room. You never know which way he's
going to jump.... You'd be 'broke' for a certainty, anyway.... I don't
want to see your name in 'G.O.'s' _that_ way.... Come, now! will you be
a wise guy an' listen to your Uncle Dud?"

Thus he pleaded with the man who was to him a comrade and a sincere
friend.

"Oh, well," responded Benton at last, wearily, with an oath. "I guess
I'll let up on that stiff this time. I handed him enough to last for a
bit, anyway, so that's some satisfaction."

He bit off the end of a cigar which the other handed to him, continuing:
"Oh, I'll get away with it all hunkadory ... been up against it before
... lots of times.... Guess I can make the grade--that is, if 'Father'
_does_ come to Orderly-room in anything like a good temper tomorrow."

Dudley, his point gained, got up and fetched two fresh tankards of beer.

"Were you ever at such a howling 'gaff' before in all your life?" he
remarked irritably. "I'll bet 'Father' can hear 'em right across the
square there." And, as a penetrating Cockney voice then uplifted itself,
"how's that for 'Whitechapel'? ... listen to 'Tork abaht Tompkins.'"

    Too 'ard! too 'ard! An' th' ol' duck said,
    as she waddled dahn th' yard
    "Oh, I can 'atch a turkey or 'atch a chick
    But I'm--if I can 'atch 'arf a brick!
    It's a--bit bit,--bit, bit--bit bit too 'ard!"

His audience, tickled beyond measure at the inimitable "coster" accent
which, for many years has been so famously exploited by Mr. Albert
Chevalier, egged this performer on to further efforts. Nothing loath, he
complied, and presently the Canteen was shaking with:

    Oh, nah I'm goin' to be a reg'lar torff,
    A-drivin' in me kerridge an' me pair,
    Wiv a top-'at on me 'ead, an' fevvers in me bed
    An' call meself th' "Dook of Barney-fair."
    "As-stir-th'-can" rahnd th' collar o' me coat,
    An' a "Piccadilly winder" in me eye;
    Goblimey! 'ear th' costers a-shoutin' in yer lug:
    "Oh! leave us in yer will afore yer die!"

On went the singing, shouting pandemonium. Benton's face began to clear
a little. He had not been in the Post for a long time and the homely
racket and the beer combined, gradually had the effect of making him
forget his troubles for the time being.

    An--d ... the elephant walked round,
    And the band began to play,
    So all you beggars that cannot sing!
    You'd better get out of the way!

A dozen or so of unprintable "limericks" followed this announcement,
contributed in rotation by various members of the community, the
"elephant" chorus "walking around" solemnly at the conclusion of each
one. A particularly ingenious composition just then drew a perfect storm
of laughter from the genial crowd, Ellis (sad to relate) guffawing
loudly with the rest.

"Sacred Billy!" he ejaculated, grinning at Dudley, "but you're sure a
tough bunch in this old Post.... Did you hear that one?... Well!... this
is no place for a parson's son!"

The Orderly-room Sergeant did not answer for a moment, then an
expression, which was a mixture of amusement and disgust, slowly
overspread his rather refined face, and a snorting, reluctant chuckle
escaped him.

"Is that so?... 'Many's the true word spoken in jest'!" he retorted.
"Porteous--the young devil who came across with _that_ one, _is_ a
'parson's son,' as it happens, my boy.... His old man's the Dean of some
fat living or another in the South of England.... By George, though!...
I'm getting just about fed up with that stuff, night after night.... Tip
us a stave, Ben!... start in now and sing us something decent for a
change."

He got up suddenly from the table and, lifting his tankard high as if
for a toast, bawled "Order!" A slight lull followed, taking advantage of
which, he called out:

"Say, you fellows!... I propose we call on Sergeant Benton, here, for a
song!"

A vociferous assent greeted his suggestion immediately, and all eyes
were turned on Ellis, with encouraging shouts of: "You bet!... That's
the talk! Come, on, Sergeant! please!... Order, there!... Shut your
traps for a bit!" For, they all knew that when in the mood he _could_
sing.

Benton did not move for a minute, then: "Doggone you!" he remarked, with
a resigned sigh to Dudley, "_you've_ let me in for this!... An' I just
wanted to sit here quiet!"

He quaffed a long draught of beer and got up though presently and,
sauntering over to the piano which O'Hara promptly vacated for him,
seated himself. A comparative quiet ensued. Even "the Monk's" maudlin
ribaldry ceased, and that worthy becoming interested, he slewed around
on his perch so as to hear the better, unceremoniously shoving off his
faithful pup--"Kid"--in the movement, which sent that canine with a
hasty "flop" to the floor.

With the hard lines of his face momentarily softened with an expression
of genial bonhomie, the Sergeant toyed absently with the keys for a
space, thinking of something appropriate for that hilarious company;
then suddenly, a clear baritone voice of remarkable depth and richness,
rang out in the old familiar song of "Mandalay":

    "Come you back to Mandalay,
    Where the old Flotilla lay:
    Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from
      Rangoon to Mandalay?
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the flyin'-fishes play,
    An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer
      China 'crost the Bay!"

The last verse but one begins, as you know, with the sort of irritable
abandon typical of a soldier's "grouse":

    "Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the
            worst,
    Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a
            thirst;
    For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would
            be--
    By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea;"

He finished the rollicking old ballad amid thundering applause and loud
shouts of "'Core! 'Core!" "Give us 'In Cellar Cool'!" "Give us 'Father
O'Flynn'!" etc. But just then the clear, long-drawn-out, sweet notes of
a trumpet-call sounded outside on the square. The Orderly-room Sergeant
looked at his watch.

"Hello!... Didn't know it was so late!" he ejaculated. "Come on, there!
Turn out!... 'First Post's' just gone!"

And the Canteen gradually emptied as the men departed noisily to their
respective barrack-rooms.




CHAPTER II


    A man severe he was, and stern to view;
    I knew him well, and every truant knew:
    Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
    The day's disasters in his morning face;
    Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,
    At all his jokes, and many a joke had he;
    Full well the busy whisper circling round,
    Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.

    --_Goldsmith_

Captain Richard Bargrave, Superintendent of L Division--better known by
the fond appellation of "Father"--sauntered slowly along the narrow
sidewalk leading from his quarters to the orderly-room; the aged
black-and-white setter "Bob," his constant companion, keeping step
behind.

How well many of us can recall that tall, spare, soldierly figure, and
the walk with its faint suggestion of old-fashioned cavalry swagger,
while the whispers of "Look out! here's Father coming now!" sent us all
scuttling about our duties. How we used to fume and curse (behind his
back) at his numerous erratic bursts of temper and little
eccentricities. How his polished sarcasm and fluent adjectives used to
curl us up and, incidentally--excite our envy. And yet--how we learned
to trust and respect that irascible but kindly old aristocratic face,
with its sweeping fair mustache. Aye!--

    He passed as a Man in our critical eyes,
    Stern, yet kindly--simple, yet wise.
    Who'd upheld his rank since his service began
    As "An Officer, and ... a Gentleman."

"Father's a rum old beggar but, begad, he's a gentleman and always gives
you a square deal," was our invariable retort to divers disparaging
criticisms from members of other divisions, less fortunate, perhaps, in
the stamp of their own particular "Officer Commanding."

Benton, who, attired in a red serge tunic--borrowed from Dudley for the
occasion--was looking through the billiard-room window, watched his
approach with interest. When nearing the orderly-room the old dog,
seeing "the Monk's" pup in supreme possession of the step, jumped
forward with a threatening growl to eject the usurper of his own
customary lounge. In the scuffle that ensued they got between "Father's"
legs and nearly upset him.

"Damn the dogs! Damn the dogs!" he chuckled softly.

And, stepping over them carefully, with a fond, benevolent smile, he
passed on through the open door, half humming, half whistling a hymn
tune, which was not, however, prompted by especial piety. It was a habit
of his. But to the observant sergeant it was an omen.

"He _is_ in a good temper," he muttered with relief, and quietly he
awaited the summons that he knew must come.

It came presently. "Sergeant Major!... Oh, Sergeant Major!" came the
thin, high, cultured voice. "Has Sergeant Benton reported in yet from
Elbow Vale?"

The gruff official holding that rank and who was familiar to most
members of the Division as "Mickey," saluted and replied in the
affirmative.

"Send him in!" came the order, and shortly Ellis found himself standing
at "attention," facing his seated superior.

"That will do, Sergeant Major!... Kindly close the door," and they were
alone.

There was silence for a moment or two, during which the O.C. rummaged
amongst some letters on his desk. He found the one he wanted and
scrutinized it carefully. "Sergeant Benton," he began, with a sudden
snap in his tones and a quick upward glance that strung that individual
up to tense expectancy, "I have here a letter--an _anonymous_
letter--accusing you-of-grossly and maliciously-assaulting a well known
and respected citizen of Elbow Vale on the night of the twelfth
instance.... Motive unknown--all names--with the exception of your
own--omitted. Said assault of such severe character that its recipient
is still confined to bed.

"Now, sir!... although I generally make a rule of treating anonymous
correspondence with the contempt it deserves--there seems something
vaguely familiar in this handwriting that inclines me on this occasion
to revoke my usual practise, and make a few inquiries into this puzzle.
I look to you for the key. You have the reputation of being a truthful
man in this Division.... Is the statement in this letter correct?"

Benton hesitated. "As far as the assault goes, yes, sir," he said
finally.

"What led to this assault?"

The Sergeant hesitated again. "A dirty slander, sir, connecting me with
a married woman in the town," he said.

The Captain tapped with his pen and eyed Ellis keenly. "_Was_ it a
slander?" he queried quizzically--and then repented, for there was a
look on that reckless but gentlemanly face that dispelled all
doubt--even before the man's answer came.

"Ah, well, then," said the O.C., "that accounts for this letter being
anonymous. Now give me all names and particulars of this affair."

The Sergeant did so and the Captain's face darkened as he listened. "So
that's who it is, eh?" he muttered thoughtfully. "Thought I knew that
writing again.... I remember the man--well--but I don't think I've ever
met the lady." And the fair mustache was twirled gallantly.

The recital finished by the Sergeant remarking: "I couldn't very
well--under the circumstances, sir--lay a charge, or act otherwise than
I did--without dragging the lady's name into this miserable affair."

"You've no business going about assaulting people, anyway," retorted the
old gentleman irascibly, with one of his characteristic changes of
front. "And though it is not my intention to take any further notice of
this unsigned epistle, as I am fully convinced you have told me the
absolute truth--I do not think it would be good policy to send a man
with your pugilistic tendencies back to this locality again. Let's see,"
he mused aloud, "you're a good range man. I think I'll transfer you to
Cherry Creek, where you will be, I hope, beyond all temptation of
getting involved again in any more of these--ah--social
misunderstandings (Ellis groaned inwardly). Arrange for your kit to be
sent in from Elbow Vale and proceed to Cherry Creek. I will give you a
written order for Corporal Williamson to hand over the detachment to you
and to come in to the Post. He seems to have been getting slack, for
there are a lot of stock-rustling complaints coming in from his district
lately. See if you cannot effect a change in present conditions there.

"Well!" he grunted impatiently, as the Sergeant halted irresolutely at
the door, "what is it?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Benton, "but can I keep the same horse?"

"Oh, I suppose--I suppose," said the O.C. testily. "Damme, sir!...
You've had that cursed horse transferred from every detachment you've
been stationed at!" He fussed with some papers. "You'd better tell
Williamson then, to ride in, and the next man who goes to Elbow Vale can
take _his_ horse. That is all, Sergeant.... Report to the Sergeant-Major
of your transfer."

In the passage Ellis encountered the Sergeant-Major and Dudley.
"Banishment--physically, socially, and morally--right back to the
'bald-headed' again!" he plainted dismally to their inquiring grins.
"Father intimating in his own happy fashion that I wasn't quite
civilized enough to hold down a Line detachment.... Cherry Creek!... O
Lord!"

Inside the orderly-room the Captain, meanwhile, was slowly pacing
backwards and forwards, hands clasped behind back. Through his teeth he
softly hissed one of his eternal hymn tunes, which he suddenly broke off
short to ejaculate with a low-toned, jerky abruptness to himself--"D--n
the man!--d--n the man! Don't blame him! Couldn't tell him so, though!
Thought I knew that writing! D--d cad, that fellow Cooper!... Knew him
years ago! D--d rascal! Glad Benton thrashed him! Done the same
myself!--younger days!"

He resumed his interrupted hymn.




CHAPTER III


    Therefore, Christian men be sure,
      Wealth or rank possessing,
    Ye who now will bless the poor,
      Shall yourselves find blessing.

    --_Good King Wenceslas_. (_Old Carol_)

Three weeks elapsed and Benton again showed up in the Post with the
first fruits of his new scene of operations--two prisoners committed for
trial on a charge of cattle stealing.

His had been a weary watch for many nights, but he had caught his men at
last, slaughtering stolen beef cattle in an old deserted corral at three
o'clock in the morning. He looked worn out and had a black eye, received
in the rough-and-tumble arrest that had followed.

The Captain was secretly pleased, but to Ellis he evinced little sign of
his satisfaction. "Praise men up--spoil 'em! Let 'em think it's their
ordinary course of duty," was his customary maxim.

"Good man, that Benton," he muttered to himself during one of his office
pacings. "He'll straighten that Cherry Creek district out before long."

He gave the Sergeant three days' rest, though, and spoke about
transferring him a man if required, which offer Ellis declined, however.
With his taciturn and secretive nature he preferred to follow alone, and
in various disguises, the tortuous windings of stock cases, calmly
relying on his own great strength, cunning, and ability with gun and
fist, to effect any arrest.

The four-fifteen West-bound carried him as a passenger back to Sabbano,
his nearest railway depot, the detachment being on the prairies forty
miles away from the line. It was raining, and Ellis felt miserable as he
gazed through the window and contemplated the wet, cheerless ride he
would have in the morning.

He vaguely thought of "Johnny" waiting for him in Sergeant Churchill's
stable at Sabbano. Was he being properly looked after? Churchill was a
"booze artist," d--n him, and like as not he'd neglect him, like he did
his own horse.

He was aroused from his gloomy abstraction by something tugging at his
riding-crop and, turning his eyes he beheld a little curly-headed tot
leaning over the back of the seat ahead of him. She was perhaps about
three years old, and her blue eyes were sparkling with determination as
she pulled at the leather thong with all her baby strength, in a
desperate effort to possess herself of the desired treasure.

Benton's moody face immediately softened with a friendly grin. He loved
children and they instinctively came to him without fear.

"Hello, Sis," he said. "You want it?" and he surrendered the coveted
plaything, which she immediately started to flourish with great glee.
The mother, a thin, shabbily dressed, careworn-looking young woman about
thirty, looked on with a loving smile that glorified her poor, pinched
face.

"Oh, Nellie, Nellie," she said reprovingly; "you mustn't--you'll hit
somebody" and she turned to Benton, saying, "I hope my little girl isn't
worrying you?"

"Not a bit--not a bit," he returned cheerily. "Kids are welcome to tease
me any old time."

Scrambling down from her perch, the little one gazed at his uniform with
lively interest and tentatively tapped his boots and the rowels of his
spurs with the crop. "Toldier," she lisped, and without more ado she
climbed up beside him on the seat and, putting her little arms around
his neck, gave him a genuine loving hug and kiss which fairly took him
by storm and caused broad laughs of amusement to come from those sitting
near.

The touch of those baby lips awoke a strange longing in the heart of the
lonely man, and a dreamy, far-away look momentarily softened his hard
face. To have a comfortable home to come back to every night, and not to
be chased around here, there, and everywhere at the whims of the powers
that be. To be happily married to a loving girl-wife, and have kiddies
that would climb all over you, and run after you, and where you could
lie on the sands, in the sun, by the sea, somewhere, and watch 'em
playing--

A sudden exclamation from the mother awoke him sharply from his reverie.

"What's the matter?" he asked. She seemed terribly agitated. "Oh!" she
said; "I've lost my hand-bag, and my ticket was in it and some money!"

"Were you sitting here all the time since you got on the train?" he
inquired.

"No," she answered; "I was on that seat at the far end when I first came
in this coach."

He got up and, walking down the aisle, made a thorough search of the
place that she indicated, but his efforts were fruitless. It was a
little brown Morocco-leather bag, she informed him, with her name,
"Elizabeth Wilson," on it, under a celluloid panel.

"Who was sitting by you?" he asked. "D'you think you could recognize the
person again?"

She shook her head despondently. "Oh, I don't remember," she wailed. "My
girlie was crying, and in trying to quiet her I guess I didn't notice
anybody in particular."

"How much money was in your bag?" he asked.

"Twenty-five dollars," she said brokenly. "I am going to Vancouver to
look for a position, and it's all I have in the world. Oh, what shall we
do, my baby and I?"

Ellis eyed the forlorn face a moment or two in silent commiseration;
then, seeking out the conductor, whom he knew well, explained the
situation.

"Yes, I mind 'em getting on at Calgary," said that official; "and she
had a ticket through to Vancouver, all right."

"Say, Bob," the Sergeant persuaded, "that bag's been pinched off her
without a doubt; but as she's no suspicion of anybody I can't very well
search every one on the bloomin' train, and I'm getting off in a minute
at Sabbano--be a good fellow and pass her on to Vancouver.... She's dead
up against it."

The kind-hearted conductor agreed, and with an easier mind Ellis went
back to the woman and told her.

The train began to slow down--"Sabbano--Sabbano!" called out the
brakeman, passing through the coaches. The Sergeant reached into his
pocket and, drawing out a roll of bills, pressed them into her hand.

"There," he said gently. "That'll keep you going in Vancouver for a
time, and I hope you'll soon strike something."

Speechless with gratitude at the man's impulsive generosity, she gazed
at him dumbly, with dim eyes. Her mouth worked but somehow the words
would not come. She choked, and hiding her face in her hands, sank down
on the seat, the poor, thin shoulders under the cheap blouse shaking
with her convulsive sobbing.

The child, still clutching the crop, which Ellis had not the heart to
retrieve, set up a shrill wail in sympathy and clung to his leg. More
moved than he cared to show, but utterly indifferent to the slightly
ludicrous side of the situation, the policeman strove to quiet her.

"Oh, come now, Sis," he pleaded coaxingly. "Mustn't cry.... Let go of me
for a minute.... I'm coming back!... Here," and producing a pen-knife,
he sliced off one of the lower buttons of his pea-jacket.... "There,
give me a kiss."

The whimpers slowly ceased, and her little face brightened as she
clutched the shining treasure and, drawing his face down to hers, she
pressed her little rosebud of a mouth to his.

Disengaging the tiny arms gently, with a whispered "Good-by," he ran to
the end of the coach and dropped off as the train moved out.

It was only characteristic of the man's strange, impulsive, complex
nature that he should have done this thing, but how much money was there
in that roll of bills? Ellis himself, offhand, could hardly have told
you.

As in the rain he wended his way along the wet platform, the station
agent came up to him, "Here's the key of the detachment, Sergeant," he
said; "Churchill's gone West on that train to Parson's Lake. He's coming
back on Number Two in the morning and he asked me to give it to
you--didn't you see him?"

"No," said Ellis shortly. "I wasn't able to get off till it was on the
move.... Guess Churchill got on another coach."

Not particularly sorry at the other's absence, he walked on to the end
of the little town where the detachment was situated. The place smelled
musty and stale as he entered. Papers, old letters, and torn novels lay
littered about the local sergeant's desk. The bed was not made up and
various items of kit were strewn around. Everything seemed covered with
a thick accumulation of dust.

"Nasty, lazy, slovenly devil," he growled. "Lord, what a pig-pen!
Inspector Purvis'll happen along down here, unexpected, one of these
days. _Then_ there'll be something doing."

He passed on through the back door to the stable, where a joyous whinny
from "Johnny" greeted him. He led the horse out along with the
Sergeant's and watered them, their greedy thirst drawing a savage curse
from him. "Takes d--d good care never to go dry himself," he muttered.

After grooming Johnny down he went into the kitchen and rummaged around
until he found two or three pieces of lump sugar, at the sight of which
the horse began to nicker softly and raised its nigh forefoot, bending
the limb back for a piece to be inserted into the fetlock-joint, where
it was promptly licked out.

He was a superb, powerfully-built black, with white hind fetlocks,
standing fully sixteen hands, well ribbed up, with the short back,
strong, flat-boned legs, and good, sloping shoulders of the ideal
saddle-horse. Benton had had him for over three years and was
passionately attached to the animal.

He petted Johnny awhile then, fixing both horses up for the night, he
went down to the only restaurant the little town boasted--a Chinese
establishment--and got some supper. This despatched, he retraced his
steps and mooned around the dirty detachment, where he tried to read;
but his thoughts, ever and anon, kept reverting to the little cherubic
face of the child on the train, with her hollow-cheeked mother, and he
found himself vaguely wondering how far away they were by now.

He looked at his watch. It was about twenty minutes to ten and, feeling
inclined for a drink, he strolled down town again and, entering the bar
of the Golden West Hotel, ordered a glass of beer.

There were about half a dozen men in the bar who, after gazing awhile at
his uniformed figure and seeing he was not the convivial Churchill, eyed
him with sullen distrust. His gaze flickered over them casually, but
knowing nobody there but the bartender, he kept aloof.

Suddenly, amid the babel of talk, a drunken, nasal voice made itself
heard:

"Oh, you Harry! Say, wha's dat dere wit de yaller laigs?"

Glancing sharply towards the end of the bar, he became aware of two
flashily dressed, undesirable-looking individuals of the type that
usually makes an easy living preying upon the unfortunate denizens of
the underworld, sizing him up.

The one accosted as "Harry," a big, heavily-built man about thirty, with
a sneer on his evilly handsome, sinister face, answered slowly:

"Oh, _him_. I guess he must be one of them Mounted Police ginks you hear
tell of over our side of the Line. Kind of 'prairie cop,'" he added
contemptuously, and spat.

The epithet of "cop" was one held in peculiar detestation by members of
the Force and, coupled with the fellow's offensive manner, became a
gratuitous insult that was almost more than the Sergeant could stand,
for a slight titter followed, and all the faces--with the exception of
the bartender's-wore a sardonic grin at the policeman's discomfiture.

Choking with silent fury, he glowered warily with swift calculation
around him.

"No, it wouldn't do," he reflected. There would be too many witnesses,
like in that last business at Elbow Vale; and fearful of his own
ungovernable temper, lest any ensuing altercation should precipitate the
inevitable right then and there, he held his peace.

Lowering his voice, his elbows on the bar, he spoke quietly to the
bartender:

"Who's them two fellers at the end there, Pete--strangers?"

"Yes. I dunno who they are," said that worthy in the same low tone, busy
polishing glasses the while. "They blew in off'n the West-bound. Jest
stiffs, I guess, Sergeant. They was laughin' fit to split 'bout
somethin' when they first come in."

Benton finished his beer and, turning, pushed through the swing door, a
vindictive purpose seething in his mind. Crossing over to the dark side
of the street, he patiently waited.

"I'll 'vag' the two of them," he muttered savagely.

The rain had ceased and a few stars began to appear. It was nearly
closing time and his watch was of short duration.

At the appointed time, with much bad language and noisy argument, the
bar slowly emptied, the last to leave being "Harry" and his companion;
the latter quarrelsomely drunk, and expostulating with the bartender,
who was escorting him to the door.

"Gimme another drink!" he demanded.

"No chance," came the answer. "You've got enough below. Beat it!"

The speech was accompanied with a sudden shove, and the door banged to.

Still the Sergeant waited.

"Aw, come on, yer crazy mutt!" he heard the soberer voice of Harry say,
and saw him walk slowly on down the street, his bibulous comrade
unsteadily following.

Keeping in the shade, Ellis noiselessly paralleled their direction,
until they were well beyond the last false-fronted store and amongst
some vacant lots, not far from the isolated detachment. He stopped for a
moment and listened intently. Except for the tipsy arguing of Harry's
companion, who was still in the rear, all was quiet.

"Well, you gimme half, anyway," he heard him keep chanting.

Now was his chance. With two of them, he knew he must act quickly, and
"acting quickly" was only a mild expression for _some_ of the Sergeant's
little methods in his business which, though invariably attended with
excellent results, did not, sad to relate, always strictly conform to
the rules laid down in that worthy little Manual issued to all members
of the Force for their regimental and legal guidance.

With fell intention, he crossed over swiftly to the drunk. It was no
time for niceties in the manner of arrest, for the man might arouse the
neighborhood, and the Sergeant had reasons for not being particularly
desirous of an audience just then.

With the deadly calculation of an ex-pugilist, he carefully judged his
distance in the dim light and swung a single terrific right uppercut to
the point of the chin. The head snapped back and, with a choking gasp,
the man fell heavily to the ground in an inert heap.

At the smack and the thud of the falling body, Harry halted in the dark
ahead.

"What's up?" he growled. "Are yer all in?"

Ellis shouldered roughly into him and, with an oath, the man reeled
back.

"Why, what's this?" he blustered and, as the shadowy outline of Benton's
Stetson hat in the uncertain light penetrated his vision, "why, it's the
'_cop_'!"

"Yes," said the Sergeant through his set teeth and, with suppressed
fury, "I've got you now where I want you! I'll give you call me '_cop_,'
you G--d--d, dirty pimp!" and he smashed in a vicious left drive, flush
on Harry's nose.

It was a staggering blow, and the blood squirted, but somehow the man
kept his feet and threw himself into a fighting posture, like one
accustomed to using his hands.

He was by far the heavier of the two, but his movements were slow and
muscle-bound and the tigerishly vicious attack of the Sergeant, with all
its concentrated hate and science behind it, paralyzed him. He tried to
cover up, but those terrible punches with the giver's vindictive
"Oof--oof," accompanying each blow, seemed to reach his body and face at
will.

It was all over inside of three minutes. Presently, ducking a savage
swing from his weightier opponent, Ellis feinted for the jaw then, like
lightning, drove two heavy, telling punches to that region termed in
pugilistic parlance the "solar plexus." The man, with a gasp, doubled up
and sank down.

Breathing heavily after the exertion, Benton kneeled on him and,
reaching to his hip pocket, dragged forth his handcuffs and snapped them
on Harry's wrists; then, slowly rising to his feet, he waited.

It was still quiet all round, and he felt a fierce exultation at
accomplishing his purpose without undue disturbance. Stepping over to
his first victim, he made a quick examination, and satisfied himself
that the man was only knocked out. He would come to after a time, he
decided, and was probably more drunk than hurt. _Harry_ was the one who
had incurred his animosity the most.

Presently that individual, with a groaning curse, sat up and was
violently sick. Then for the first time he became conscious of his
manacled wrists and began to raise his voice in filthy expressions at
Ellis.

"Quit that talk," said the Sergeant, in a tense, fierce undertone. "I
don't want any bother and have you waking everybody up at this time o'
night, I'm arresting both you fellers for vagrancy. Now, are you coming
quiet or not?"

A torrent of blasphemy greeted the suggestion.

"Not you nor any other ---- cop kin take me," he foamed from the ground;
then, suddenly kicking out, he caught Benton a nasty jar on the
shin-bone.

The pain acted as the last straw to the exasperated Sergeant. With an
oath, he drew from his pocket a small steel article known in police
circles as a "come-along" and, clipping it on one of his prisoner's
wrists, he twisted viciously. The exquisite torture drew a shriek from
the wretched man.

"Shut up," whispered Ellis savagely. "If you start hollerin' again and
still refuse to walk I'll"--and he gave another slight twist to the
wrist--"I'll break your arm! Now will you come, eh?"

"Oh, o-o-h. No, no; oh, don't. Yes, yes, I'll come," came the agonized
response.

"So," said the Sergeant quietly, as he jerked the man to his feet. "I
thought you would. Now don't you start monkeyin' no more. Step out!" And
with his hand on the other's collar, he guided him towards the
detachment, which was only a short distance away.

On arriving there he unlocked the door and, ushering his captive into
the office, at the back of which were two cells, he leisurely removed
the handcuffs and proceeded to search him. What with blood, bruises, and
dirt, the man's face was a sight, and Benton, his anger now somewhat
assuaged, felt slightly uneasy as he reflected on the prisoner's
appearance at the morrow's court.

"Put your arms up!" he ordered, and mechanically dived into the coat
pockets. His right hand encountered something square and soft, and he
drew it out.

At the sight of the object his eyes dilated strangely. Well, well; it
was only a woman's little hand-bag with a name printed on it under a
celluloid panel--

He read it at a quick glance and, ceasing his investigations, he grew
curiously still. The prisoner, raising his head, met the Sergeant's
gaze. He shrank back, appalled, and a cry of fear burst from his mashed
lips, for it seemed to him as if the devil himself were looking out of
Benton's ruthless eyes. With an indescribable bitterness of tone, the
policeman suddenly spoke:

"You skunk," he said; "you dirty, sneaking coyote. It was _you_, then,
that robbed that poor thing with the little kiddie on the West-bound?"

He stopped and choked with his rage. Presently he burst out again:
"Lord, Lord! but I'm glad I bashed you up like I did, and but for a
probable charge of manslaughter I'd manhandle you properly. So _that's_
what you and your pal were laughin' about when you went in to that bar?
When you come to die--which event, may it please God to grant quickly--I
hope that'll be the very, very last thing in your memory--that you once
robbed a helpless woman and her kid."

He remained silent after this for a space, for a sudden disquieting
thought had occurred to him.

"See here; look," he began again. "If I put this charge of theft against
you, it'll mean having to locate and drag that woman back here all those
weary miles, to identify her property and prove up the case against
you."

At his words a gleam of hope lit up the prisoner's disfigured face.

"For God's sake, policeman," he mumbled out of his twisted mouth, "give
us a chanct--just this once."

The Sergeant pondered awhile. It was the easiest way out for himself,
_and_ for the woman, he reflected. Churchill was away and nobody would
know anything about this business. He tipped the contents of the bag
out. A bunch of keys, a woman's handkerchief, some smelling-salts, a
ticket to Vancouver, and various small odds and ends.

"Where's that money?" he snapped out. "Here--let's go through you!"

His search revealed a dollar's worth of silver.

"Dig up the rest of that twenty-five dollars!" he demanded.

Slowly the other took off one of his boots, and from it produced two
ten-dollar bills.

"We had some dough of our own when we come on the train," he volunteered
to Ellis's silent look of interrogation, "but we got inter a poker game
with some fellers and lost out, so we broke into the five-spot fer some
supper and booze."

Benton considered a bit longer, then suddenly made up his mind and
opened the door.

"_Voertsek, du verdomde schelm!_"[1] he said sharply, jerking his head
towards the aperture.

  [1] A glossary of South African, and other words will be found at the
      end.

The man stared at him stupidly for a moment. "I don't savvy you," he
muttered.

"Beat it, you d--d crook! D'you savvy _that_?" came the policeman's
harsh response. "Out of town by the first train that comes in--East or
West--and take your pal with you."

"We ain't got the price," was the somewhat aggrieved answer.

"Then take a 'tie pass,' d--n you," said the Sergeant grimly. "And
mind--if I catch either of you fellers around this burg tomorrow
morning, I'll shove you both in the calaboose _and_ put the boots to you
as _well_ as this charge. Now beat it, and go and pick up your pal!"

Harry waited for no further invitation, but vanished into the night.

Wearily Ellis gathered up the contents of the bag and, putting in the
money along, closed it. He felt very tired and, lighting a cigarette, he
sat down and tried to think.

"Guess I can get it through to her," he muttered. "I'll send a wire now
that'll catch her on the train somewhere, and she can send me her
address."

And going to the telephone he rang up the night-operator at the depot.




CHAPTER IV


    And if you're wishful, O maiden kind,
    To know concerning me;
    A far-flung sentinel am I
    Of the R. N. W. M. P.
    Renouncing women, as though wearing a cowl--
    I live for a monthly wage
    'Way out on the bald, green-brown prairie,
    That stretches as far as the eye can see;
    Where the lone gray wolf and the coyote howl,
    And the badger digs in the sage.

    --_The Prairie Detachment_

The day broke fine and clear. The hot sun quickly drying up the little
puddles and sticky mud resulting from the recent downpour. Benton,
rising early, watered and fed the horses. These duties despatched, and
his own breakfast at the hotel accounted for, he leisurely proceeded to
ascertain if the two participants in his previous night's adventure had
left town.

A few guarded inquiries and a brief, but thorough, search satisfied him
on this point; so saddling up Johnny, and tying on his slicker, he rode
slowly down to the depot to await the in-coming East-bound train prior
to his departure for his lonely detachment.

The train arrived, and on it, Churchill. The local sergeant was a man
about Ellis's own age, well set up and passable enough in appearance,
but with the florid, blotchy complexion, weak mouth, and uncertain gaze
of the habitual drinker. A few lucky arrests in which chance--more than
pluck or ability had figured, coupled with a certain cleverness in
avoiding trouble--had somehow enabled him to retain his stripes and the
sleepy little Line detachment. That there was no love lost between them
was very evident; Benton, on his side, making little effort to disguise
the contempt he felt for the other.

It was a long-standing hostility, dating back many years when, as
recruits together in the Post, a trivial quarrel originating first in
the Canteen, had terminated finally in the corral at the back of the
regimental stables--with disastrous results to Churchill--who, ever
since this event, had not been man enough to forget, forgive, or attempt
to get even.

A few cold civilities were exchanged, and Ellis remarking, "Here's the
key of your dive," chucked him over that article; then with a careless
"So long," turned his horse and edged up nearer to the platform to speak
to the station agent.

On account of a small wash-out that had happened to the track some few
miles east, the train was held up for a short time, and the platform was
crowded with passengers who were strolling up and down, glad of the
opportunity to stretch their legs after their long confinement.

Benton, less impatient than Johnny, who was pawing, eager to be off, was
watching them absently, when he suddenly became aware of his being,
apparently, an object of interest to somebody standing near and, turning
his head slightly, he beheld a tall, magnificently-built, dark girl,
eyeing him and Johnny with eager curiosity and admiration.

And in very truth, handsome, saturnine-faced Ellis Benton, and the big,
black, pawing horse that he bestrode with the long-stirruped,
loose-seated, easy, careless grace of an habitue of the range, were both
fitting representatives of the great Force which they served.

Wistful and sweet, the girl stood there and gazed awhile at man and
horse and presently she slowly came forward and, with a kind, impulsive
friendliness that immediately thawed the Sergeant's habitual reserve,
said:

"I'm sure you must be thinking me awfully rude--staring at you so long;
but I was looking at your beautiful horse and wondering whether you were
a policeman or a soldier or what."

And, smiling whimsically down into the girl's eager upturned face, the
Sergeant made answer:

"Young lady," with a droll little vainglorious gesture which amused her
intensely, "behold in me one of those important officials who hold the
High Justice, the Middle and the Low in these parts ... a sergeant of
the Mounted Police!" Then suddenly bitter remembrance set his pale,
steady eyes agleam with their peculiar ruthless light and his strong
white teeth gritted, as he added, "Otherwise, just a 'prairie cop.'"

She stroked and patted Johnny who, scenting a new friend, nickered
softly, tucked up his nigh fetlock in a beseeching manner, and nibbled
at her for sugar.

"Isn't he just a beauty!" she murmured. "My, but I'd be a proud girl if
I had a horse like him to ride. Do you ever?-- What is it, Auntie?" she
said, breaking off short as a stout, elderly lady with a petulant frown
on her forbidding face, came bustling up.

"Gracious, Mary!" snapped the aunt, very much out of breath, "I've been
looking everywhere for you," and angrily drawing the unwilling girl
aside, Ellis heard her say, "You shouldn't go talking to strange men in
that way, child ... really, Mary, I'm surprised at you!"

"But, Auntie," came that young lady's slightly indignant answer, "I was
only asking him about his horse, and he speaks quite like a gentleman."

The elder woman's response was partially inaudible to the Sergeant, but
a fragment of it--"Only a policeman!" smote his ears unpleasantly with
its pitiful snobbishness.

As they moved away, though, he was repaid for that lady's uncharitable
remark, as the girl, taking advantage of "Auntie's" ample back being
turned, faced round and bowed to him with a kindly smile, an unspoken
"Good-by" manifested in the gesture which he at once returned with a
courtly grace, saluting gravely.

Mechanically, his eyes followed the two ladies until they became lost in
the crowd, and then, with a muttered oath, he wheeled Johnny around and
rode slowly out of the town.

"What a fine-looking girl that was," he reflected. "Some rich American's
daughter, no doubt, en route from Banff or elsewhere in the mountain
summer resorts West, after having a good time." _Why_ shouldn't she talk
to him? And mixed with his brooding thoughts came the consciousness of
his _own_ joyless, danger-fraught life, with the bitter, hopeless,
lonely feeling that the single man past thirty knows so well, whose
occupation, and more especially--means--place him without the pale of
matrimony.

With the exception of those holding responsible staff appointments,
marriage was not particularly encouraged amongst the rank and file of
the Force, for many reasons. Lack of suitable quarters was partially the
cause of this policy; also (and not the least) the indisputable fact
that in the majority of cases where men are engaged in hazardous
pursuits the average single man is freer, and--as is only
natural--willing to run far greater personal risk in the execution of
his duty than a married man.

True, many of the non-coms, and even "straight-duty bucks," _were_
Benedicts, for various reasons best known to themselves. But Ellis,
forever mindful of the old fable of "The fox who lost his tail in a
trap," only laughed aside cynically all their feeble, joking admonitions
to him to join their ranks and, taking "Punch's" advice instead,
"didn't."

Why had that cursed old frump come butting in? "Only a policeman!" ...
And with an angry Ellis unconsciously rammed the spurs into poor,
unoffending Johnny, who immediately broke in his gait with a sidelong
jump which, in its suddenness, nearly unseated him.

The spasmodic jerk of the horse brought Benton to himself again, and
with a "There, there, Johnny--you old fool--I didn't mean to rake you,"
he patted and eased that startled animal down to his customary pace.

"She made a lot of you, didn't she, Johnny? And you know you liked it!"

He rambled on, for latterly--in the utter loneliness of his long
patrols--the Sergeant had contracted the strange habit of talking aloud
to his horse, and Johnny's sensitive ears would prick backwards and
forwards as if he thoroughly comprehended what was being said to him.

Traveling easily, and in no particular hurry, Benton made "Marshall's"
for dinner, and towards evening drew in sight of Cherry Creek district,
with its few scattered ranches and mixed farms.

When about half a mile from his detachment, some objects strewn on the
trail ahead attracted his attention which, on drawing near, took the
form of pieces of paper, some spilt chicken-feed and flour, bits of
board, and the tail-board of a wagon; also, had he but noticed it, a lot
of scattered nails.

With a grim chuckle he passed on. "Looks like somebody's had a
smash-up," he muttered. Suddenly he pulled Johnny up sharply, for the
latter had begun to limp perceptibly on the off-forefoot and, on
examination, Ellis found a nail deeply embedded at the side of the frog.
He tried to pry it out with his fingers and a knife, but it was in up to
the head and his attempts were useless.

"No help for it, Johnny," he said. "You'll have to stick it till we get
home," and with a disgusted malediction at the ill-luck, he wended his
way slowly ahead on foot, Johnny following on three legs like a lame
dog.

On arrival at their destination the nail was eventually extracted with
the aid of pincers, and after bathing and syringing the bleeding prod
with hot water and peroxide of hydrogen, the horse moved easier; but
Ellis was well aware that several days, perhaps a week, would elapse
before it would be safe to use him. And with the knowledge of this fact
oppressing him came also the realization that, should anything turn up
in the meantime, he would be under the necessity of borrowing a horse
from some one.

Stationed in a new district, he was naturally chary of placing himself
under obligation to anybody; so, cogitating over his predicament, he
watered, fed, and groomed Johnny and, after fixing up the wounded foot
in a hot poultice for the night, he retired into his own domain to cook
some supper.

The detachment, originally a ranch dwelling, was a square,
solid-looking, log-built structure, with a commodious stable in the
rear, and a corral and a fenced-in pasture. A huge, bleached buffalo
skull, with its stubby black horns--a relic of bygone years--frowned
down from over the main entrance, and a faded, weather-flapped Union
Jack hung from a short flag-staff at one pinnacle of the roof. With
whitewashed stones, the letters R.N.W.M.P. were formed in the earth
banking on the front side of the dwelling. The interior bespoke its
occupant's tidiness and orderly habits.

One entered directly into a moderate-sized room that was severe in its
sparsely furnished simplicity. A long, bench-like table, covered with a
tartan police rug, on which were some neatly piled blank legal forms,
and books, a Bible, and writing materials. A plain oak arm-chair for the
said table, and several smaller ones, with a couple of form-seats, were
ranged around the walls, and immediately facing the magisterial bench a
strongly-built cell with a barred door and aperture was partitioned off.
A few enlarged framed photographs of old-time police and legal
celebrities and a green baize-covered board decorated with an assortment
of brightly burnished leg-irons and handcuffs completed the adornment of
the chamber. Nevertheless, in spite of the room's simple aspect, one
instinctively guessed that here, as occasion occurred, the solemnity of
the Law was upheld with no less a dignity than in the highest court of
justice.

A door at one side of the cell opened into a larger apartment, evidently
used as a combined living and bedroom which, with its strange collection
of interesting objects, was typically significant of its owner's tastes
and personality. A comfortable, bachelor-like abode this, yet slightly
regimental withal too; for the blankets at the head of the cot were
strapped into the regulation neat roll with the sheets in the center,
whilst above, on a small shelf, were the folded spare uniform and
Stetson hat, on either side of which stood a pair of high, brown
Strathcona riding-boots with jack spurs attached. On pegs underneath
hung the "Sam Browne" belt and holster containing the heavy "Colt's .45"
Service revolver, together with a bridle, a head-rope, and a slicker.
Two or three easy chairs were scattered around and some tanned calf-skin
mats covered the floor. A table stood in the center littered with
periodicals and other reading matter, and a plain slung bookshelf held a
well-worn selection of classical and modern works of fiction. The walls
were relieved with varrious photographs, clever pen-and-ink sketches,
and unframed copies of famous pictures, among which were several
examples of Charles Russell's and Frederick Remington's works of art. A
tent-pegging lance, standing in a corner, supported a gaudy, feathered
Indian headdress on its point, while behind the door hung a set of
boxing gloves.

Five years of Benton's wandering life having been spent on the
veldt--two of them passed in the Chartered Company's service--accounted
for the curious South African trophies that were noticeable here and
there. A stuffed _meerkat_ crouched half raised, like a gigantic gopher,
and that ugly bald-headed vulture, known in the _Taal_ as an _aasvogel_,
looked down with unpitying eyes. Two magnificent leopard skin karosses
were flung over the armchairs, and a Zulu oxhide war shield was
suspended in an angle of the walls, flanked crosswise with its companion
weapons--a heavy knob-kerrie and a short, broad-bladed, stabbing
assegai, whilst above hung those one-time sinister symbols of authority
north of the Vaal--a rhinoceros-hide _sjambok_, a Mauser rifle, and a
captured "_Vierkleur_" flag. Adjoining this room were the kitchen and a
small compartment used as a storehouse.

His supper finished, and the daily diary, mileage report, and "monthly
returns" made out, the Sergeant lit a pipe and lay back in one of the
armchairs, lazily scanning the various criminal photographs in the last
copy of _The Detective_ he had brought with him from the Post, until
drowsiness overcoming him, the paper fluttered to the floor and his head
sank back against the leopard skin. The rays of the lamp shone full on
the strong, moody face, with the pipe still held clenched between the
teeth, and the athletic frame which, even in repose, contrived somehow
to convey in its posture an impression of instinctive, feline readiness
for sudden action.

Indeed, the man's whole appearance seemed to fittingly bear out the many
strange stories that were current of his strenuous and eventful past.




CHAPTER V


      The elder was quelled,
      But the younger rebelled;
    So he spread out his wings and fled over the sea.
      Said the jackdaws and crows,
      "He'll be hanged I suppose,
    But what in the deuce does that matter to we?"

    --_Henry Kingsley_

The second son of an English cavalry officer holding a high rank, young
Benton's life up to the age of fifteen--with the exception of a few
escapades at Shrewsbury--which were due more to an ingrained hardihood
than viciousness, had passed very much the same as that of any other
well-bred public school boy.

The death of his mother, however, and the later advent of a step-parent,
wrought a disastrous change in the boy's hitherto happy enough life. His
stepmother's intolerance with his high spirits led to many family
quarrels and finally had the effect of provoking a naturally wayward
temper to open rebellion and a definite course of action.

Her studied, unremitting hostility towards the boy succeeded in arousing
in him a bitter, lasting hatred for her which, in its intensity and
fixity of purpose, was positively awesome and well-nigh incredible in
one of his years.

Scorning to follow his elder brother's example in meekly submitting to
the new regime he turned, in his misery and distress, to an old friend
of his dead mother's, one--Major Carlton--his ofttime confidant and
mediator in many boyish troubles.

Borrowing fifty pounds from the latter, and taking little else save his
mother's photograph and a few clothes, with a farewell to none except
his debtor, he turned his back on that beautiful old Devonshire home
forever.

A youthful imagination inspired, perhaps, by prolific and intelligent
reading, inexplicably directed his course to the United States; so,
booking his passage at Liverpool, he found himself later, depleted in
money--but not in pluck or resolution--a waif in that vast assemblage of
mixed peoples. One letter--the last that he was ever to write home--he
despatched to his father.

Sir John Benton's fierce, lined face softened for an instant as he
perused his son's missive, but it grew darker and drearier than ever
before he had read it through. The letter said no word of return, and he
guessed rightly it was meant for an absolutely final farewell.

A strict disciplinarian in his own household, its contents he never
divulged to the rest of the family; and if he felt the loss of the
manly, headstrong boy, he never showed it hereafter by word or deed. The
stern old soldier recognized in those lines--penned with a certain
boyish courtesy--only too well the inflexible characteristics that
matched, to the full, his own.

Various vicissitudes eventually landed young Benton in a great
cattle-raising district of Montana, where he obtained a job as a chore
boy on a big ranch, known as the "Circle H." A fearless upbringing
amongst horses stood him now in good stead, and this, combined with a
willing capacity for work, ultimately won for him the approval of "Big
Jim Parsons," the silent, laconic ranch foreman, who befriended the
lonely, and now taciturn, youngster.

It is not to be supposed that he gained this patronage any too easily.
Although babbling little concerning his history, his English speech and
apparent breeding were sufficient at the start to make him the butt of
many doubtful pleasantries from the devil-may-care cow-punchers whose
bunkhouse victim he was. No sulker, he could assimilate the most of it
in good part; but there were limitations to such "joshing," as many of
his tormentors found out when the savage, uncontrollable Benton temper
blazed forth with such appalling venom of fist and tongue that, immature
youth though he was, caused the bleeding and cursing authors of the
disturbance to retreat aghast at the devil they had raised. The old
Mosaic law--"An eye for an eye"--with its grim suggestion of unforgiving
finality, always found in Ellis an ardent and exacting adherent.

At such scenes Big Jim would generally appear on the field of
hostilities, a threatening, nasal sneer twisting his morose face.

"Quit monkey'n with that kid, now," he would snarl; and with rising
wrath: "I tell yu', fer guts, that same dude maverick has yu' all
skinned! What was it he called yu', Windy?... Will yore mother stand fer
that?... What's happened to yore face, Ike?... Fell down an' trod on
it?"

The foreman's rough championing, and his own ability to take care of
himself, in course of time discouraged this systematic baiting, and ere
long he received the degree of comradeship. Possessing an inborn love
for music, which from childhood up his mother had always sedulously
encouraged, Ellis was a pianist of no mean ability. This, coupled with a
sweet, boyish voice--which in later years was to develop into a
magnificent baritone--caused him to be in constant request as a
performer on the battered old piano which the ranch-owner's dwelling
boasted. Nothing loath, he played and sang to them the simple old
melodies and songs that they knew; and soon from being the ranch butt he
became one of its especial favorites.

With characteristic honor, although the loan had been but a mere trifle
to the wealthy giver, his first laudable ambition had been to pay back
to Major Carlton the sum he had borrowed from that kind-hearted bachelor
on emigrating; and this, with much self-denial, he found himself able to
do during the next two years, thereafter keeping up a desultory
correspondence with his old friend which lasted until the latter's
death.

Time went on, and Ellis, after drifting here and there through Montana
and Wyoming punching for various cattle outfits, finally returned to the
"Circle H," where at the early age of twenty-five he became its
competent young foreman--vice "Big Jim Parsons," deceased.

By this time, his character, like his frame, was set; to the vehement
ambition and ardor of youth had succeeded the cool, matured resolution
of manhood--powerful to will, prompt to execute, and patient to endure;
he was proof against idle hopes, no less than against groundless fears,
and the common chagrins of life took no more hold of his soul than toil
or privation of his body. Yet under all this case-hardness, like a
virgin pearl lying dormant within its flinty habitation, there still
remained deep in him a certain softness of heart that he inherited from
the gentle lady whose picture and loving memory he had cherished
throughout his wanderings.

It is not to be supposed that during all this time the rough
associations and surroundings compatible with the calling he followed
had not left their mark upon him. But hot-blooded, violent and impulsive
though he was by nature, a certain quaint cynicism and command of will
and feature enabled him to suppress outwardly these visible signs of his
temperament. His life was probably not much more immune from vice than
the majority of his fellows who bore themselves more jovially and
noisily; but oh the sin of violated love, or cruel desertion--too often
associated with the sowing of youth's wild oats--he could not accuse
himself. The dark eyes of more than one ranch beauty had looked
approvingly--perhaps lovingly--on the somber, handsome face and
slimly-powerful frame of the reckless young bronco-buster, wondering,
half-pityingly, what should make so youthful a countenance so stern. And
more than once the inviting loneliness of many whom ties bound had been
made only too apparent for his benefit. But the remnants of a nearly
forgotten family pride, rather than shyness or coldness, kept Ellis's
feet clear of the snares. He was not specially cold, or continent, or
tender of conscience, but he chose to take his pleasure in places where
he troubled no man's peace, and where there could be no ignominious
aftermath to torture him with its useless, heart-aching remorse.

Every wayfarer through this world must needs encounter certain points in
his journey where the main trail divides. For awhile the two tracks may
run so near to each other that they may seem still almost one, but they
will diverge more and more till, ere they end, their issues lie as
widely apart as those of good and evil, light and darkness, life and
death. So it was now with Ellis Benton, for a chance episode occurred in
that young man's life which was fated to bring about a material change
in his fortunes and surroundings.

A born fighter, and possessing unusual cleverness with his hands, he was
one night unavoidably forced into an encounter with a professional
prize-fighter on a public street, in Butte. A young girl, whom the
latter was persecuting with his unwelcome attentions, appealed to the
young cow-puncher for protection, and not in vain. Despite the terrible
punishment he received, the deadly fury and ability with which he
finally put his formidable antagonist away made a visible impression on
a well known fight promoter who happened to witness the affray. That
worthy, an ex-pugilist himself of considerable renown, with his glib
tongue, apparent sincerity, and cleverly framed appeals to the younger
man's vanity, succeeded at last in inducing him to enter the ring in
earnest. Ellis, in that unsettled period that comes in most strong men's
lives, was perhaps, too, subconsciously getting a little weary of the
range life that up to now had entirely satisfied his full-blooded
energies, but there is little doubt that had he remained with the
soberer calling that he had followed so long, it would have been more
advantageous to both his profit and honor. But the reckless hardihood,
ingrained in his nature, stifled the suggestions of prudence and
ambition; when he cut himself adrift from family and friends he severed
himself, in intent, no less decisively from the class in which he was
born and bred than if, as an heir to a throne, he had relinquished his
birthright, and become but a humble subject. With a characteristic
indifference to possible consequences, he was not the least ashamed, as
yet, of the doubtful profession that he had adopted. His subsequent
spectacular fighting speedily demonstrated his ability to become a
future middleweight champion, and for a while the bouts in which he
participated drew eager crowds, curious to see the coming young pugilist
who gave them such a good run for their money, invariably drawing with,
or putting away his opponent each time, with a sensational class of
fighting that was highly gratifying to their taste. Becoming gradually
disgusted with the crooked practises and propositions which, somehow,
seemed to be inseparable from the game, and more or less incumbent on
those who were dependent on the ring for a living, he made up his mind
to forsake the profession which demanded of him the sacrifice of his
common honesty. His commendable decision, however, certainly did not
carry with it the solace of much pecuniary acquisition; for although
fighting with great frequency, and winning, or splitting many big purses
during his brilliant, if brief, career, the fast life and heavy expenses
compatible with such a profession soon dissipated them along with a
considerable portion of his previously accumulated savings, limiting the
sum total of his worldly wealth to less than a thousand dollars.

Becoming, by now, thoroughly restless and inclined to wander afresh, his
fancy next took him to South Africa, where he obtained a position in the
Chartered Company's service, at which occupation he remained until the
outbreak of the South African War two years later. Enlisting then as a
private in a well known, and afterwards famous, Irregular Horse, in the
later engagements at Elandslaagte, Waggon Hill, and Wepener, he showed
to the full the soldierly instincts only natural in one come of his
fighting race and breeding, at the latter action, particularly, when in
the storming of a strong Boer position, he exhibited a characteristic
courage of such an utterly reckless, desperate nature, that subsequently
gained for him the Distinguished Conduct Medal and a Sergeant-Major's
promotion.

During the terrible Mauser fire, however, which well nigh decimated his
squadron, he received a bullet through the body, the same passing the
base of the right lung, luckily without permanently injuring that vital
organ. On recovery, he served throughout the succeeding guerilla warfare
until peace was proclaimed at Veereneging, on May 31, 1902. Wearying,
then, of South Africa and its war-ravaged desolation, he returned to the
country and scenes of his former life, resuming his avocation, riding
for a newly-formed cattle company, whose headquarters were near the
Canadian border.

Here, during the next few months, he became acquainted with various
members of the scattered posts of the Royal North West Mounted Police.
Craving companionship, and with the recollections of his late military
experiences still fresh within him, he joined that Force, and after
passing through the inevitable curriculum of their headquarters at
Regina, he was eventually transferred to L Division.

Several notable stock-stealing cases, in which his fearless ability and
previous range experience enabled him to obtain long term convictions on
the offenders, soon brought him under the favorable notice of his
superiors, who recognized his worth in this particular line, and in a
little less than four years he was promoted to the rank in which we find
him in the beginning of this story.




CHAPTER VI


    "Whoo-oh!--Steady!... Let's git me cigarette lit!
    Oh, a cow-puncher's curse on that frizzling sun!
    There!... Whoop!... Go to her, goldarn it!
    Yu' dirty, mean, locoed old son of a gun!"

    --_Bronco-Buster's Chorus_

Morning came, and with it a visit from one Gallagher, a middle-aged
bachelor, his nearest neighbor, whose ranch lay about a mile distant.
The Sergeant, seated outside the door, in the sun, smoking an
after-breakfast pipe, greeted the newcomer civilly as he lowered himself
stiffly out of the saddle, and waited for the other to divulge his
business.

Nature had not been kind to Mr. Gallagher in regard to his physiognomy,
and Ellis, whenever he contemplated that homely visage, from certain
canine peculiarities therein, always mentally labeled him "Old
Dog-face." It _was_ an ugly, repellant countenance in a way, but the
eyes were those of an honest man, and the thick lips expressed a species
of genial humor.

Meeting each other casually at the usual weekly mail gatherings, Benton
was always conscious of a kind of surly friendliness on Gallagher's
part, that showed up in marked contrast to the silent, mistrustful
antipathy, with which many of those present generally regarded him;
which attitude, be it remarked, worried the Sergeant but little. The
rancher broached the subject of his visit with little preamble.

"Old man Tucker, from Fish Creek, was over wantin' to see yu' yesterday,
Sargint. Didn't find yu' in, so he come around to my place before he
went back."

"Oh," said Ellis absently, and with a slight trace of weary irritation
in his tones; "what's bitin' that old fool now--was he full?"

It was curiously noticeable that, when back amidst the habitues and
surroundings of his former life and calling, how naturally he reverted
to the terse, ungrammatical speech of the range.

Gallagher, with a grin, lit his pipe, and leaning back in the chair that
the Sergeant had dragged out for him, blew out a cloud of smoke
reflectively.

"Well, he weren't what you'd call exactly sober," he drawled. "It was
the same old business.... Says there's some of them a layin' to run off
that bunch o' hawsses o' his. Reckons he's got it straight this time."

"He always has," responded the policeman, spitting with contemptuous
remembrance. "I'm just about fed up with his picayune happenings. He
makes me tired. Time and again he's got me a chasin' over to his place,
and there's never nothin' doin'.... Just some gag they've bin a throwin'
into him."

The other was silent for a space. "Mebbe," he acquiesced musingly. "But
I don't know, Sargint ... he seemed more worked up this time'n I ever
see him."

Ellis pondered over this dilemma. A complaint was a complaint, and
anyhow, no one could ever accuse him of neglecting his duty.

"See here; look," he said presently. "I'd go on over and see what's
worryin' that old _soor_, but fact is, I'm stuck for a hawss. That black
o' mine went lame on me comin' home last night. Picked up a nail. He
won't be fit to ride for three or four days. Got anythin' in yore bunch
yu' could fix me up with till he gets sound again, Gallagher?"

The rancher considered a moment or two with a grave, inscrutable face.
"Let's see," he said thoughtfully, the corners of his mouth twitching
ever so little. "I guess," he broke out finally. "Will yu' come on over,
Sargint?"

An hour later Benton, perched on the top rail of Gallagher's horse
corral, lazily watched that worthy driving in his band of horses from
their range in a neighboring coulee and, slipping down on their near
approach, he opened the gate and then effaced himself out of their sight
carefully, to prevent a possible scare.

Well strung out, with heads up and manes and tails flying, they followed
their leader, a powerfully-built, buckskin gelding. It was an old,
well-known trail to them and, presently, with customary obedience, they
surged through the opening into the big main corral, where they stood
around, a playfully biting, kicking mass of horseflesh, while their
owner, bringing up the rear, dismounted from his quiet old cow-pony and
hung up the gate behind them. Ellis, emerging from his hiding-place,
climbed up beside him on the fence, and together the two men gazed
silently awhile at the animated scene below them.

There were perhaps about thirty head all told, of different grades,
ages, and colors, from the heavy Percheron-bred draught-horse to the
slender, cat-like cayuse.

Benton, with the eye of a connoisseur of horseflesh, quickly ran them
over. "Pretty mixed bunch," he mumbled, ungraciously.

"Well, yu' ain't buyin' 'em, Sargint," answered Gallagher, somewhat
nettled at the other's remark, and a silence ensued which was finally
broken by Ellis "shooing" at a big Clyde-built mare, heavy in foal, that
was hiding another horse from his view. The startled animal slowly
waddled away, disclosing the aforementioned buckskin, which bad somehow
escaped the Sergeant's notice.

He quickly appraised its points. "Eyah," he muttered; "now _that's_ some
horse!"

And indeed his approval was justified for it was about as likely a
looking specimen of the saddle-remount as one could wish to see, with
the short, strong back, long, springy fetlocks, and powerful quarters
that denoted speed and endurance no less than an easy gait.

"That sorrel ain't a bad looker, either," he pursued. "Are they
saddle-broke, them two?"

"Yep," said Gallagher shortly. "Yu' kin take yore pick, Sargint, of
anythin' that's in here."

Benton, shading his eyes from the sun, scrutinized the two horses a
little longer and then, leisurely dropping to the ground, slid into the
saddle of Gallagher's waiting horse.

"Guess I'll have to borrow yore saddle and bridle a space, old-timer, if
yu' don't mind," he remarked. "Lord, but yu' must be split to the chin.
I'll have to take these stirrups up a hole or two."

Quickly unlacing the rawhide thongs, he adjusted them to his liking and,
tying the horse's halter-shank to the corral, unshipped the heavy
stock-saddle and bridle, depositing them on the ground beside the fence.

The rancher's high-heeled Kansas boots, with their huge-rowelled Mexican
spurs, next attracted his attention and he stood for a moment silently
eyeing them and his own broad-welted, flat-heeled footwear.

"What size boots d'yu' wear, Gallagher?" he inquired, with a mild grin.
"Nines, eh? ... same as me. D'yu' mind changin'? I'm sure on the
borrowin' stunt all right this trip, but them stirrups of yores ain't
none too wide an' I don't much fancy gettin' 'hung up.'"

The other acquiesced willingly enough and the exchange was soon
effected. Unstrapping the lariat from off the saddle, Benton climbed up
and dropped inside the corral, the horses beginning immediately to
circle around uneasily at his approach, raising clouds of dust.

"Which 'un yu' goin' to take, Sargint?" inquired their owner.

"Guess I'll try out that buckskin first!" Ellis answered laconically. "I
wanta hold him and that sorrel. We'll let the others drift."

Standing in the center of the corral, with an ease that bespoke long
practise, he slowly shook out a workable loop and began to adroitly
maneuver the buckskin to the rear of the bunch. But the latter, scenting
danger, and being apparently an old hand at the game, was very elusive,
diving head-down into the ruck always at the psychological moment.
Patiently watching his chance as, for about the twentieth time the
buckskin's head reappeared amidst the flying manes, the Sergeant
carelessly, with a curious overhand flip, swung and threw, the noose
dropping fairly over the ears and nose.

Tailing onto the rope, with heels digging into the soft ground, he slid
for a few yards, then suddenly detaching the animal from the retreating
bunch with a powerful hip-heave he brought it up facing him.

Gallagher watched the performance with a lazy curiosity. "Knows his
business with a rope all right," was his silent comment.

Once caught, as Benton coiled in the slack, hand over hand, the buckskin
walked meekly up to his captor like one who knows the game is up, and
allowed himself to be patted. Leaving Gallagher to hold the animal,
Ellis proceeded to cut the sorrel into a small inner corral. This done,
he opened the gate once more, and with a wild whirl and surge that
scattered clouds of dust the late occupants eagerly streamed out on the
run back to their range again.

Carrying the blanket, saddle, and bridle, the Sergeant entered the
corral and cautiously approaching the held horse, deftly slipped the bit
between its teeth and buckled the throat-lash firmly, then, drawing off
the lariat, picked up the blanket and flopped it over the withers with a
smack. The saddle next followed suit; the double cinches, although
slapping the animal's belly with the same deliberate roughness, failed
to produce any startling effect.

"Seems gentle," Benton muttered aloud.

"Yep," assented Gallagher, in a toneless voice. "Better take th' sorrel,
Sargint."

Ellis glanced up sharply, but the rancher's face was set like an ugly,
expressionless mask, and he gleaned nothing there.

"Why?" he inquired.

"Pitches some," said the other drily and, with calculating inference,
"the sorrel, he's gentle. _I_ kin ride _him_."

Ellis hesitated a moment. He was hardly to be classed in the same
category as a greenhorn, whom ignorance, taunt, or bravado will often
provoke into climbing onto a bad horse, with equally bad results, but
his reputation as a rider was at stake, for he knew Gallagher's tongue
was prone to wag at times. The latter's last words--"The sorrel, _he's_
gentle!"--rankled a little, and his decision was made with an
unconscious snort of contempt, as he dragged at the latigo straps and
drew the cinches taut.

"Pitches, does he?" he mumbled to himself. All right, then! He would
show Mr. "Dog-face" Gallagher something. And bending down he buckled on
the big, straight-shanked, Mexican spurs. "Gimme yore quirt, Gallagher!"

Crossing the split reins carefully in the palm of his left hand and
catching the cheek-strap of the bridle, he reached out his right and
guided his foot cautiously into the stirrup, eyeing the buckskin closely
the while. The animal stood ominously quiet. Grasping the horn he swung
lightly and warily into the saddle and settled his feet home. Still no
movement from the motionless horse. Vaguely uneasy, he clucked and gave
it a light touch with the spurs. The effect was magical. The ears
suddenly flattened. A ripple ran along the black-striped back and as,
with a hoarse, grunting scream the buckskin dropped its head and bucked
into the air, in a flash Benton realized that he was on one of the worst
horses it had ever been his lot to tackle.

"Oh--o-ooh--he-e--s-ss--a-ah!" in bitter bodily anguish, he groaned, as
again and again the horse rocketed and propped, stiff and hard with
terrible impact, and with a jarring side-shake that seemed to shiver his
very soul. The blood burst from his nose and mouth under the constant
violent concussions and he felt deathly sick. Still the snapping,
whalebone-like back rose and descended, "sun-fishing" in midair with a
curious upward flirt of the rump that was well-nigh irresistible,
causing the Sergeant's hand to swing up towards the horn more than once,
and but for the fact of Gallagher watching, he would have "pulled
leather" without shame. "Not grain fed.... Can't keep this up much
longer!" he gasped to himself. And shifting slightly in the saddle he
threw all his dead weight on to the nigh fore-leg. It was an old trick
that Ellis had often used in his younger and more elastic days, and by
degrees he became conscious between the twisting, jerking leaps of the
bucking fury under him, that the animal was weakening.

Its resistance provoked a wild, unreasoning wave of anger to surge
through him, driving the remnants of his sick faintness before it, and
raising his hand he quirted and raked the still pitching buckskin with a
ferocity that finally drove it to a sweating standstill.

"Go to it, d--n yu'!" he yelled, but the horse had had enough and only
broke into an easy trot around the corral. Swinging out of the saddle,
he stood for a moment swaying, dazed from the terrific ordeal he had
undergone.

To him came Gallagher. "Holy doodle!" exclaimed that worthy, with a sort
of miserable heartiness, "he sure went after yu' some!"

The policeman did not answer, but breathing in deep, heavy gasps, and
streaming with perspiration, slowly raised his head. At the unmistakable
silent animosity depicted on that drawn, bitter face, the rancher
changed countenance and retreated slightly with a deprecating gesture.

"Now don't yu' go for to blame me, Sargint!" he began. "--'Member I
warned yu'!"

Ellis looked at him loweringly, with evil irresolution. The man was
right, he reflected, but nothing makes us so unforgiving as the
consciousness of being in the wrong.

"Warned me?" he echoed, with a mirthless laugh, and at the same time
blowing a stream of blood from his nose. "Oh, aye, yu' _warned_ me all
right--like Paddy warned his landlord!..."

Regaining his breath somewhat, he resumed with savage ill-humor. "Yu've
an ugly mug, Gallagher.... If I thought for a minute yu'd handed me this
here stick of dynamite for a josh, I'd push what's meant to be yore face
right in, an' don't yu' forget it!"

The other's dog-like visage contracted with a grin and he emitted a
short, barking laugh.

"Easy! easy there, Sargint!... Now don't yu' start for to get mad 'bout
it," he chuckled. "Never yu' mind my mug. I ain't a beauty, I know....
But handsome is that handsome does.... 'Member, I'm lendin' yu' a
horse."

At the remembrance of the man's generosity, and his good-natured
response, Benton's short-lived fit of bad temper quickly evaporated, and
he felt guilty and ashamed at his own illogical outburst.

"Gallagher," he said hoarsely, spitting out a mouthful of blood and
dust, "I guess I'm in wrong.... I take it all back."

With an earnestness that there was no mistaking, the rancher reached out
his hand.

"Sargint," he said solemnly, "shake. Yu're a rider." And in the warmth
of that grip Ellis became vaguely conscious that his nerve had won for
him a friend.

Good fellowship established once more, Gallagher's taciturnity vanished
and he became voluble and communicative.

"Now, see here, look; I'll tell yu', Sargint," he rambled on. "I raised
that hawss, an' I know him like a book. There's only two men ever stayed
with him. They're no-goods, both of 'em, but they kin _ride_. Yu' know
'em, too--Short an' Dirty's one, an' that there Jules Le Frambois yu've
just took down for rustlin' Billy Jacques' stock, t'other. Jules--he got
piled higher'n a kite, first crack outer th' box, but he stayed with him
th' second trip. Wanst he finds a feller kin ride him he quits pitchin'
right away _with_ that feller--for good. Yu' git on him now an' see 'f I
ain't right."

Ellis did so and, with a rough slap of the quirt and a thrust of the
spurs, thumbing the horse's withers and fanning its ears with his hat;
but all his efforts to make the buckskin hump again were fruitless, and
the Sergeant, as he felt the surge of the easy-gaited, powerful animal
under him, knew that here was a remount that could be depended on in any
emergency.

"What'd I tell yu'?" said Gallagher, as Benton dismounted and
off-saddled. "Nary a jump--an' Short an' Dirty, he rode him for three
months--an' he says he's good on th' rope an'll stand wherever his lines
is dropped. Now yu' take him and ride him as long as yu' want,
Sargint.... I guess there ain't nobody else around here as is anxious,"
he added, grinning. "What's his name? Why, I calls him 'Shakem.' He's
sure shook a few of 'em, too. I didn't aim to get yu' hurt none, but
some of th' boys had it that yu' used to bust for th' 'Turkey-Track,'
an', well, I kinder own I was a bit minded to see if yu' shaped like
it," he ended whimsically.

The ghost of a smile for a moment illuminated Benton's blood-stained,
tired face as, lighting a cigarette, he retrieved his own boots and
prepared to lead his borrowed mount away.

"An' are yu' satisfied?" he queried wearily.

"Aye," answered the rancher, with fervent conviction. "I sure am that.
Yes, I'll ride on over an' fix up that black o' yores if yu're away th'
night. So long, Sargint."




CHAPTER VII


    "Oh, sheriff an' ranger both wished me luck,
    Yu' bet! when I jumped th' Line last Fall--
    Yep!... Kind that a hog gets when he's stuck,
    For I'd cert'nly made them cattle-men bawl.
    Them fellers has cause to love me as much
    As they do a wolf, or a sneakin' Piute;
    But wouldn't this jar yu'--'gettin' in Dutch'
    With th' Mounted Police, thru' a mangy coyote?"

    --_The Rustler's Lament_

After giving the buckskin a light feed of grain and attending to
Johnny's hoof carefully, Ellis despatched an early lunch, saddled up
Shakem, and struck out for Tucker's ranch, which was about eight miles
distant. It was a glorious day and, feeling fully recovered from the
effects of his morning's shake-up, he rode slowly on through the golden
haze with that ease and contentment that comes to a man who feels that
he has earned it, and has sound health and a good horse under him.

Three miles or so beyond Gallagher's the trail veered slightly west,
then south, skirting the dense brush and timbered slopes of the
foot-hills. Emerging from a patch of poplar that fringed the base of a
small butte around which his trail led, a moving object suddenly
appeared above him, sharply defined against the sky-line. Glancing up
quickly he instantly recognized the tawny-gray, dog-like form of a
coyote. Benton, in common with most range men, loathed the slinking,
carrion-fed brutes and always shot them down remorselessly whenever
opportunity offered. Averting his gaze and still keeping steadily on his
way to deceive the wary animal, he cautiously lifted the flap of his
holster with the intention of making a quick whirl and snap-shot. With
shortened lines, he was just about to execute this maneuver when
something strange and unfamiliar in the actions of his intended victim
suddenly caused him to halt, paralyzed with open-mouthed curiosity and
astonishment.

Apparently, for the moment, completely heedless of the close proximity
of its mortal enemy, Man, it was pawing violently at its snout, and to
the Sergeant's ears came the unmistakable sounds of choking and
vomiting. Gripping the Colt's .45, Ellis's hand flashed up, but the
shell was never discharged. For just then came the sharp crack of a
rifle shot from somewhere on the other side of the butte, and the
coyote, with a bullet through its head, tumbled and slid, jerking in its
death-struggle almost to the horse's feet.

With a startled exclamation at the unexpected occurrence and, wrenching
his steed around as it shyed instinctively away, Benton swung out of the
saddle and turned wonderingly to examine that still twitching body. A
peculiar _something_--evidently the cause of its previous choking
motions--was protruding from its mouth and, prying open the clenched,
blood-dripping paws, Ellis tugged it out from away back in the throat,
down which it had apparently resisted being swallowed. Wiping the slimy
object on the grass, he spread it open. His eyes dilated strangely with
instant recognition, and a savage oath burst from him. It was the brand
cut out of the hide of a freshly killed steer.

With lightning-like intuition and a quick, apprehensive, upward glance,
the Sergeant crumpled up the clammy, half-chewed flap of skin, jammed it
up under his stable-jacket and, jumping for the buckskin, wheeled and
dashed into the shelter of the bush. Breathing rapidly with excitement,
he dismounted and, lying on his stomach, dragged himself cautiously
forward until he could discern the dead coyote.

His rapid movements had been only just in time. For, as he peered from
his hiding place, another object silhouetted itself against the
sky-line. A man, this time, wearing white-goatskin chaps, and in the
short, powerful body, red hair, and prognathous jaw, the policeman
discerned the all-familiar figure and lineaments of one--William
Butlin--generally known in the district by the soubriquet of "Short and
Dirty," or "Shorty."

He was coatless, and his bare, brawny arms were blood-stained up to the
elbows as, clutching a rifle in one hand and a knife in the other, he
slowly descended the incline and inspected the result of his
marksmanship. Being summer, it was a poor skin and mangy so, with a
muttered oath and a contemptuous kick, he turned and retraced his steps
up the butte, with bent head scrutinizing the ground carefully around
for something as he did so.

With a grim chuckle, the Sergeant watched him disappear from view and,
after waiting a moment or two, quietly raised himself and slid out of
his place of concealment. Climbing noiselessly until he reached the brow
of the incline, he dropped prone and, removing his hat, looked warily
down. He found himself looking down a narrow draw, dotted here and there
with patches of alder, willow-scrub, and cottonwood clumps--a huge
specimen of the latter rising from amongst its fellows at the lower end
of the draw. There, at the bottom, not fifty yards distant, Benton
beheld Mr. Short and Dirty busily engaged in stripping the hide from the
bloody carcass of a newly butchered steer.

He had chosen an ideal spot for his nefarious work, the slopes on either
side of the draw rendering him completely immune from ordinary
observation, and the hot rays of the overhead sun beat down on the
sprawled, glistening, pink and yellow monstrosity that his knife was
rapidly laying bare. His rifle lay on the ground, well out of his reach,
near his horse, a chunky, well-put-up white animal and, with back turned
to the fierce scrutiny of the representative of the Law that followed
his every movement, he bent over his work with nervous haste, skinning
with long sweeps of his knife and glancing furtively around him from
time to time.

With a stealthy movement Ellis arose, stood upright, and walked
noiselessly down to the impromptu barbecue.

"Oh, Shorty!" he called.

At the policeman's voice the man started violently and, wheeling like a
flash, knife in hand, faced him with open-mouthed amazement, fear,
guilt, cunning, and desperation flitting in turn over his rugged, evil
face. With carelessly-held revolver the Sergeant watched him intently
with glittering eyes, his attitude suggestive of a snake about to
strike.

"Pitch up!" he rapped out harshly.

The other made no move but a terrible spasm of murderous indecision
momentarily convulsed his face, which angered the policeman beyond
expression.

"_Pronto!_" he roared explosively, with a shocking blasphemy and a
forward jump of his gun that sent Shorty's arms aloft with a galvanic
jerk, the knife dropping to the ground.

Silently Benton surveyed him awhile, a deadly, menacing light like green
fire flaming in his deep-set eyes, and the muscles under the livid scar
on his cheek twitching.

"Yu' look at me like that agin," he drawled slowly and distinctly, "an'
I'll blow a hole thru' yore guts. Three paces forward,
march!--halt!--'bout turn!"

The movements were executed with a precise obedience that drew forth a
sneer from the observant sergeant.

"Huh! an old bird, eh?" he gibed. "Always thought yu' were, from th' cut
of yore mug. I guess th' 'Pen' shore went into mourning th' day yu'
worked yore ticket. There's a lump on yore hip I don't like," he
continued sharply. "Here! Let's go thru' yu'!"

He deftly extracted a revolver, glanced at it quickly, and then
transferred it to his own pocket.

"Packin' a Colt's automatic around, eh?" he snarled. "That's another
charge I'll soak into yu'--carryin' concealed weapons."

His swiftly working brain had, meantime, evolved a definite scheme of
action that he felt the circumstances required. Never for a moment
underrating the notoriously desperate character of his captive, he was
taking no chances, and purposely kept that individual under the tense
influence of his powerful will, giving him no opportunity to collect his
crafty wits.

"Quick, now, my lad!" he broke out in a fierce undertone, seizing the
other's shirt collar and pushing the muzzle of the revolver into his
back; "step out to that big cottonwood down there--keep yore wings up.
Make one break an' this'll go off!"

Bursting with helpless, impotent rage, the cowed and bewildered man was
roughly thrust forward to the indicated spot. Arriving there, Ellis
jerked out his handcuffs, opening these carefully so that he would be
able to manipulate them with one hand.

"Shove out yore mitts on each side of this stick!" came his sharp
command.

Shorty blinked at him with feigned stupidity out of veiled, bloodshot
eyes.

"Quick!" snapped the Sergeant, with a fresh burst of fury at the other's
irresolution. "Quick, yu' sorrel-topped skunk, or I'll kill yu'!"

Sullenly the gory arms were clasped around the tree and the handcuffs
clicked home. His man secure, the policeman turned swiftly.

"_Adios_, Shorty," he said, with grim levity. "I'm just takin' a little
_paseur_ now. I'll be back before the coyotes get yu'."

The rustler gazed after his retreating form with evil wonder. So far he
had uttered no sound, but now his lips framed themselves for speech.
Something causing him to change his mind, however, he only spat
viciously and resolutely held his peace.

An hour passed. A slow one, too, for the shackled man. Shifting wearily
from one foot to the other, he eventually sat down, shoving out a leg on
either side of the cottonwood, his arms, of necessity, hugging the butt.
The sound of voices presently smote his ear, not unpleasantly either,
for by this time he was beyond caring for _what_ happened to him so long
as he was released from his cramped, ludicrous position. Soon two riders
hove into view at the entrance to the draw, and in them he recognized
his captor, and--Gallagher.

The sight of the latter vaguely disturbed his warped conscience.
Gallagher had always been decent to him, he reflected. Had once even
lent him money. How could the policeman know it was Gallagher's steer?
He _couldn't_, he argued to himself. They were just trying to put some
bluff over him. And the conviction that he still held a trump card
hardened his heart.

Pulling up at the dead steer, they dismounted and, leaving Gallagher
examining the carcass, Ellis walked on down the draw and released his
prisoner, snapping the handcuff back on the wrist again.

"Get yu' over to th' beef an' set down," he ground out curtly.

The rancher looked up at their approach. "Howdy, Shorty," he said
quietly, with a grim nod, which salute the other returned sullenly, with
a brazen stare, sitting down resignedly, with his manacled hands
clasping his knees. Benton, rolling a cigarette, looked interrogatively
at Gallagher.

"Well," he queried.

"Shore _looks_ like one o' mine," answered that worthy; "but--"

His speech was suddenly interrupted by the rustler. Throughout his
capture he had remained as mute as a trapped wolf. Now he broke in with:

"Yes, but yu' cain't _swear_ it's yores." And the sneering taunt
conveyed a meaning that was not lost on his listeners.

For a moment or two the Sergeant scanned the faces of the two men, a
lazy, tolerant smile playing over his hard features as he fumbled inside
the breast of his stable-jacket.

"Oh, he cain't, cain't he?" he drawled mockingly. "No, but _I_ can, my
strawberry blonde. Here's a letter for yu', Gallagher," he continued,
grinning. "Reckon I'll let Shorty read it first, though." And, unfolding
the flap of hide, he carelessly held it up for that gentleman's
inspection.

With starting eyes and a ghastly imprecation the prisoner gazed at the
missing link, fear, anger, and astonishment flitting in turn over his
evil visage.

"Why, why--" he stuttered.

"Yes, _why_--" Ellis finished for him sarcastically. "_Why_ do yu' aim
to start in chokin' poor coyotes to death with other people's brands?"

He handed the sticky piece of evidence over to Gallagher. "Double H.F.,"
he said. "That's yore brand all right, ain't it, old-timer?"

The rancher nodded wonderingly.

"Yu'll find it fits into th' cut-out all hunkadory," the Sergeant added.

"Satisfied?" he queried presently. "All right, then." And, in the set
formula that the Law prescribes, he proceeded to formally charge and
warn his prisoner. This duty ended, he sank down with a lazy yawn and,
rolling a fresh cigarette, tossed it good-naturedly over to the captive,
with a match along.

"Have a smoke, Shorty," he observed, with an indolent, meaning smile. "I
guess yu' shore needs one."

The three men smoked meditatively awhile, amid a silence that was
eventually broken by Gallagher.

"Playin' it up kinder mean on me, ain't yu' Shorty?" he remarked
bitterly. "I reckon I've always treated _yu'_ white."

The shackled man, with sullen, averted eyes, gave a hopeless shrug.

"Didn't aim to put it over on _yu'_ in particular, Barney," he mumbled
in a low voice. "I was just a ridin' past here, casual like, lookin' for
some horses, when I see this steer a tryin' to catch up to th' bunch
with a broken leg. I kin pay yu' for it," he added defiantly. "An' if
yu'--"

"_Payin'_ don't go on a job like this," interjected the Sergeant
sharply. "Even if Barney _was_ willin'.... Case is out of his hands.
Besides, if yu' can afford to pay for beef yu' ain't obliged to rustle
it.

"Broken leg," he continued, with an incredulous grin. "Yes, an' I guess
it ain't hard to figure _what_ broke it. I've seen th' way yu' rope an'
throw--lots of times. _Casual!_ What? Oh, mighty bloody _casual_! A
skinnin' knife. A block an' tackle an' a butcher's cleaver in a
gunny-sack an' that big cottonwood to sling th' beef up to out o' reach
of th' coyotes till yu' could come around with a wagon an' team for it
after dark. What? _Casual_, eh? ... well, I should smile."

A lull followed this sally. Presently Shorty raised his head.

"My shootin' at that there coyote, it was, I guess, as fetched yu'?" he
inquired gloomily. "I was down at th' creek, gettin' a drink, an' when I
was comin' back I see him with somethin' in his mouth."

Ellis nodded and blew out a smoke ring with dreamy reflection.

"Aye, that an' other things," he drawled, slowly. "'Member makin' that
crack about a certain red-coated, yaller-laigged stiff whose goat yu'
was a goin' to get, like th' feller's before him? ... A little bit--not
much--I _don't_ think. Yu' ain't got no Corporal Williamson here. I've
been a-layin' for yu' ever since, an' now I reckon it's yu' for th'
goat."

Gallagher, listening amusedly, uttered his low, barking laugh.

"Goat!" he chuckled softly. "Goat!" The expression seemed to tickle his
imagination greatly. "Don't often get it put over yu', Sargint, I'll
gamble."

"Oh, I don't know," said Benton lazily. "Do sometimes." He wriggled into
a more comfortable position. "Talkin' o' goats," he continued, with a
dreamy smile of reflection, "just for th' sake of a yarn I'll give
myself away.

"It was two winters back--when I was stationed at Goddard," he began. "I
caught a feller there fixin' up another man's calf--all same Shorty,
here. I got th' owner to identify th' hide an' locked th' feller up.
Inspector Purvis happened to be down that day inspectin' detachments, so
I rustled up another J.P. and got them to commit this gink. I mind his
wife came to see him that night, an' kinder out of respect for her
feelin's I kept out o' hearin' while they chewed th' rag. Next
evenin'--I had a case on durin' th' day--I drives to th' station with
him to catch th' eight-thirty East-bound, usin' a wagon an' team I'd
borrowed. We had to pass _his_ place on th' way, an' he says to me,
kinder simple like: 'Corporal,'--I was a corporal then--'I'll most-like
be awaitin' trial some time an' I'll be wantin' some clothes. I fixed it
up with th' woman last night to have 'em ready when we come past. D'yu'
mind stoppin'?' 'All right,' I says, never suspicionin' nothin', for he
seemed a sorter homely, foolish kind o' 'mossback.' Sure enough, when we
comes opposite his place, out comes his wife with a big, fat gunny-sack.
Puts it in th' wagon. Cries, an' kisses him, an' says 'good-by.' It was
a bitter cold night, I mind, an' I had my fur coat collar turned up high
'round my face, an' my cap pulled down. Presently, when we was about
half ways there, he starts in to groan an' shiver up against me. 'What's
up?' I says. 'Cramps,' says he, still groanin'. 'Gosh, but I've got 'em
bad.' There was some straw in th' bottom of th' wagon, an' thinkin' it
might ease him some if he lay down a bit, I helped him over th' seat
into th' box, an' he lay down amongst th' straw, with his gunny-sack for
a pillow--_mine_, with th' calfskin exhibit in it, alongside me on th'
off-side of th' seat. Havin' cuffs an' leg-shackles on him I knew he
wouldn't be fool enough to make any kind of a breakaway, especially as
he really seemed sick, so I didn't watch him particularly close, an' we
jogged along through th' dark. He still seemed pretty bad when we made
th' station, so I got him a slug of whiskey an' we boarded th' train. I
handed him over at the guardroom, when we got into th' Post--locked up
my gunnysack, an' beat it back on th' West-bound that was late that
night. I didn't want to be around th' Post next day for fear Mickey, th'
S.M., might keep me in for duty. Well, the case came up about three
months later at th' Supreme Court.

"Mr. Man hires him a lawyer an' pleads 'not guilty,' as bold as brass.
As I figured I had th' case all hunkadory I only had one witness--th'
owner of th' calf. I goes into the box an' gives my evidence an' pulls
out th' hide exhibit to identify. A red an' white one I'd put in an' a
red an' white one I pulls out, but I well-nigh had a fit when I saw th'
brand on it. It was th' prisoner's _own_. I looked like a proper fool, I
guess, with th' mossback an' his 'mouthpiece' both givin' me th' 'ha,
ha.' Luckily for me, Inspector Purvis happened to be in court an' of
course his statement that everything had been in order at th'
preliminary trial when he committed th' man was accepted by the judge,
an' after a hard fight with th' defending counsel--who, of course,
wanted to proceed right then an' there--we got th' case set over, an'
started in to investigate. 'Twasn't much use, though. They--th'
prisoner, his wife, an' th' lawyer--put it all over us--easy. Yes,
_sir_, they had th' bulge on us, all right, an' they knew it. Case was
dismissed at its second hearing through lack of evidence--th' judge
intimating, however, that he was satisfied that there'd been some funny
work somewhere, though, under th' circumstances he had no alternative
but to give th' prisoner th' benefit of th' doubt. Th' O.C., Purvis, an'
th' lawyer, well-nigh crucified me with their remarks. Been mighty
careful ever since, yu' bet!

"A constable named Mason nailed him later, though, for stealing a horse.
He had him dead to rights an' made a better job of things than me. My
'rube' got three years. I had charge of th' escort when we took him,
along with some others, up to th' 'Pen.' It was then that he told me the
whole business. He'd fixed it up with his wife th' night she come to see
him in th' cells. When she came out with that gunny-sack, she'd put one
of their own calf-hides in on top of his clothes. That's what made th'
sack look so big. How in h--l he ever managed to snake _my_ sack from
alongside me on th' seat--without me feelin' him--swop them two hides,
an' then put it back again, was a corker, but he managed it, somehow,
an' dropped th' real 'un on th' trail, where his wife, followin' us up
in th' dark on a saddle-horse, snaffled it an' took it home in quick
shape an' burnt it."

This story, delivered with the Sergeant's characteristic humorous,
arrogant abruptness, caused his listeners--in spite of the gravity of
the circumstances attending its telling--considerable amusement. It was
a curious anecdote for a man to relate of himself, especially in the
midst of the somewhat grim situation under which they were met, but it
was quite in keeping with Benton's strange, complex character.

The three men lay silent awhile after this, each busy with his own
reflections. Presently Gallagher, who was gazing absently at the scar on
the policeman's cheek, said quietly:

"It was yu' killed 'Slim' Cashell, over to Pitman, wasn't it, Sargint?"

At the question the lazy good humor died out of Benton's face strangely.
Bleak and inscrutable became his expression on the instant--lowering and
sinister. His far-away, ruthless eyes began to glow with their peculiar
baleful light. It was the sun suddenly enveloped by a storm-cloud.

"Aye," he said darkly, and a long pause ensued. "It was me or him," he
went on, in a cold, even, passionless voice. "An' my way o' thinkin'
_an'_ actin' at such show-downs is th' same, I reckon, as old Israel
Hands'--a certain gentleman o' fortune in a book I guess yu've never
read, Barney.... 'Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don't bite;
them's my views--amen, so be it.' ... He had his chance, anyway, an' he
left me his card, which I'll pack to my grave," he ended significantly,
touching the scar.

The flies began to buzz around the carcass and the steady "munch, munch"
of the feeding horses sounded in their ears, whilst the sun, blazing
hotly down upon them without the mercy of a cooling breeze, sent up
little shimmering heat-waves from the sagebrush-dotted parched ground.
Shorty presently found his voice again.

"Sargint," he began, with a certain surly respect that it was noticeable
had hitherto been omitted, "d'yu' mind me askin' yu' a question?"

Ellis glanced at him indifferently, his deep-set gray eyes wide with
their peculiar, aggressive blank stare.

"Go ahead--what is it?" he said.

Shorty licked his dry lips. "Was it Jules le Frambois as told yu'
'bout--?"

"No," interrupted Ellis irritably. "Jules told me nothin', an' I asked
him nothin'; an' what's more, I'd see yu' an' him ten fathoms deep in
h--l before I'd suck up any of yu' Ghost River crooks' cursed lies."

"Were it George Fisk, then--or Scotty Robbins?" the other pursued.

A puzzling, suspicious thought suddenly flashed into the policeman's
alert brain at the man's persistence, and instantly his face became an
inscrutable mask.

"Now yu're talkin'," he answered meaningly.

His words produced a horrible change in the weather-beaten, sinister
countenance of his prisoner.

"By ----, I was a-thinkin' so.... Right from th' fust crack," he said
spitefully, with an oath. "An' now I'll tell _yu'_ somethin' that ain't
no lie. Them two same fellers has it fixed to annex old Bob Tucker's
bunch o' hawsses--tomorrer night. I was a-goin' to give 'em a hand,
too," he continued defiantly, with reckless abandon. "They figures on
takin' 'em up to a place they knows of in th' bush--up Ghost River
way--for a spell, till things quietens down a bit, I guess; then they'll
drive 'em South, to Paralee Junction, an' try an' ship 'em East from
there. George Fisk an' me had a sorter diff'runce 'bout whackin' up. He
says to me: 'Take it, or leave it!'--them were his words--'Me an' Scotty
ain't exactly pertic'lar whether yu' stays in th' family or not,' he
says."

He paused for breath. Ellis shot a warning glance that spoke volumes to
Gallagher who, with open-mouthed curiosity, was listening eagerly to
this amazing recital.

"Well, yu' see they've double-crossed yu', _amigo_," he said, with a
calm, convincing composure that left no further doubt in his prisoner's
mind.

"Just a frame-up," he continued. "Why, them fellers has good steady jobs
punchin' for th' Wharnock Cattle Company, which they ain't got no
intention o' leavin' for to run off anybody's hawsses. They ain't
exactly stuck on yu' so, naturally, they figured this was th' easiest
way to get rid of yu'."

Shorty spat vindictively, and his pale, lynx-like, merciless eyes glowed
as, with horrible blasphemies and threats, he broke out, reviling the
two alleged informers.

"Frame-up!" he snarled. "Yes! ... on me _an'_ yu'. Why, this very beef
here was for 'em, while they was up cached in the bush. Feller was
a-goin' to foller 'em up with it in a wagon. _I_ won't be th' only one
to get double-crossed, as yu'll find. Yu'll be gettin' one o' th' worst
falls _yu'_ ever got in yore natural if yu' turn this whisper o' mine
down now. Well, I've told yu', anyways." And, spent with his rage, he
lay back like a man weary of life.

The practical Gallagher glanced up at the slowly descending sun and
leapt to his feet.

"Time's gettin' on," he said. "I don't figure on losin' that beef,
anyways.... It's a-stiffenin' up a'ready."

And, picking up Shorty's knife, with practised dexterity, he proceeded
to complete what the rustler had begun. Ellis, outwardly nonchalant, but
seething inwardly with excitement at the news, the truth of which was
confirmed unhesitatingly by a certain native intuition he possessed,
lent him a hand at intervals and, presently, with the aid of the
block-and-tackle and a lariat on one of the saddle-horses, the two sides
of roughly dressed beef were slung up to a branch of the big cottonwood
tree, well out of reach of the coyotes.

Catching up the rustler's patient horse, the Sergeant picked up the
rifle and, after pumping out the shells, thrust it into its scabbard
slung under the legadeiro of the saddle; then, knotting the lines around
the horn, he proceeded to swiftly fashion a hackamore with his lariat.

"Reckon yu'll have to ride as yu' are, Shorty," he said. "I'm a-goin' to
trail yu' alongside. What's up?" he added, as the other, with manacled
hands on the saddle-horn, in the act of mounting, was staring at the
buckskin with interest.

"Some hawss, that, yu're ridin', Sargint," he remarked, with a meaning,
bitter smile.

"Some," assented Ellis dryly. "Well, yu' oughta know--bein' as 'twas yu'
topped him off. _Umbagi!_--let's _trek_. Don't forget that hide,
Barney!" he shouted. "Hang onto that brand, too--mind Shorty don't swop
it on yu'," he added with grim pleasantry.

The rancher, busily rolling up the bloody mass, with the rustler's knife
and cleaver inside, responded with one of his customary barking laughs
and, lashing it on behind his saddle, mounted; and with him bringing up
the rear, the little cavalcade turned homewards.

In due time they arrived at the detachment, and the Sergeant, after
carefully searching and locking up his prisoner, withdrew outside the
building to discuss matters with Gallagher.

"Guess there ain't no Bull-Durham about th' tip old Bob Tucker's got
this trip," he said with conviction. "Wonder who 'twas put that old
stiff wise?"

He was more excited than was his wont, and his brow was contracted with
impatient thought.

"Reckon he's tellin' th' straight tale?" Gallagher ventured dubiously,
with a back-flung jerk of his head to the building.

"Shore," answered the policeman. "'Twas just a bit o' lucky gammon I
threw into him--I'd no idea he'd fall for it like he did. Yu're a
witness of his admissions of being an accomplice o' these fellers. As a
matter o' fact," he continued, with a sly grin, "I haven't seen either
o' _them_ for well-nigh a month now. 'Twas Little Benny Parker wised me
up 'bout what Shorty figured he was goin' to do for me.... He was down
at th' post-office one mail day--quite a while ago, this is--an' these
fellers was all outside together a-talkin'--Jules le Frambois along.
Benny's only a little nipper, an' bein' on th' other side o' his horse,
cinchin' up, I guess they didn't notice him. Some cute kid, Benny!"

He remained silent for a space, in deep thought.

"Barney," he said presently, "I'd like yore help in this business.
Scotty Robbins ain't o' much account. He's a poor cur, he is. But Big
George's some bad man. I've got his record from over th' Line. He's done
two fives an' a three-year term for horse-stealin', an' I know for a
fact, too, that he's a gun artist. He killed two men in a dirty mix-up
at Los Barancedes, over in New Mexico, quite a while back. Th' Rurales
well-nigh put th' kibosh on him, but somehow he beat 'em out. So, yu'
see," he concluded with a whimsical smile, "it ain't exactly a one-man
job--at night, too. That is, if yu're willin'?"

His request was met more than half-way.

"Eyah! that I will, Sargint," the other answered bluntly and briefly. "I
guess I know me duty as a law-abidin' man should." He had, in his brief
acquaintance, formed a profound respect for the fearless man who sought
his assistance.

"I know it's not exactly a civilian's end o' th' deal to get shoved into
takin' unnecessary risks," Ellis went on. "If I had time I'd ride out to
Buffalo Wallow an' get Nicholson--he's about due there, on patrol. But I
haven't ... an' this lay's supposed to come off tomorrow night. Besides,
I wanta go an' see Tucker. Pity old Boswell, th' J.P.'s, gone East. I'd
a got yu' sworn in as a 'special.' So yu' see how it is," he ended
simply.

"Eyah!" said Gallagher, with a grim heartiness; "don't yu' worry over
nothin' son. My name's Barney Gallagher. I kin 'trail me coat' as good
as me father or me grandfather ever did. Yu'll find I'm right there with
th' goods."

Ellis regarded the speaker's hard-featured face with its twinkling
Irish-blue eyes, and his angular, powerful frame.

"Yu' just bet yu' are, Barney," he murmured thoughtfully. "Yu' just bet
yu' are. See here; look! I'll mosey on over to Tucker's first thing in
th' mornin'; an' I'll find out, if I can--without tellin' him
nothin'--what he knows. Shorty'll be safe enough locked up here while
we're away, an' if we nail these other two we can take th' whole bunch
into Sabbano for their preliminary trial. I'll be back mid-day, an'
towards evenin' we'll slide out."

Their arrangements thus settled, Gallagher departed to his ranch, and
Ellis proceeded to cook supper for himself and his prisoner. Later he
fixed up the horses for the night and, on second thought, after
examining Johnny's hoof with a satisfied scrutiny, and leading him
around a little, he wrenched off the remaining shoes and turned him
loose in the pasture, where there was good feed and running water.

"Go to it, old boy," he chuckled, amused at that animal's antics as,
delighted with his unwonted freedom, the horse, after a roll or two,
sailed off with a joyous kick and squeal, his previous limp now hardly
perceptible.

Ellis watched him lovingly a minute or two then, lighting his pipe, he
reentered the detachment.




CHAPTER VIII


    He was a dirty, aged man, who to his bottle clung,
    And ever and anon did curie in some queer foreign tongue,
    The tale he told was passing strange, yet pitiful, withal--
    Of the lonely, care-fraught, troublous life
    He lived from Fall to Fall.

    --_The Old Nester_

An uneventful hour and a half's ride next morning brought Benton within
sight of Tucker's homestead at Fish Creek. Leaving the main trail, he
struck into an old cow-track, which short cut wound its way through the
thick brush on the west side of the latter's pasture, emerging from
which, into a clear open space, he found the gate that he sought.

What little feed there had been inside the few fenced-in acres was
cropped as close as if sheep had been herded there, and a bunch of
horses and a few gaunt cows wandered disconsolately hither and thither,
roaming the fence round and groping through the wire strands at the
nourishment that lay just beyond their reach. It was a pitiful sight and
Ellis, with his love for animals, felt a spasm of anger pass through him
as he noticed bad festering barbed-wire scratches on more than one of
the poor hungry brutes.

"Th' cursed, scared old fool," he muttered savagely. "I reckon he's got
reason to be, though, if that whisper o' Shorty's is straight goods."

He rode slowly across the parched, dusty ground and, fording the creek,
passed through the gate at the opposite end. Circling around the stables
and corrals, he dismounted outside the weather-beaten shack in which the
old man passed his lonely life. Dropping the buckskin's lines, the
Sergeant climbed up the broken steps and shoved his way in through the
half-opened door.

With an oath he reeled back and his hand streaked like lightning to his
hip. For a second or two he remained perfectly motionless then, a grim
smile slowly relaxing his features, he dropped his hand and gazed
silently at the strange scene that met his eyes.

He beheld an under-sized, grizzled-bearded old man about sixty who, with
the vacuous smile of the partially intoxicated, was leveling a rifle at
him with shaking hands. He was seated in an arm-chair, at a rough table,
that was littered with dirty crockery and cooking utensils. An empty
glass was in front of him.

"_Saku bona, N'kos_," greeted Ellis mockingly.

"_Saku bona, Umlungu,_" came the guttural response, while the wavering
rifle barrel slowly descended and the shriveled, stringy old throat
worked convulsively. "_Allemachtig_--but I thort you wos that _verdomde
schelm_--Short an' Dirty--come a-nosin' arahnd agin."

Born and bred in the East End of London, thirty years on the South
African veldt and ten in Canada, had not depreciated Tucker's accent
much, and his speech was a curious jargon of Afrikander, Cockney, and
Western vernacular.

"H--l!" said the policeman irritably. "Is this th' way yu' greet yore
friends these days? Been gettin' yore Dutch up, eh?--an' early, at that.
What's th' matter with Shorty? _He's_ all right! Wen wos 'e arahnd?"

"Yestiddy mornin'," piped Tucker. "I tell yer I cawn't abide that
feller. I dahn't like th' looks of 'im an' I ain't a-goin' to 'ave 'im
come a-messin' abaht 'ere ... 'e ain't up ter no good. _Whau!_--I'll
_skiet die verdomde schepsel_," he finished with a screech, and raising
the rifle again.

"Here! Yu' come across with that gun!" snapped the Sergeant. "Yu' make
me nervous. Come on now, Bob--let's have it. D'yu' hear?"

Alternately threatening and cajoling, he at length obtained the weapon
and, jerking open the lever, pumped the magazine empty of shells. These
he gathered up and put in his pocket.

"Got any more?" he inquired, ledging the rifle on some pegs.

The old man glowered at him silently, and pointed with a shaking finger
to a cupboard, where a minute search produced two more packets of
cartridges, which speedily joined the others.

"A man that's _dronk_ ain't got no business monkey'n' around with a
gun," remarked the policeman judicially.

"You're a _leugenaar_" hiccuped Tucker indignantly. "I ain't _dronk_."

"No--yu' ain't," retorted the Sergeant ironically. "Yu've got th'
makin's of a first-class jag, though. Th' smell of yore breath's mighty
refreshin'. Yu' wanta do what's right when a man wearin' th' King's
uniform comes arahnd yore _laager_."

The implied appeal to his hospitality was not lost upon the other who,
arising with difficulty, walked unsteadily over to a dirty sofa and,
groping underneath, dragged forth a half-full Imperial quart bottle of
"Burke's Irish."

"_Whau!_ Got it cached, eh? I _korner_," chuckled Ellis, reaching for a
glass and pouring himself out a generous libation. "_Allemachtig_, but
I'm dry this mornin'. Wish this was good, cold tickey beer instead o'
whiskey. _N'dipe manzi?_"

His elderly host, relaxing back into his arm-chair again, indicated a
bucket and dipper. Benton mixed his drink and raised his glass.

"_Salue_," he muttered, and drank.

"_Drink hael_," the other responded gruffly.

Putting down his empty glass, the Sergeant seated himself and proceeded
to roll a cigarette.

"See here; look," he began, licking the paper across. "Yu'll be gettin'
_dronk_ an' doin' some poor sucker a mischief with that gun if yu' ain't
careful; an' then yu'll most likely land in _die tronk_ on a murder
charge, _Myjnheer_ Bob Tucker.

"Say," he continued suspiciously, as a sudden thought struck him. "Yu'
was over to th' detachment to see me th' day before yesterday, wasn't
yu'?"

"_Ja_," answered the old man sulkily. "An' yer ain't never abaht w'en a
feller wants yer."

Ignoring the testy reply, the policeman resumed: "When yu' left Barney
Gallagher's which trail d'yu' come home by?--th' long 'un, or th' short
'un through my pasture?"

"Th' short 'un," said Tucker wonderingly. "W'y?"

"Anythin' happen to yu' on th' trail?" inquired his interlocutor.

The old man hesitated a moment. "_Ja!_ Did 'ave a bit of a shindig," he
admitted shamefacedly.

"_Ja_," said the Sergeant. "I thought so; an' now I'll tell yu' what
happened. Yu' was _dronk_ an' let yore lines catch under th' end o' th'
_disselboom_, an' yore team up an' run away on yu'. Managed to pull 'em
up, somehow, I suppose. Providence always seems to hand out a special
dispensation to fellers that's full, else more'n likely it's th'
hospital _yu'd_ be in instead o' that chair."

"Well, I pulled _die schelms_, anyway," said the other. "An' I 'ad to go
back abaht 'arf a mile fer a bag o' chicken feed as fell aht."

"_Ja!_ ... an' a bag o' blasted nails yu' had aboard fell aht wiv' it,"
mimicked Ellis, irritably. "An' my hawss picked one of 'em up in his
nigh-fore an' he's been out o' business ever since."

The old man, fumbling with trembling fingers about his waistcoat,
produced a short day pipe and, filling it, proceeded to smoke.

"If yu' don't let up on th' _dop_ for a space," resumed the policeman
severely, "yu'll be havin' fancies again--bad 'uns, too."

The abandoned Tucker cocked a boiled eye at his would-be mentor.

"Tchkk!" he clucked testily. "Rats ... an' sech like. I've 'ad 'em....
Yer cawn't skeer me wiv yer _fancies_," he shrilled suddenly, with
senile defiance. "'Ow abaht _you_? 'Tis an Aberdeen man's 'Say w'en!'
yer poured aht fer yourself, I noticed--an' then yer turns rahnd an'
torks ter me like a bloomin' _unfundusi_. _Whau!_ I _korner fancies_!"
he wound up bitterly.

The Sergeant swallowed the home-thrust with a tolerant grin.

"Ain't figurin' on practisin' what I preach just yet," he rejoined.

"I'm a pore old feller," whimpered Tucker, dropping his pipe and
beginning to weep with maudlin self-pity. "Yer all tries to 'come it'
over me."

The gray beard jerked up and down convulsively with his sobs.

"Aw, h--l! come, now," said Benton, not unkindly. "Yu' bring a lot o'
yore troubles on yoreself. Why, don't yu' sell out here, Dad, an' go
back East to yore son there, where yu'd be looked after properly? Yu're
too old to be livin' here on yore lonesome like this."

The old man gazed drearily through the open door.

"I _wuz_ dahn theer two years agone," he said huskily, and with a
querulous, childish simplicity that moved his hearer more than that
individual cared to show. "My 'Arry's a good lad, but that theer _vrouw_
o' 'is kills my pig properly. Nah!--there ain't no peace theer. An' th'
_kinders_ cries, an' w'enever 'e tries ter stan' hup fer hisself she
hups an' knocks 'im off th' perch reg'lar. She started on me, too," he
went on, spitting vindictively. "But I pulled aht of it an' come back
'ere. I 'member one night I went 'ome wiv a bottle ter 'ave a smile wiv
me b'y. Th' kitchen door were shut, an' I c'ud 'ear 'em a-goin' to it
fer fair. All of a sudden there come such a smack, that I guess she were
a-tryin' ter prove whether 'is block or 'er mop-stick were th' 'ardest.
I weren't a-goin' buttin' in where dry pokes an' 'ard words wuz a-goin',
so I _trekked_ ant of it quick--dahn ter th' pub on th' corner o'
Iroquois Street, an' got _dronk_ peaceful on me own. Nah," he concluded,
spitting again contemptuously, "folks is best single."

The Sergeant looked hard at the careworn, dissipated old face,
doubting--and not for the first time, either--whether, under that simple
exterior, there lay not a better philosophy than he himself could boast
of.

"Aye," he agreed slowly. "Like as not yu're right, Dad--like as not.
Now, what was it yu' come to see me about?"

The old man fidgeted in his chair uneasily.

"You mind me a-tellin' yer once abaht that theer old nitchie
'Roll-in-th'-Mud,' as I fahnd larst year in th' bush, wiv 'is leg broke,
an' took back ter th' Agency ag'in?"

The policeman nodded. He had heard the oft-repeated tale more times than
he could remember.

"Well," continued his host. "Th' old feller comes arahnd ter see me now
an' ag'in--just ter say 'Howdy' an' cadge a bit o' baccer. Well, th'
mornin' I come over ter see you I wuz ahtside th' stable _inspannin'_ me
team, meanin' fer ter _trek_ over ter Barney Gallagher's fer some
chicken feed an' stuff, w'en 'e comes a-jiggin' by, a-_sjambokin'_ 'is
old cayuse like them nitchies ullus does. 'E pulls hup w'en 'e sees me,
an' grins. 'Howdy,' says I. 'Howdy,' says 'e. I dahn't savvy 'is
_indaba_, so we ullus mykes sign tork. 'E seemed kind o' excited like
an' 'e catches me by th' coat an' leads me rahnd th' back o' th' stable,
where we cud see th' 'orses in th' field. 'E starts in ter wive 'is arms
like as if 'e wuz a-tryin' ter imityte a bloke a-drivin' 'em aw'y to'rds
th' West, then 'e touches 'is chest an' grunts '_Naymoyer, naymoyer_,'
two or three times, an' shykes 'is 'ead. I catches on ter wot 'e meant,
quick ... cudn't 'elp it. 'E wuz a-meanin' that some bloke wuz a-goin'
ter try an' run 'em off from me, an' wanted 'im ter 'elp 'im an' 'e
wudn't. That's wot 'e meant," wound up Tucker breathlessly, turning an
imploring, frightened face to the Sergeant. "An' I figger that theer
bloke wuz that same _schelm_, Short an' Dirty."

For reasons of his own, the policeman tried to allay the old man's
shrewd suspicions.

"Now, don't yu' go for to get a-blamin' poor Shorty for everythin'. He
ain't figurin' to do yu' no harm. P'r'aps th' nitchie was only meanin'
yore stock wanted turnin' out of that god-forsaken pasture o' yores,
onto th' range again, where they can rustle a bite. It's a blasted
shame, yore coopin' 'em up like that. That's what old 'Roll-in-th'-Mud'
meant."

Thus he chided, but Tucker only shook his gray head obstinately, and
clung firmly to his pet conviction.

"Had any more visitors th' last two or three days besides Shorty?"
queried Benton.

The old man struggled with his liquor-fumed wits awhile, torturing his
memory.

"Let's see," he said slowly. "W'y, yes!... That theer young
feller--Scotty Robbins, I think's 'is nyme--wot works fer th' Wharnock
outfit ... 'e come arahnd abaht fower d'ys ago. 'E's come 'ere ter see
me lots o' times. 'E said once as 'ow 'e wished 'e 'ad th' money ter buy
me plice. 'E seems a nice, kind-'earted young feller--that. Sometimes 'e
brings another feller wot works wiv 'im along too. 'E's a big chap--'is
nyme's Fisk."

"Yes," said Ellis meditatively. "I know 'em. They're both nice,
kind-'earted fellers, as yu' say."

He looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. "Well, I reckon I'll be
pullin' back," he said. "I'll go on over to th' Reserve sometime soon,
and see old Roll-in-th'-Mud, an' have a palaver with him through an
interpreter."

The old man arose shakily and, with a string of Dutch and Zulu
maledictions on his supposed enemies, put a trembling, withered hand on
the policeman's sleeve.

"Yer won't let any o' th' _schelms_ put anyfink over on me, will yer,
son?" he said wistfully.

Benton turned and looked at him kindly, and a wave of compassionate pity
for the helpless old reprobate who besought his protection, not unmixed
with anger at the men who aimed to despoil him, stirred his deep,
sympathetic nature strangely.

"Now, don't yu' worrit none. I'll look after yu', Dad," he said gently.
"Only yu' wanta take a tumble an' turn that stock o' yores out tomorrow
... they're starvin'. An' don't yu' go a-gettin' full an' monkey'n'
around with that gun no more, else I won't," he added warningly. "I'm
a-goin' to keep them shells for a time, to insure yore good behavior."

Tucker, overwhelming him with abject promises of immediate and lasting
reform, tottered out into the open after him.

"W'en I see that theer buckskin 'orse o' Barney Gallagher's thru' th'
winder, I made shore as it wuz Short an' Dirty comin' arahnd ag'in," he
piped. "W'y, _'e_ used ter ride 'im."

"_Ja_," answered Ellis enigmatically, as he swung into the saddle.
"_Used._ Well, so long, Dad. Mind what I told yu', now. I'll be around
to see yu' again soon."




CHAPTER IX


    "Saint Pether ... who hold'st th' Keys av Hivin--
    Oi'm poor ... an' Oi'm old ... comin' sixty-sivin--
    Thru' booze ... ? Eyah!--partly ... but honust, Oi've bin--
    Saint Pether ... Och!--won't ye--plaze--let me--come in?"

    --_The Derelict_

With a feeling of exultation he loped swiftly away. His morning had not
been wasted, he reflected. "All over but th' shoutin'," he muttered.

"Wish I'd got time to go an' see that nitchie, though. Can't make th'
Agency today, now. Well, let's see how this comes off. I can get that
old beggar any old time."

Then, suddenly, an uneasy thought crossed his mind. What if they didn't
show up. If they were hanging around somewhere close at hand, and had
seen him coming and going from Tucker's. His alert eyes flickered around
the rolling stretch of prairie unceasingly, but nothing more disturbing
than a few scattered bunches of horses and cattle appeared to his
vision. Presently, topping the summit of a small rise on the familiar
trail, he came within sight of the detachment again.

Suddenly he pulled up sharply.

"Why, hello!" he ejaculated. "What th' devil's up now?"

For, in the distance, he saw a team and wagon outside the dwelling, with
two figures scuffling at the horses' heads, and the wind brought to his
ears the sounds of a violent altercation. Jabbing the spurs into the
buckskin, he raced towards them, and his speed soon brought him up to
the combatants, who were just picking themselves up from a clinch on the
ground. In one of them he immediately recognized a rancher in the
district named Pryce--commonly known as "Ginger" Pryce, from the
somewhat sanguine color of his hair and corresponding temperament. The
other, a tall, stooping, shrunken-faced old man, was a stranger to him.
The latter's face was bleeding, and he was gasping for breath from his
encounter with his younger antagonist with long, wheezy, asthmatical
sobs that shook his emaciated body terribly.

"Here, now! What in h--l's this racket about?" shouted the Sergeant,
dismounting.

Spitting, and breathing heavily, Pryce burst out: "Them hawsses an'
wagon is mine!" He choked with his rage, and paused to regain his wind.
"Yu' 'member I come around to yu' when they was stole 'bout three weeks
ago?" he ran on excitedly. "I was comin' along th' trail 'bout a mile
nor'west o' here when I meets this old stiff comin' sailin' along with
_my_ team an' wagon, as bold as yu' like. He says he bought 'em, an'
he's showed me a bill o' sale that he says he got off'n th' feller he
bought 'em from ... but I'll gamble it's only a faked-up one, an' _he's_
th' feller what stole 'em. I made him drive on here to yore place. Yu'
wasn't in, so we gets arguin', an' he calls me a 'red-headed rooster.' I
won't take that off'n any man--old or young."

"Why didn't yu' put th' boots to him while yu' was at it?" said Ellis,
with sneering sarcasm. "He's only an old man an' I guess yu' could easy
do it.

"Well, old gentleman," he continued. "What about this outfit? Where'd
yu' get 'em?"

Pale and exhausted, the aged man strove to recover from his distress.
His agitation was pitiable, and the Sergeant gave him time and waited
quietly.

Speech suddenly broke from him, in a torrent of expostulation.

"I didn't steal 'em!" he shrilled, in a thin, high, cracked falsetto. "I
didn't!--I bought 'em honest ... an' I've got th' bill o' sale to prove
it. I'm an honest man ... always have bin ... an'--an' this feller
here's abused me an' beat me up ... an' he's twenty years younger'n me,
if he's a day. O-oh, o-oh, oh, my God!..." And the tears ran down his
lined old face into his gray beard.

"Yu' did steal 'em, you old liar--yu' know yu' did!" Pryce commenced to
yell back at him.

"Aw, quit yore squallin', Pryce," snarled the policeman angrily, "or
I'll damned soon give yu' somethin' to squall about. This ain't a dog
fight. _I'm_ runnin' this inquiry, an' I'll have it conducted in a
proper manner. Just yu' keep yore traps closed--both of yu'--an' only
open 'em to answer my questions. D'yu' hear?"

This roughly administered tonic had its effect, and the agitators grew
perceptibly quieter. The Sergeant watched them narrowly.

"Now, let's start in again," he said. "Yu', Pryce! Yore team, wagon an'
harness disappeared on th'--th'--wait a bit, I've got it in my
notebook--'on th' sixth o' June. Team o' dark bays, branded E four on
th' right shoulder. One with white star on forehead an' two white
hind-fetlocks, an' t'other, white strip on forehead, an' a small
kidney-sore on left side o' back. Heavy, double-stitched harness, with
brass-mounted hames. Wagon--Studebaker--almost new.'"

He leisurely examined the brands on the team and nodded as if satisfied.

"That's yore team all right," he said. "Now, let's have a look at th'
wagon. 'Studebakers' is common enough. Is there any marks, or somethin'
yu' can positively swear to, about it--harness, th' same?"

The other, nodding sulkily, indicated various features of
identification.

With a final scrutiny, Ellis turned to the old man who, by this time,
had recovered sufficiently to give fairly coherent answers.

"Let's have a look at yore bill o' sale, Dad," he said.

The other, fumbling with shaking old hands about his pockets, at length
produced a dirty folded paper. Benton opened it and proceeded to scan it
closely, with a running commentary.

"'Sold to Hiram Bryan. One bay team. Branded E four on right shoulder.'
H'm, h'm. 'Thirteenth of June.' Unlucky day for yu', Dad. 'One horse,
two white'--h'm, h'm, descriptions correspond O. K. 'Two hundred an'
fifty.' Got th' outfit cheap enough ... but I don't know ... nigh horse
is all right, but th' off'n ain't worth a d--n with them bog-spavins.
Seems to be made out in order, all right. Hello! Whose signature's this?
'Gordon Brown'!" He looked up suddenly. "Now, perhaps you'll tell me
who, an' what like of a feller this 'Mister Gordon Brown' is?"

The old man gazed at his interlocutor out of watering, rheumy eyes.

"Why, he's a big feller, with a black beard," he piped unhesitatingly.
And slowly and haltingly, with heavy, asthmatical breathing, he began
his labored explanation.

"I'd just come over th' Line, from Nebrasky. Things was bad down ther',
an' I figgered on filin' on a bit of a homestead somewheres around this
part o' th' country. I was in th' hotel at Sabbano when I first met this
feller--him an' his partner, a younger chap--an' we got a-talkin'
together. He said as how they'd had a homestead down this ways, but had
got burnt out ... so they was--or he was--goin' ter take up 'nother
place, somewheres up in th' bush, west o' here ... later. I told him as
I had a bit o' money an' was a-figgerin' on buyin' a wagon an' team ...
an' he says: 'Why, we'll sell yu' our'n ... we ain't got no use fer 'em
jest now, an' afterwards I kin offer yu' a job--freightin' some stuff o'
ours up to our new place.' He said as how him an' his partner were
a-workin' fer an outfit called th' Wharnock Cattle Company." (Ellis
started involuntarily.) "They was a freightin' some supplies back ter
th' outfit with a four-horse team, an' he says ter me: 'Yu' kin come
back with us, ef yu' like, an' see th' team an' wagon ... an' ef yu' buy
'em, I guess I kin get yu' a job teamin' fer th' company till we're
ready ter pull out ter our own place.' They'd got a big load on, so it
was a two-days' trip, an' th' night we gets ther', he says: 'We've got
'em bein' kept over at a friend o' our'n. Me partner here'll go get 'em
in th' mornin'.' Well, th' young feller brings 'em in th' next afternoon
an', as they looked as th' kind I wanted, an' th' price bein' all right
why, I buys 'em, an' he gives me this bill o' sale."

"D'yu' pay him cash?" inquired Ellis.

The old man nodded wearily. "Two hunnerd an' fifty dollars," he
murmured. "I on'y had a hundred left, but they got me inter a poker game
at th' outfit, an' they skinned me o' that. Th' big feller, he fixed it
up with th' foreman fer me ter work ther' with me team fer a week or
two. Th' day before yestiddy he comes ter me an' he says: 'Termorrer
mornin' yu' get yore team an' pull out fer Cherry Creek. We're ready ter
quit now, an' there's some stuff down ther' as we wants yu' ter freight
up ter our place in th' bush.' He tells me th' way, an' he says: 'Yu'
hit th' trail that goes south, past a feller called Barney Gallagher's.
Don't yu' _stop_ ther', though. Ther'll be a feller with red hair, on a
white hawss, meet yu' somewheres around ther', and' he'll show yu' wher'
ther' stuff is, an' help yu' ter get it loaded.' Well, I pulls out, an'
comes over here, an' fust thing I know is, I meets up with this feller"
(here he indicated Pryce), "an' he holds me up, an' says as how th' team
an' wagon's his'n," he wound up, with a hopeless inflection in his
tones.

There followed a long silence. The policeman remained in deep thought
awhile.

"See here; look," he said. "Yu' tell me as near as yu' can, what this
big feller's like."

The old man looked at him absently a moment.

"Eh?" he said. "Why, he's a big feller with a black beard. They calls
him 'George' around th' outfit. Th' young feller ... they calls _him_
'Scotty.' I dunno what his other name is. All my dealin's has bin mostly
with th' big feller--'George.' He does all th' talkin' ... an' th' young
chap ... seems ter do as he tells him."

The Sergeant nodded gravely. "That settles it," he said sharply.

Pryce, who, all this time, had been an eager listener, now sputtered
excitedly: "Why, why--that's George Fisk an' Scotty Robbins he's
a-meanin'. Must be. H--l! _They're_ all right. I know 'em both well. It
ain't likely as _they'd_ come a-sneakin' 'round a feller's place while
he was away an' steal his outfit. I'm a-goin' ter ride over ter th'
Wharnock outfit right now an' see'f this old gink's a-tellin' th'
truth," he ended, with a spiteful glance at the old man.

Ellis turned and regarded him with his peculiar, blank, aggressive
stare.

"Well, I guess yu' _ain't_," he drawled coldly. "That's _my_ end o' this
business. I know more about them same two fellers'n what yu' do. I know
this much, too. From information I've received, yu' wouldn't find 'em
_at_ th' outfit just now, anyways."

The other stared at him sullenly.

"That ther' team an' wagon's mine, no matter whether them fellers is at
home or abroad," he began blusteringly. "An' I guess I'll take 'em back
with me."

"Reckon yu've got another guess comin', then," rejoined the policeman
dryly. "Th' outfit may be your'n, all right, but yu' don't get 'em till
this business is all cleared up, an' th' Court orders 'em to be returned
to yu'. When I'm ready, I'll notify yu' to come into Sabbano--with yore
witnesses, yu' understand--to prove yore ownership. D'yu' get me now?"
he rapped out harshly, with a rising inflection in his tones.

The red-headed rancher regarded him with a sulky, brooding stare, the
premeditated retort dying on his lips. For there was _that_ in the
Sergeant's face and voice, just then, that forbade any talking back; so,
with a last, lingering, dissatisfied look at his newly found property,
he slowly mounted his waiting horse and rode away.

Benton noted the course he took with grim satisfaction. No fear of his
meeting _them_ now. He was going home, all right--his place _lay_
nor'east, he reflected. _They_ would come in from the sou'west. He
turned to the old man, whom the bill of sale had named as Bryan.

"Unhitch that team an' put 'em in th' stable, Bryan," he said. "An' take
th' harness off 'em. I'm a-goin' to hold yu' on a charge of vagrancy
till this mix-up's all squared out."

Slowly the other complied with the Sergeant's order and, leading the
horses into the stable, endeavored to unharness them; but the weight of
the heavy, brass-mounted hames seemed too much for his strength to raise
and hang on the stable-pegs. He staggered and almost fell, the Sergeant
coming to his assistance, and giving him a hand.

"An' _yu'_ figured on takin' up a homestead, Dad?" he said
incredulously. "Why, with yore age, an th' shape yu're in, it'd kill
yu'. Yu' ain't fit for nothin' like _that_. Whatever d'yu' come over
here for? Ain't yu' no friends--relations, or family, back where yu'
come from--to look after yu'?"

The old man shook his gray head despondently and, with a weary sigh and
long-drawn whistling breaths, sank down on an oat bin.

"I did hev one time," he wheezed, in the cracked, querulous tones of the
aged. "Plenty o' money, too! Oh, I hed lots o' friends--then. I raised
four of a family--three boys an' a girl. They're all married, an' livin'
in different parts o' th' States. They don't bother none over th' ol'
man--now. Th' wife--she was th' last one as I hed in th' world ter call
friend. She died last Christmas, so I come over here. Son," he said,
with an impressive solemnity, pausing a moment, "whin yu' see a man o'
my years down an' out, what d'yu' gen'rally figger's wrong?"

Ellis, with an inscrutable face, was thoughtfully studying the
venerable, weary countenance of his elderly vis-a-vis.

"Booze?" he queried slowly.

"I reckon yu' hev it," was the hopeless reply. "Me own worst friend!
But--I hev always bin honest."

The policeman considered the other's face a moment or two longer, then
suddenly made up his mind.

"I'll take a chance on it," he muttered; then, raising his voice. "See
here; look, Bryan," he said. "Sizin' things up as they've panned out up
to date, I believe yu've been tellin' me th' straight tale, all right.
Now, I've got another feller in here--locked up. There's only one cell.
But I'm not a-goin' to shut yu' in with a dirty criminal like him, if
yu'll give me yore word as th' honest man yu' call yoreself, yu' won't
try to skip out on me. I'll be away tonight--or th' best part o' th'
night--on duty. So yu' an' this feller'll be alone in here. Yu're not to
talk to him, mind. Yu' can give him a cup o' water thru' th' bars if he
wants it, but no matches or anythin' to smoke. I'm takin' no chances on
a fire while I'm away. Yu' can just lay around an' sleep on my cot, an'
let that feller think as yu're a-watchin' him. 'Member," he added
warningly, "if yu' _did_ try to skip, I could easy catch yu' ag'in ...
an' it'd be a sure sign yu' was a guilty accomplice o' these fellers. I
need yu' as an all-important witness, an' this is th' only chance yu've
got of gettin' clear. D'yu' get me now?"

The old man, seeming grateful at the trust thus reposed in him, eagerly
gave the required promise.

"Son," he said solemnly. "I give yu' my word. Yu're treatin' me like a
white man."




CHAPTER X


    Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
    No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
    That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
    Through bars of brass and triple steel!--
    They tug, they strain! down, down they go,
    The Gael above, Fitz-James below.

    --_Scott_

Seven o'clock came, and the Sergeant, with a few parting instructions to
old Hiram Bryan, saddled up and departed for Gallagher's.

The latter who, pipe in mouth, was seated on the steps of his shack
busily splicing a hondu in a rawhide lariat, or riata, looked up at the
other's approach, and glanced curiously at the Sergeant's unfamiliar
dress and mount.

"Hello," he said waggishly. "Fancy-dress ball, eh? What's th' idea?"

For Benton was riding the prisoner's white horse and also wearing that
gentleman's chaps, coat, hat, and white handkerchief.

Ellis grinned. "They're expaictin' Shorty," he said. "Mustn't disappoint
'em."

Half an hour later the two men rode slowly along the trail leading to
Fish Creek. The evening shadows began to close in, but they dawdled,
keeping a wary look-out and talking in low, guarded tones, for voices
carry far over the range on still nights.

"Sergeant," said Gallagher casually, during their progress. "'Member, it
ain't that I'm grudgin' givin' yu' this bit o' help but, d'yu' know,
I've often thort it kinder queer-like as yu' don't get 'em to give yu'
another man to help yu' out here?"

Ellis did not reply immediately. "I could," he said presently. "But
what'd be th' use? They'd most likely send me along some gentlemanly
young 'Percy,' just fresh up from Regina, who didn't know his mouth from
a hole in th' ground. It ain't no child's play--handlin' th' crooked
stock cases in a district like this. A man's got to be onto his job
right from th' drop o' th' hat. Look how they put it over
Williamson--what! He should never have come here. He should have stayed
with that staff job in th' Q.M.'s store ... never did nothin' else since
he's bin in th' Force. They saddled me with a peach once, I mind--when I
was stationed at Goddard. He was a nice, well-meanin' kid, all right,
but all th' same he queered two o' th' best cases I've ever had," he
ended bitterly.

They rode side by side in silence awhile.

"Yu' heeled?" inquired the Sergeant quietly. And, as the other nodded,
and tapped his hip significantly: "Mind, though, I ain't anxious to have
any shootin' on this business, unless it's absolutely necessary. I don't
want no cursed chasin' in th' dark, either, with th' chances o' th'
hawsses comin' down wallop, in every doggoned badger-hole around. I
ain't just figured _how_ I'm a-goin' to get 'em yet! Can't tell, this
stage o' th' game. It'll most likely have to be somethin' almighty
sudden, yu' can take yore oath o' that!"

Arriving later at the previously mentioned line of brush that fringed
the west side of Tucker's pasture, they struck in along the old cow
trail and dismounting about thirty yards from the gate, still within the
shelter of the dense bush, they squatted down and awaited events.

A three-quarter moon showed itself rarely through a thick rift of clouds
and, as their eyes became accustomed to the curious gray light that
flooded everything around, objects within a certain radius stood out
with surprising clearness.

"Lord!" said the policeman in a low undertone, "I wish we could smoke.
'Twon't do to chance strikin' a match, though. Reckon they'll foller th'
fence-line from th' sou'west angle when they _do_ come. Good job Tucker
ain't got no dogs to start in yappin'. Guess _he's_ drunk an' sleepin'
by now. Good job, too, he don't know no more'n he does. He'd be
a-runnin' around all worked up like a flea in a mitt, with that old
Mauser o' his, an' shootin' at th' moon."

"We'll have ter look out for them hawsses o' our'n a-whinnyin', too,"
said Gallagher anxiously. "That's what I'm scared of."

A slow, dreary hour passed. Ellis arose stiffly, and stretched himself.

"I'm gettin' tired o' settin' here," he whispered to the other. "I'm
a-goin' out to th' edge o' th' brush. If either o' them hawsses starts
in, yu' cut th' wind off'n him quick." And he stole away noiselessly.

He was barely away ten minutes before he came gliding back.

"Here comes somebody," he whispered. "Along from th' sou'west angle, as
I figured, too. Guess it's them, all right. If 'tis, I reckon I'll have
to jump somethin' hot off'n th' brain 'bout gettin' 'em."

With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and
listened intently. Soon their eager ears caught the sound of approaching
horses and the faint creak of leather. Straining their eyes in the
gloom, they presently made out the forms of two riders slowly and
cautiously traversing the cleared strip that lay between the fence and
the line of brush.

Reaching the gate they halted, but making no attempt, as yet, to
dismount or open it, remained lolling on their horses and talking in low
tones.

"Waitin' for Shorty," whispered Ellis to Gallagher who, smothering a
chuckle, whispered back: "Some wait!"

Even in that dim light they could see that one of the riders loomed up a
big, bulky shape, in contrast to his slighter-appearing companion.

"That's Big George, all right," murmured the rancher into Benton's ear
as a low, deep bass undertone rumbled to them. "Listen ter that voice o'
his!"

Ready for emergencies, they quietly watched the two dark forms and
patiently waited. Their vigil was short. An unmistakable, smothered oath
came to their ears. The guarded, booming growl of the bigger man, became
more insistent. They saw the slighter shape dismount and, presently the
"tang" of a tightly stretched barbed-wire gate being released and drawn
aside sounded sharply in the stillness. The big shape, still mounted,
slowly disappeared into the shadows beyond, the smaller one resuming his
seat in the saddle and waiting at the opening.

Feverishly the Sergeant weighed the situation. "Scotty" Robbins--and,
without a doubt, it must be he--possessed an extraordinarily fast horse,
he reflected. Even if he _was_ able, under the guise of Shorty, to range
near enough to close, it was not particularly easy to pull a good rider
like Scotty out of the saddle. He would be sure to raise a loud outcry
at the first attempt, and thus warn Fisk. If he once got away, it would
be futile to follow him in the dark.

The emergency caused a wild thought to flash into Benton's fertile
brain. Why not _rope_ him? Long years of constant practise had rendered
him clever with a lariat. It was worth trying. The tumble would insure
Scotty's partial silence anyway, and Gallagher could fix the rest,
leaving him free to tackle Big George, whom he knew it would be suicidal
to ever call on to surrender at close range.

Clutching his companion, he whispered tensely: "Now they're split! I'll
have to nail Mister Scotty quick, before he gets a chance to make a
breakaway. That roan o' his--'Duster'--can run anythin' around here
off'n its laigs. I'm a-goin' to try _ropin'_ him. Let's have that
rawhide riata o' yores--that 'black-jack' o' mine kinks. Get yore
handkerchief ready, an' run out an' cram it into his kisser an' choke
th' ---- if he starts in to holler. Here, Barney!"--he slipped the
latter a pair of handcuffs--"hold these. Keep 'em open an' give 'em to
me when I say. Now look out! Gaffle him quick when I jerk him off'n th'
perch."

Leading Shorty's horse slowly and heedfully back through the brush, the
way they had come, he mounted and, after carefully shaking out a loop to
his liking in the riata, which he trailed in readiness with back-flung
hand, he circled around until he reached the clear space between the
fence and the brush.

Suddenly his borrowed mount nickered. Scotty Robbins started nervously
at the sound, but a sigh of relief escaped him as the shape of the
familiar white horse became revealed to his vision.

"Oh, Shorty--that yu'?" he called out, in a loud, tense undertone.

There was no answer from the rider, who approached near--_nearer_.

Suddenly. "Swis-s-s-s," came the sibilant hiss of something through the
air, and the loop of a riata flopped fairly over his head and shoulders.
Taken utterly by surprise, he uttered a frightened squawk and, with a
quick upward thrust of his arm, endeavored to free himself of the
encumbrance. The movement was too late. That single squawk was his
limit. For the other, wheeling his horse on the instant, rammed in the
spurs, and the next moment there came a terrible jerk that tore his
clutching hands from the saddle-horn and flung him to the ground with
all the breath knocked out of his body.

The startled, riderless horse gave a violent jump at the unexpected
occurrence and tried to run, but the trailing lines under its feet
causing its head to be yanked down severely at every step, from
customary experience it soon pulled up, snorting nervously.

With as much compunction as a cow-puncher who drags a calf up to the
branding fire, so Ellis swiftly trailed the unfortunate Scotty towards
the opening in the brush. The watchful Gallagher darted noiselessly
forward and, turning him on his back, slacked off the lariat.

Benton leaped down. "Quick!" he whispered fiercely. "Let's have 'em!"

Snatching the handcuffs from the other, he snipped them on Scotty's
wrists. The latter was still moaning and gasping with the shock of his
fall.

"Yu' ain't croaked him, hev yu', Sargint?" said the rancher, in a low
voice.

"Nah," snarled the policeman, in a tense whisper. "That flop's jerked
th' wind outa him, that's all. He'll come to in a second an' most likely
start in to bawl, so yu'll wanta be ready with that handkerchief. Say!
that's sure some rope-horse o' Shorty's--c'n turn on a dollar. See here;
look! I'm a-goin' to wait at th' gate for George. No use for to try an'
rope _him_--he's too heavy. I'll have to fix him some other road. He'll
be some handful, too, believe me! If I shout for yu', leave Scotty an'
come on th' dead run. Mind, though, I don't want no shootin' unless it's
absolutely necessary."

He turned swiftly, and was about to mount again, when a sudden thought
flashed into his mind. Scotty was not wearing white chaps. They would be
a "dead give away," he reflected. At close range they would show up
plainly to Fisk in that light.

The next instant he had unbuckled the waist-strap and kicked them off;
then, leaving Shorty's white horse, he ran to where his late victim's
mount still stood waiting. At his sudden, hasty approach, it edged away
slightly, and snorted, scenting an unfamiliar being; but, impatient, he
grabbed at and caught one of its trailing lines, and the next minute was
in the saddle. The stirrups were about an equal length to his own, so he
felt comfortable enough on the beautiful, springy beast. Taking up its
owner's previous position at the open gate, he waited quietly.

Soon there came a slowly gathering, muffled thud of many hoofs, and the
shadowy blurr of a bunch of horses became visible to him as they drew
near. On they came, and the leader, after suddenly stopping and snorting
with puffed-out nostrils at the apparition of the rider, who remained so
motionless at the side of the gate, darted through, the others speedily
following, well strung out by the skilful tactics of their driver to
avoid jamming at the opening.

As the last horse passed through the gate, Ellis planted himself
squarely in the midway, facing the rider, who was bringing up the rear.
The huge form gradually loomed up nearer to him in the surrounding
gloom.

"H--l! what yu' waitin' fur, d--n yu'?" rumbled the deep, harsh,
low-pitched voice. "Why didn't yu' head 'em off, west?"

Benton moved forward slowly with raised hand.

"Sh-sh!" he hissed warningly.

Fisk halted irresolutely. Scotty's horse fooled him completely.

"What's up?" he growled.

Ellis, his powerful right arm swinging free, ranged up alongside as if
to have speech with the other. Then suddenly, and with an uncanny
swiftness, he silently and viciously struck for the angle of the big
man's jaw.

The blow crashed home, and the great body went lurching sideways out of
the saddle. Like a flash the Sergeant swung down off his horse and
jumped for the rustler, dragging out another pair of handcuffs as he did
so.

His haste was his undoing, for he got wedged in between the frightened,
jostling horses and knocked sprawling. The next instant a huge,
bear-like shape that made horrible, beast-like noises in its throat,
fell upon him and clutched his arms. Frenziedly he writhed under that
terrible grip.

"Barney!" he yelled. "Oh, Bar--!"

But his cry changed to a gurgle as the other's hold shifted to his
throat. With desperate efforts he fought off the choking clasp and,
wriggling somehow from under his enemy's smothering weight, scrambled
with reeling brain to his feet.

Big George had arisen also, snorting and grinding his teeth with mad,
demoniacal passion, and Ellis instinctively guessed that he was fumbling
for his gun. Entirely forgetful of his own weapon in the Berserker rage
that possessed him, the Sergeant sprang at the giant rustler, hitting
out with great smashing punches to the jaw and stomach, that sent Fisk
staggering back and gave him no opportunity to draw. With a snarl like a
wild beast, he closed again with his slighter antagonist and, as the two
men swayed hither and thither, Benton became dimly conscious of
Gallagher's form and voice added to the melee.

Stumbling and tripping, the struggling, cursing trio came headlong to
the ground. Suddenly, with a gurgling yell of pain, Fisk released his
grip on Ellis, who was the under dog and, clutching at his own throat,
fell backwards; his head, meanwhile, giving curious, spasmodic jerks.
Uncomprehending, but quick to follow up his advantage, the Sergeant
rolled over upon him; and as he did so, his hands, seeking the other's
neck, encountered a rope, and he instantly realized what had happened.

"Steady, Barney!" he panted. "Ease up a bit. Yu'll choke him."

Roughly, and with the swift celerity of men accustomed to throwing and
hog-tying steers, they trussed up their late formidable antagonist,
winding the forty-foot riata around him as he kicked and raved, with a
maze of knots that left him as helpless as a child. Then, utterly spent
with their exertions, they lay back, gasping for air and sweating.

Gradually recovering, they regained their speech somewhat.

"G--d!" said Ellis, still breathing heavily, "that's about the worst
man-handling I guess I ever _did_ get! Here! This won't do, lyin' on our
backs all night. Where in h--l's them bracelets? I dropped 'em
somewheres around here." And, arising unsteadily, he began to kick
amongst the short grass.

With the aid of some matches the missing articles were eventually found.
The two men then turned to the huge, bound figure of the rustler, who
was still cursing and twisting under his bonds. Cautiously, loosening
one great arm at a time, they clasped the steel loops around the
enormous wrists.

"Should have a gun," muttered the Sergeant. "He was a-tryin' to draw,
all right. Can't get at it, though, while he's on his back. Here, let's
roll him over on his face, Barney, so's I can get at his hip-pocket."

In about as gentle a fashion as a lumber-jack twisting a log with a
cant-hook, so the big body was heaved over into the desired position,
and Ellis commenced his investigations. A smothered exclamation escaped
him.

"Hullo!" he said, "what's this? So _that's_ why I didn't get mine, eh?"

He struck a match, disclosing by its light the butt of a long-barreled
Colt's .45 protruding from the rustler's right hip-pocket. Being
unscabbarded the wing of the hammer had (providentially, for Benton)
caught in the torn lining of the pocket and become firmly fixed therein.

"Eyah!" ejaculated Gallagher. "D'yu' ever see th' likes o' that, now?
Talk about luck--what!"

Ellis carelessly spilled the shells into his hand. "How's Scotty?" he
inquired.

"Oh, him?--he's all right," answered the rancher. "He come around while
yu' was a-waitin' at th' gate fur Big George, here. He started in to
snivel, but I d--d soon shoved th' handkerchief in his trap."

"Mighty good job yu' fixed George as yu' did," said the Sergeant. "I
didn't wanta shoot, but I guess I'd a-had to if yu' hadn't come along
just then. I ain't heavy enough to rough-an'-tumble it with a bull like
him. He well-nigh got me that first trip. Thank yu', Barney. Yu're right
there with th' goods, an' no mistake.... I'll never forget it."

"Aw, h--l," said the other roughly, to hide his feeling. "'Twarn't
nothin', Sargint. I on'y picked up th' first thing as come handy--that
riata yu'd chucked off'n Scotty. That's all right."

A string of oaths from the recumbent Fisk aroused them.

"Hey!" rumbled the growling, bass voice threateningly. "Who is yu'
fellers, anyways? What'n h--l d'yu' think yu're at? Yu'l....

"One o' yu's Barney Gallagher--I know that. I'll fix yu' fur this,
Barney!"

Ellis unwound the lariat from around the big man's legs; then, striking
another match, held it to his own face.

"Know _me_, now?" he said. "George--I reckon I've got yu'! Get up, yu'
big stiff, or I'll fix _yu'_!"

A fresh burst of blasphemy greeting his request, he picked up the riata
again and, dropping a loop over the rustler's head and shoulders, drew
it taut.

"Yu' go get me one o' them hawsses, Barney," he said quietly.

Gallagher sauntered over to where the two animals had halted after their
first scare and were placidly feeding, and returned with Scotty's horse.
The Sergeant mounted and took a turn of the riata around the
saddle-horn.

Amidst an ominous silence he swung around in his seat with shortened
leg. "Comin'?" he inquired significantly.

Big George was no coward, but he was between the devil and the deep sea;
for in the cold cruelty of the policeman's tones he read aright the
signs of a pitiless purpose if he still persisted in further obstinacy.
Sullenly he rolled over onto his knees, and awkwardly raised himself on
his feet.

"So," said Ellis approvingly, "that's better."

Dismounting leisurely, he drew off the loop and coiled up the riata.

"Get yu' over to that openin' in th' brush, where yore partner is," he
continued, in an authoritative, menacing voice. "Here!--this way." And,
grasping the big man's shoulder, he guided him over to the indicated
spot.

There they found the handcuffed, miserable Scotty. He had made no
attempt to run away. Naturally a timid rogue, the rough handling that he
had received had knocked whatever little pluck he possessed out of him
completely. Now he whined like a frightened child, blaming Fisk for
their mutual mischance; but the latter cursed savagely back, threatening
him in horrid terms, so he ceased his lamentations in pure dread of the
other's dominant personality, and relapsed into shivering silence. Fisk
began to raise his voice again.

"What d'yu' figure on chargin' us with, anyways?" he snarled. "Why, yu'
ain't got nothin' on us! We was on'y lookin' fur one o' our own hawsses,
as we thort might--"

"George," said the Sergeant appealingly, with up-raised, protesting
hand, "don't! Yu' gimme a pain--honest, yu' do. I'll tell yu' what I'm
chargin' yu' both with, bein' as yu're from Missouri, an' want to be
shown." And in no uncertain terms he proceeded to do so, and cautioned
them.

"Why didn't yu' call on me an' tell me yore business, as yu're supposed
ter do?" blustered Big George in injured tones. "I'd a-come with yu'
peaceable enough. I'll make a statement ag'in yu' two fellers 'bout th'
way I was man-handled."

The policeman uttered a snort of ironical amusement.

"'Come peaceable'!" he echoed. "Yes, yu'd a-come peaceable enough--yu've
shown that. I've got th' marks an th' feel o' yore little donnies on my
throat yet. I don't bear yu' no grudge fur that, though. Yu' go ahead,
then, with yore statement, Mister Bloomin' Lawyer, an' I'll come back at
_yu'_ with a charge of 'resisting arrest an' assaultin' a police-officer
in th' lawful execution of his duty,' fur which yu're liable to get two
years extra. 'Call on yu' an' tell yu' my business' indeed! An' who's to
prove I _didn't_?" he queried, with an ugly laugh. "If yu' like to call
it square why, all right. But if yu' mean actin' dirty, I'll act dirty,
too--an' ahead o' yu' at that."

The force of the other's argument seemed to impress the big rustler
considerably, and he remained silent.

"I've got yore record from over th' Line, George," the Sergeant
continued. "It's sure a peach.... Five years in th' State 'pen' at
Huntsville, Texas. Another five in Rawlins, Wyoming. An' three in Sante
Fe, New Mexico.... 'Call on' a rough-neck like yu'?" he repeated. "With
such a record as that? In th' dark--at close range--with a .45 on yore
hip? 'Call on yu'! '--an' bring my knittin'. What'd yu' bin doin' th'
whiles? Shot me dead, most likely, or made some break that'd a-forced me
to shoot _yu'_--just 'bout th' last thing I wanted to happen. No, Mister
George; for reasons yu'll know later, yu're worth more to me alive than
dead. 'Call on yu'!' Not if I know it. I'd trust yu' 'bout as much as I
would a grizzly, a wolf, or a 'diamond-back.' Yu' don't get me like them
two yu' stretched down at Los Barancedes. Yep, I know all 'bout _that_,
too. What's that? On'y 'greasers'? Mebbe--but if th' Rurales'd a-caught
yu' they'd a-surely bumped yu' off, greasers or not. Now, see here;
look," he concluded with a harsh ring in his raised voice, "yu' get me,
once an' for all. Yu're a prisoner. I know my duty as a Mounted
Police-Sergeant, an' I don't have to get arguin' th' point with
four-flushin', tin-horn scum like yu'. An' mind, now, what I said about
that charge goes if yu' make one more break, talkin' back to me."

A hasty search of the two men's pockets, revealing nothing more
dangerous than a jack-knife belonging to Scotty, he turned to Gallagher
and bade him bring up the horses.

"Knot th' lines 'round th' horns o' George's an' Scotty's," he said,
"an' string 'em together 'bout three foot apart with yore lariat,
Barney. I want yu' to trail 'em. I'll come on behind."

When all was in readiness he jerked out a curt order to the captives, to
"Climb aboard an' hold onta th' jug-handle!"

"'Member," he added warningly. "I'm close behind, so don't be so foolish
as to chance anythin'. First man that does'll get hurt--bad."

Then, and for the first time, Big George noticed the Sergeant's mount.
Speechless for the moment, he stood, pop-eyed, gaping stupidly.

"Look, look!" he ejaculated to his partner in distress, "why, that's
Shorty's--" his voice failed him.

"Eyah! That's what put th' kibosh on me," commiserated poor Scotty
feelingly. "He must ha' corralled _him_, too, an' th' ----'s given us
away. _Must_ have--who else could ha' put this feller onta us?"

Ellis, in his own saturnine fashion, chuckled grimly at this last
remark. "Sure," he said, "_that's_ what. Now, yu' fellers climb up
_pronto_. I ain't a-goin' to hang around here all night."

In dismal silence they obeyed resignedly, and the grim little procession
eventually reached the detachment. Wearily they dismounted, and the
Sergeant drew Gallagher aside.

"Yu' go on in first Barney," he whispered. "Light th' lamp, an' wake th'
old feller I told yu' about. Tell him to go an' camp in th' kitchen for
th' night--I'll bring him in some blankets, later. I don't want them
fellers to see _him_."

The other, nodding silently, entered the building, and soon a light
shone through the open door. Presently he came out again.

"All set," he said.

The Sergeant then proceeded to usher in his prisoners and, after
leg-ironing them together, with a significant gesture handed the key
over to Gallagher. Seen in the light the two rustlers presented a
grotesquely dissimilar appearance.

Big George fully justified his soubriquet. Standing nearly six feet two,
his enormous breadth of shoulder and hairy, barrel-like chest which the
torn shirt revealed seemed, somehow, though, to detract from his actual
height. His age might have been forty or thereabouts. On some
physiognomies evil passions have imprinted their danger signals
unmistakably. Fisk's sinister countenance, with its somber, desperate
eyes and bushy tangle of coal-black beard which hid, one instinctively
guessed, a cruel mouth and a terrible, animal-like jaw, might to many
imaginations have found its prototype in the ruthless visage of a
moss-trooping cattle-reiver of the Middle Ages captured, perchance, in
some Border night foray.

In strange comparison to _his_ formidable personality, a comparison
which might have been likened to that of a coyote shackled to a grizzly
bear, stood alongside him his slightly-built companion, Scotty. He had
sandy hair, closely set, shifty blue eyes, and a large, loose-lipped
mouth with a receding chin. It was a cunning, vicious, yet decidedly
weak face and, noting its defects, one could easily imagine the truth of
old Hiram Bryan's previous assertion: "Th' young chap seems ter do as he
tells him."

Ellis, with seemingly careless indifference, but keeping a wary eye on
Big George, removed the handcuffs off both men. He then proceeded to
relieve them of all their belongings, which he placed in separate bags
that were specially made for that purpose, and numbered. Then, after
making out an itemized list for each, he began to--ostentatiously--count
out their money. Each of the men possessed a small quantity, and this he
put in a couple of envelopes, marking the amount on the outside.
Gallagher, leaning against the door, watched the performance with
curious interest. He had an inkling of what was coming. Benton, seating
himself, beckoned the two forward to the table. Shackled together, they
awkwardly obeyed. He chose Scotty first, and reckoned up the few bills
and silver belonging to that individual.

"Eight dollars and sixty-five cents," he concluded. "That correct?"
Scotty nodded. "All right, then," said Ellis, licking up the envelope
and pushing over a pen. "Look over that list an' see 'f it's O. K.
before yu' sign for it."

Scotty glanced through the items and nervously affixed his signature.
The same procedure was gone through with Fisk. As the latter finished
signing, the policeman drew the piece of foolscap towards him and,
extracting a folded paper from a small wallet, leisurely compared the
two specimens of caligraphy. With a satisfied sigh, he thrust them both
into his pocket and looked across the table with a sinister smile at Big
George.

"Mister Gordon Brown," he murmured reflectively.

The two culprits started violently, and stared with dismay at the man
who had thus outwitted them once more. Fisk strove to recover himself.
Over his perturbed, evil face there crept the blank, lifeless expression
of duplicity.

"Wha's that?" he inquired innocently.

The Sergeant's smile vanished. His face hardened, and he began to speak,
drawling out his words one by one.

"I'm chargin' yu' both," he said sententiously, "with stealin' a team,
wagon, an harness, valued at two hundred an' seventy-five dollars, from
one, Lloyd Pryce, of Beaver Dam, on th' sixth o' June; afterwards
selling the same as your own property to one, Hiram Bryan, on th'
thirteenth o' th' same month." Then followed the customary warning.
"That's all," he finished, "an I guess it's sure enough, too." He eyed
them a moment amidst a dead silence, and then broke out irritably:

"What do th' likes o' yu' want to come over _this_ Side for--peddling
yore dirty work in a decent, law-abiding country? Why in h--l couldn't
yu' stay where yu' both belong? Now, get yu' away back there an' sit on
that bench."

Apathetically they obeyed, with the hopeless resignation of men for whom
life could hold no more surprises, and which, in Fisk's case, was all
the more remarkable, considering his previous belligerent attitude. It
had been on the tip of the policeman's tongue to question him as to what
had become of the money thus fraudulently obtained but, on second
thought, he desisted. Some lie or another would be the only result of
such an inquiry, he reflected; and besides, he had warned them.
Gambling, he knew, was notoriously rife at the Wharnock ranch, which was
probably the true cause of its disappearance. (A correct guess, as was
subsequently proved at their trial.)

Ellis looked at his watch. It was just going on midnight.

"Seems too bad--a-commandeering yu' for all this work, Barney," he said
apologetically, to Gallagher.

"Oh, I ain't worryin' none, Sargint," the other answered. "I got that
meat in all right, this mornin'; but there's my team I'd like to turn
out inter th' pasture, a cow as should be milked, an' some chickens I
wanta leave some feed out for. I guess yu'll be wantin' me inter Sabbano
with yu' th' next couple o' days, eh?"

Benton nodded. "P'r'aps it's more'n likely somebody'll be around in th'
mornin'," he said hopefully. "An' then yu'll be able to run on down an'
do yore chores. Say, will yu' off-saddle an' fix up th' hawsses? Turn
them two belonging to these fellers out in th' pasture--there won't be
room for no more when yores an' Shorty's is in--an' say, Barney; bring
in all th' blankets yu' can lay yore hands on in there."

In about half an hour the rancher returned, laden with a heavy bundle of
the aforesaid articles, which Ellis shook down on the floor in the
corner farthest from the door, subtracting two, however, for old Bryan
in the kitchen.

"Yu'll have to bunk down here for th' night," he remarked curtly to the
prisoners. "Yu' might as well get down to it right away, an' get all th'
sleep yu' can, because it'll be a long trip tomorrow."

Wearily they rolled their coats for pillows, and curled themselves down,
dormant murder gleaming in Fisk's somber, brooding eyes as he glanced
now and again at the cell door whence issued the untroubled snores of
Shorty.

Benton drew Gallagher on one side. "We'll have to do a 'night guard' on
these fellers," he whispered. "Guess we'll do two hours apiece. I'll do
th' first trick an' hand over th' watch to yu' when I'm through. Yu' go
on inta my room there, an' lie on th' bed."

Slowly the night dragged through for the tired, haggard, unkempt
watchers. After waking the Sergeant up at eight o'clock, the rancher
went out and did the stable chores, and when he returned Ellis cooked
breakfast for all hands--taking good care to keep Shorty and old Bryan
aloof from their former acquaintances.

As they were finishing the meal there came a knock at the door, and on
opening it the policeman was surprised to see Pryce and two other riders
outside. Benton closed the door behind him and stepped forward. The
rancher seemed oppressed with a certain shamefacedness, and fidgeted
nervously with his quirt.

"Sargint," he began. "I guess I kinder riled yu' yesterday--actin' as I
did--but I was fair mad, an' I--well, it's that cursed temper o' mine
gets th' better o' me. I ask yu' to try an' forgit it."

"Oh, that's all right, Pryce," said Ellis shortly. "I'm glad yu've come
around, anyways, as I was just figurin' how I was goin' to get word to
yu' to come inta Sabbano." And in a few words he acquainted the other
with an account of the previous night's adventures.

"Well, yu' do surprise me!" exclaimed Pryce wonderingly and, with rising
wrath: "Why, Big George, an' Scotty--I always give 'em th' run o' my
place as if they belonged there, whenever they come a-ridin' around.
Why! come to think o' it, three days before my outfit was stole, I
'member meetin' up with Scotty in th' Four-mile coulee; we was both
lookin' for strayed stock--an' I mind tellin' him as me an' th' woman
figured on drivin' inta Sabbano on th' Thursday, an' he asked me to
bring him some Bull-Durham 'baccer from there. Guess I forgot it.
Anyways, Big George, he was around about a week afterwards, an' listen!
He had th' gall to tell th' woman as how what a dirty deal it was to
rustle a feller's outfit, an' what th' parties deserved as did it. Where
was them hawsses all th' time, d'yu' think, Sargint, before they sold
'em to th' old man, I mean?"

"Staked out in th' bush somewheres, I guess," said Benton. "They've both
o' 'em got touches o' rope-burn around th' fetlocks. Say, who's yore
friends, Pryce?"

"Two fellers as kin swear to my outfit," replied the rancher. "I brought
'em around to see it." And, turning, he introduced the men to the
Sergeant.

"Well, put yore hawsses up an' come on in," said Ellis. "Don't yu' get
a-talkin' to th' prisoners mind, though," he added. "Least said, soonest
mended. We figure on pullin' out in 'bout an hour's time."

A clatter of wheels disturbed them and, turning, they beheld a wagon and
team approaching, driven by none other than old Bob Tucker. There was
something irresistibly funny in the excited motions of the dissipated,
elderly Jehu, as he urged his team forward with an unending string of
Afrikander expletives, which made them all burst out laughing.

"_Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ke!_" he bawled.

The policeman stepped forward and held up his hand as the sweating
horses drew near.

"_Wana!_" he shouted. "_Wacht-een-bietje!_ What's bitin' yu' now, Dad?"

Tucker was tremulous and incoherent, but by degrees he managed to impart
the somewhat belated news that "'is 'orses 'ad bin let aht of 'is field"
during the night, and that "'e 'ad fahnd 'em abaht free mile sou'west
from 'is plice."

"Yu better let 'em stay out now, too," said the Sergeant. And he told
the old man everything. "Yu needn't be scared of yore bunch no more now.
What! Yu' didn't hear nothin' in th' night? Why, I reckon we made 'bout
as much racket amongst us as yu' do a-shovin' yore old team along. I
guess 'Johnny Burke' put _yu'_ to sleep, all right. Yu'd better
_outspan_, now yu've got here, an' turn yore team out in my pasture.
We'll want yu' along with us in Sabbano as a witness. Yu' can come back
with Barney Gallagher on Shorty's hawss. Yu' can ride _him_, all
right--he's quiet."

Fisk looked up brazenly at the new-comers as they entered, but Scotty
remained with downcast eyes, in nervous trepidation as Ellis and his
visitors, withdrawing into a corner, commenced to converse in low tones.
Seeing the re-enforcements, Gallagher slipped away and departed to his
ranch. When he returned, he found Pryce's wagon and team standing
outside the detachment, with old Hiram Bryan occupying the driver's seat
and Tucker alongside him.

Putting the stable-blankets and some hay in the bottom of the box, the
Sergeant led forth the handcuffed and shackled Fisk and Robbins, and
assisted them into the wagon. Shorty, for obvious reasons, he placed on
the former's own horse, which was led by Gallagher. A wise precaution,
considering the glances of deadly hatred which, from time to time, were
exchanged between the former and Big George, each still firmly believing
the other to have turned traitor. Ellis brought up the rear on the
buckskin, with Shorty's rifle in a carbine sling at the saddle-horn.

It was a long, monotonous trip, but nothing untoward happened. To avoid
stopping anywhere for dinner, the Sergeant had previously put in the
wagon a big pack of cooked food and a jar of water; so, halting mid-day,
they ate a meal and then, resuming their journey, arrived in Sabbano
about sundown. Tired and dusty, they eventually drew up at the
detachment.

Sergeant Churchill surveyed the party with astonishment.

"Hello! Where you klatch-um?" he inquired jocosely.

"Klatch-um allee same Chellee Kleek," responded Ellis. "Give us a hand,
Churchill, an' let's get 'em inside. Cloakey an' Wardle--them two J.P.'s
of yours--are they both in town?"

"Billy Cloakey is," answered the other. "But Old John Wardle went away
to th' coast a couple o' days ago, for a holiday. Don't know _when_
he'll be back. What's up? Want 'em to hold a prelim'?"

"Yes," said Benton thoughtfully. "Guess I'll go an' wire the O.C. just
now, to send one o' the inspectors down by the mornin' train."

As the nine-thirty west-bound train drew up at the little station next
morning Benton, who was on the platform awaiting it expectantly, stepped
forward and saluted a tallish, blond man, dressed in the dark-blue serge
uniform of an inspector.

"Well, Sergeant," greeted the latter, "you've been doing great business,
I hear? But I can't forget you're the disturber of my rest, all the
same," he added, with a wry smile. "Aren't there any local J.P.'s around
here who could have handled these cases?"

Ellis grinned back apologetically. "Sorry to have had to drag you out of
bed so early, sir," he said. "Yes, there are a couple of resident J.P.'s
here. Wardle, who runs a general store and the post-office, and Cloakey,
a real estate man. Wardle's away at the coast just now, so I was forced
to wire for you. Cloakey's here, though, to sit with you on these cases.
Two of the men I've arrested are particularly tough, and I was anxious
to get them into the Post by tonight's train, if possible."

They turned away from the station, and commenced to walk slowly up the
main street.

"Have they engaged counsel?" pursued Inspector Darby. "I didn't see any
one on the train I knew, coming up."

"No, sir," answered the Sergeant. "I asked them all, individually, last
night, before I wired to the O.C., but none of them seemed inclined to
want a lawyer when I explained that this was merely the preliminary
trial. It was the same about witnesses before we left Cherry Creek.
Fisk, the ringleader, starting in to bluff that: 'They'd have all the
"mouthpieces" _and_ witnesses they wanted, when the _real_ trial came
off'; so I didn't bother with them any further. But, as a matter of
fact, sir, I don't see how they possibly could have any witnesses at
all. They've taken pretty good care of _that_ in the crooked work
they've been carrying on. This is Mr. Cloakey coming down the street
now. I don't think you've ever met him, have you, sir?"

The Inspector replied in the negative, as he gazed with well-bred
curiosity at his prospective associate on the magisterial bench, who was
just then drawing abreast of them. He beheld a big, cheery-faced,
somewhat corpulent, man nearing middle age, who grasped his hand with
genial warmth, as the Sergeant, with easy deference, introduced him. A
few civilities were exchanged, and Ellis led the way to the detachment
which, on entering, he perceived to have suddenly assumed an unwontedly
tidy appearance. After hurriedly gathering his witnesses, he formally
opened the court, and the preliminary inquiry began.

Shorty's case was taken first, the local sergeant guarding the other two
in an inner room, so as to be out of hearing. A sullen plea of "Not
guilty" was entered to the first and second charges. "Guilty" to the
third--that of "Having a weapon on his person when arrested." Dealt with
summarily on this minor offense, he was given the option of paying a
fine or the alternative of a short term of imprisonment with hard labor.
He chose the latter.

The two principal charges--"Cattle stealing," and "Conspiring to commit
an indictable offense"--were next proceeded with. Ellis, after being
sworn, gave his evidence, the strange nature of which--in the former
charge--relaxed even the imperturbable Inspector's judicial calm, as he
and his colleague listened with unconcealed interest to the coyote
episode, and viewed the half-chewed brand which the Sergeant fitted into
the cut-out in the hide. Benton's testimony in both cases being largely
corroborated by Gallagher, Shorty was duly committed to stand his trial
at the next sitting of the Supreme Court.

The case against Fisk and Robbins was much more protracted and tedious.
Charged jointly, they entered a similar plea to their confederate on
each indictment. From time to time, during the proceedings, the
Inspector's casual glance flickered curiously from Big George's battered
physiognomy to the bruised face and scratched throat of the Sergeant.
But he was a wily, old, experienced officer and, as neither side
appeared anxious to enlighten him, he drew his own conclusions and
wisely refrained from comment. Adjourning for lunch, and also to view
the alleged stolen team and wagon, the hearing was resumed again in the
afternoon, and eventually the two rustlers were committed.

Ellis then drew the attention of the Court to the case of old Hiram
Bryan, who had shakily given his evidence during the trial. All huddled
up, the aged, decrepit man sat there in silence, his wistful gaze
wandering from face to face.

"Your Worships," he said, "in the absence of all proof of complicity, I
have detained this man merely under a 'vagrancy' charge, so as to insure
his appearance in this court as an all-important witness."

The two justices of the peace nodded understandingly. A whispered
colloquy ensued between them, then they turned and gazed thoughtfully at
the bowed figure of the broken man who was awaiting their will with the
apathetic resignation peculiar to the aged. Inspector Darby, leaning
forward, chin resting in hand, presently broke the silence.

"Sergeant Benton," he said, with a slight note of irresolution in his
voice, "taking into consideration the somewhat cruel position that
circumstances have placed this man in, it is not, of course, our
intention to press that charge against him. But you no doubt realize
that it is of vital importance to this last case that his evidence be
forthcoming at the Supreme Court."

Ellis bowed his head in assent. He was prepared for this emergency that
he had foreseen from the beginning.

"Your Worships," he said, in quiet, convincing tones, "if you see fit to
discharge the accused I will hold myself personally responsible for his
appearance when this case comes up at the next Sessions."

His superior turned again to his fellow justice, and they conferred
awhile in low tones. This consultation ending, the Inspector faced round
once more.

"All right, Sergeant," he said.

Ellis motioned to the old man to stand up. Dully and awkwardly though
the order was obeyed, the venerable face was not devoid of a certain
dignity as its owner raised a pair of honest eyes and gazed back
unflinchingly at his judges. The Inspector cleared his throat.

"There has been no evidence adduced in this case to prove that you had
any knowledge of these men's alleged criminal actions and intent," he
said, in his even, passionless tones. "Rather, it seems that you have
been their unfortunate victim, for which you have this Court's sympathy.
This charge of 'vagrancy' against you will be dismissed ... but you
understand that your evidence will be required again when the Supreme
Court sits."

The old man gazed at him vacantly, and the Sergeant opened the door.

"All right, Bryan," he said; "you can go. I want to see you later,
though."

And, clutching his hat in his trembling old hands, the other tottered
slowly out.

Pryce arose. "Your Worships," he began imploringly, "how 'bout me team
an' wagon? Is there any chance of me bein' able to take 'em back with
me? I've got a tur'ble pile o' work to do, an' I need 'em bad."

The Inspector contemplated the rancher's anxious face thoughtfully a
moment or two before replying.

"Why, yes, Mr. Pryce," he answered slowly, eyeing his confrere, who
nodded his concurrence to this request. "I don't see why you shouldn't.
But you will have to sign a document undertaking to produce them, if
required, when this case comes up at the next Sessions, you understand."

All business being now at an end, the Sergeant formally closed the
court, Inspector Darby and the congenial Mr. Cloakey departing to the
hotel, and Ellis to the depot freight office with Pryce to make
inquiries respecting the arrival of some police stores that 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41889