A MYSTERIOUS STAMPEDE
Before Douglas could make any demur, Rory had switched
off on to another trail and was driving quickly away.
"Rory is as wide awake as a fox," said Douglas to his
daughter. "He's off at full speed now, and I don't suppose
he'd turn for me anyhow, if I did overtake him."
"Let him go, father," said the girl. "Rory would have
been dead long ago if there had been any killing him.
Besides, he may really be of some use to Mr. Pasmore--one
never can tell. Do you know, dad, I've got an idea that
somehow Mr. Pasmore is going to come out of this all
right I can't tell you why I think so, but somehow I feel
as if he were."
The rancher's gaze seemed concentrated on the tiny
iridescent and diamond-like crystals floating in the air.
There was a very sober expression on his face. He only
wished he could have been honestly of the same opinion.
The sun came out strong, and it was quite evident that
Jack Frost had not many more days to reign. Already he
was losing that iron-like grip he had so long maintained
over the face of Nature. The horses were actually steaming,
and the steel runners glided smoothly over the snow, much
more easily, indeed, than they would have done if the
frost had been more intense, as those accustomed to
sleighing very well know.
There was a great silence all round them, and when on
the open prairie, where the dim horizon line and the cold
grey sky became one, they could almost have imagined that
they were passing over the face of some dead planet
whirling in space. Only occasionally, where the country
was broken and a few stunted bushes were to be met with,
a flock of twittering snow-birds were taking time by the
forelock, and rejoicing that the period of dried fruits
and short commons was drawing to a close.
And now Dorothy saw that her father was struggling with
sleep. It was not to be wondered at, for it was the third
day since he had closed an eye. Without a word she took
the reins from his hands, and in a few minutes more had
the satisfaction of seeing him slumbering peacefully with
his head upon his breast. The high sides of the sleigh
kept him in position. When he awoke he found it was about
eleven o'clock, and that once more they were in the wooded
bluff country.
"You have let me sleep too long, Dorothy," he said. "It's
time we called a halt for breakfast Besides, we must send
those breeds back."
He whistled to Jacques, who called to Bastien, and in
another minute or two the sleighs were pulled up. The
prisoners were then provided with food, and told that
they were at liberty to depart By making a certain cut
across country they could easily reach the township before
nightfall.
One would have naturally expected that the two moccasined
gentry would have been only too glad to do as they were
told; but they were truculent, surly fellows, both, and
had been fretting all morning over the simple way in
which they had been trapped, and so were inclined to make
themselves disagreeable. Bastien Lagrange, who had always
known them as two particularly tricky, unreliable customers,
had preserved a discreet silence during the long drive,
despite their endeavours to drag some information out of
him. From what they knew of Douglas they felt in no way
apprehensive of their personal safety, so, after the
manner of mean men, they determined to take advantage of
his magnanimity to work out their revenge. Of Jacques,
however, they stood in awe. They knew that if it were
not for the presence of the rancher and his daughter that
gentleman would very soon make short work of them. The
cunning wretches knew exactly how far they could go with
the British.
They began by grumbling at having been forced to accompany
their captors so far, and asked for the fire-arms that
had been taken from them. One of them even supplemented
this modest request by pointing out that they were
destitute of ammunition. Jacques could stand their
impudence no longer, so, taking the speaker by the
shoulders, he gave him an unexpected and gratuitous start
along the trail. The two stayed no longer to argue, but
kept on their way, muttering ugly threats against their
late captors. In a few minutes more they had disappeared
round a turn of the trail.
The party proceeded on its way again. After going a few
hundred yards they branched on to a side trail, which
led into hilly and wooded country. Passing through a
dense avenue of pines in a deep, narrow valley, they came
to a few log huts nestling in the shadow of a high cliff.
There was a corral [Footnote: Corral = yard.] hard by
with a stack of hay at one end. They approached it
cautiously. Having satisfied themselves that the huts
concealed no lurking foes, it was resolved that they
should unhitch, give the horses a rest, and continue
their journey a couple of hours later.
Jacques put one of his great shoulders to the door of
the most habitable-looking log hut and burst it open.
Dorothy entered with him. The place had evidently belonged
to half-breeds. It was scrupulously clean, and in the
fairly commodious kitchen, with its open fire-place at
one end, they found a supply of fuel ready to their hand.
Whilst Jacques assisted the rancher and Lagrange in
foddering the horses, Dorothy busied herself with
preparations for a meal.
It was pleasant to be engaged with familiar objects and
duties after passing through all sorts of horrors, and
Dorothy entered cheerfully on her self-imposed tasks.
She quickly lit a fire, and then went out with a large
pitcher to the inevitable well found on all Canadian
homesteads. She had to draw the water up in the bucket
some forty or fifty feet, but she was no weakling, and
soon accomplished that. To fill and swing the camp-kettle
across the cheery fire was the work of a minute or two.
She then got the provisions out of the sleighs, and before
the three men returned from looking after the horses she
had laid out a meal on the well-kept deal table, which
she had Covered with an oilcloth. The tea had been made
by this time, and the four steaming pannikins filled with
the dark, amber-hued nectar looked truly tempting. The
rude benches were drawn close to the table, and the room
assumed anything but a deserted appearance.
It would have been quite a festive repast only that the
thought of Sergeant Pasmore's probable fate would obtrude
itself. Certainly they could not count upon the security
of their own lives for one single moment. It was just as
likely as not that a party of rebels might drive up as
they sat there and either shoot them down or call upon
them to surrender. Dorothy, despite her endeavours to
banish all thoughts of the situation from her mind, could
not free herself from the atmosphere of tragedy and
mystery that shrouded the fate of the captured one. Her
reason told her it was ten chances to one that the rebels
would promptly shoot him as a dangerous enemy. Still, an
uncanny something that she could not define would not
allow her to believe that he was dead: rather was she
inclined to think that he was that very moment alive,
but in imminent peril of his life and thinking of her.
So strongly at times did this strange fancy move her that
once she fully believed she heard him call her by name.
She put down the pannikin of tea from her lips untasted,
and with difficulty suppressed an almost irresistible
impulse to cry out. But there was no sound to be heard
outside save the dull thud of some snow falling from the
eaves.
They had just finished their meal when suddenly a terrible
din was heard outside. It seemed to come from the horse
corral. There was a thundering of hoofs, a few equine
snorts of fear, a straining and creaking of timber, a
loud crash, and then the drumming of a wild stampede.
The men sprang to their feet and grasped their rifles.
"The horses!" cried Douglas; "some one has stampeded
them! We must get them back at any cost."
"Don't go out that way," remonstrated Dorothy, as they
made for the door. "You don't know who may be waiting
for you there. There is a back door leading out from the
next room, but you'd better look out carefully through
the window first."
The wisdom of the girl's advice was so obvious that they
at once proceeded to put it into execution.