Below, at the Knoll, Fisty Harrigan and Barney Axel, one of his foremen,
had entered Cameron's camp.
Mrs. Cameron, a tall, broad-faced, angular woman, greeted them from a
busy kitchen with loud masculine familiarity. "Jim's out to the stable.
He'll be in in a minute."
They drew off their caps and mackinaws, rubbing their hands above the
wide box-stove as they stamped the snow from their moccasins.
"Where's Jessie?" asked Harrigan.
"She's to Jim's folks at Tramworth," replied Mrs. Cameron, wrapping the
end of her apron round her hand and reaching into the oven. "Jim said it
was about time she learned somethin',--them biscuits ain't commenced to
raise yet,--and I reckon he's right. He says that Avery young-one can
read her letters and write 'em, too. That man Ross is a-teachin' her. So
Jessie's goin' to school this winter." She lifted a dripping lid from a
pot on the stove and gave a muscular impetus to its contents. "But I
can't fancy that Avery young-one learnin' anything 'ceptin' to make
faces at other folkses' children and talkin' sassy to her betters!"
Harrigan acquiesced with a nod.
Barney Axel stood, back to the stove, gazing out of the window.
"Indian Pete's takin' his time about that deer, Denny. Reckon he's
waitin' for us to come and help him tote it out?"
Harrigan glanced at the speaker's back. "Might 'a' missed. I didn't hear
no shot, did you?"
"Nope."
Just then Cameron came in with a bridle in his hand.
"Hello, Denny! H'lo, Barney. Set down--don't cost nothin'. Missus 'll
have grub ready in a minute. When did you get here? Didn't hear you come
in."
"Oh, we been here quite a spell--waitin' fur Pete."
"Where's Pete--Injun Pete, you mean?"
"Uhuh. He sneaked in, a ways back, lookin' fur a deer. Said he seen
one--"
"Thought you seed it fust--when you looked back that time." Axel turned
and looked at Harrigan.
"No," said Harrigan decisively. "He seen it first." Mrs. Cameron felt
that her visitors were slighting her, even if the Company was paying for
their meals. She had introduced the topic of Swickey Avery. Was she
going to cook dinner for three hungry men and get nothing in immediate
return for it except dishes to wash? Not she.
"That little snip, Swickey Avery," she began; but Cameron shuffled his
feet and glanced appealingly at his Amazonian spouse to no avail;--"that
little snip," she continued, opening the oven door and closing it with a
bang that made Harrigan start, "came traipsin' down here in a new
dress--a new dress, mind you! and told my Jim she had 'nother
'loungeree' to home. Said Davy Ross had jest ketched it. And my Jim was
fool enough to pertend he wanted to see Hoss Avery, and he sets to and
walks--walks over to Lost Farm,--and what do you think she showed him?"
Harrigan realized that the question was launched particularly at him.
"Showed who?" he queried. He had been thinking of something far
different.
"Why, Jim!" she replied irately, red arms folded and thin lips
compressed in bucolic scorn.
"Search me," said Harrigan absently.
"A calicah dress! Now, if you, Barney Axel," she said, "kin see any
sense in callin' a calicah dress a 'loungeree'--"
Something rattled the door-latch faintly. Harrigan started, recovered
himself, and nervously bit a chew from his plug.
"Guess it's Pete," said Cameron, dropping the bridle he was mending, and
opening the door. He looked, and stepped back with an exclamation of
horror.
His face as white as the snow at his feet, hat gone, hair clotted with
blood, and hands smeared with a sickening red, David Ross stood
tottering in the doorway. His eyes were heavy with pain. He raised an
arm and motioned weakly up the trail. Then he caught sight of Harrigan's
face over Cameron's shoulder. The soul of a hundred Highland ancestors
flamed in his eyes.
"Your man," he said, pointing to Harrigan, "is a damned poor shot." He
raised his hand to his coat-collar and fumbled at the button,--"And he's
dead--up there--"
Cameron caught him as he wilted across the threshold, and, with Barney
Axel, helped carry him to the bedroom.
Harrigan had gone pale and was walking about the room.
Barney stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him silently. "So that's
the deer Fisty sent the Indian back fur. Always knowed Fisty'd jest as
leave kill with his dukes, but settin' a boozy Indian to drop a man from
behind--Hell! that's worse than murder."
Cameron came from the bedside where his wife was bathing David's head
with cold water and administering small doses of whiskey.
"What did he mean, sayin' your man was a dam' poor shot?" Curious Jim
fixed Harrigan with a suspicious glare.
Fisty tugged into his coat. "You got me. Injun Pete slipped into the
bresh lookin' for a deer he seen,"--Harrigan glanced apprehensively at
Barney,--"and it looks like as if he made a mistake and took--"
"From what Ross said afore he keflummixed, I guess he did make a
mistake," said Jim dryly, "but I'll hitch up and go and have a look
anyway. Then I'll go fur the Doc. Comin' along?"
Cameron drove and the two lumbermen walked silently behind. Just beyond
the first turn in the trail they found the body and beside it many
animal tracks in the snow. A new Winchester lay at the side of the
trail.
"My God!" cried Harrigan, as he jumped back from the dead man, "his
throat's cut!"
Curious Jim was in his element. Here was something to solve. He threw
the reins to Barney Axel and examined the tracks leading into the
bushes. He followed them for a short distance while his companions
waited. "Nothin' up there," he said, as he returned. Then he walked
along the trail toward Lost Farm. Finally he turned and came back
briskly.
He was unusually quiet as they drove toward his camp. At the Knoll he
brought out a blanket from the stable and covered the thing in the
wagon.
"I'm goin' to Tramworth with this," he said, jerking his head toward the
body, "and git Doc Wilson. Missus says Ross is some easier--only tetched
by the bullet--lifted a piece of scalp; but I guess you better keep the
missus comp'ny, Barney, for sometimes they get crazy-like and bust
things. I've knowed 'em to."
"You was goin' to Tramworth anyhow, warn't you?" asked Cameron, as he
faced Harrigan.
"Sure thing, Jim," replied Harrigan, a trifle over-eagerly. "There's
some stuff at the station fur the camp, that we're needin' bad."
"Denny," said Cameron solemnly, as the wide-tired wagon shrilled over
the frosted road, "'t warn't no knife that cut Injun Pete's throat. That
big dog of Ross's done the job, and then skinned back to Lost Farm to
tell Hoss Avery that they was somethin' wrong." He paused, looking
quickly sideways at his companion. Then, fixing his gaze on the horses'
ears, he continued, "And they was, for Injun Pete warn't three feet from
young Ross when the dog got him."
"Hell, but you're gettin' mighty smart--fur a teamster."
Harrigan's self-control was tottering. The three words, "for a
teamster," were three fates that he unleashed to destroy himself, and
the moment he uttered them he knew it. Better to have cursed Cameron
from the Knoll to Tramworth than to have stung his very soul with that
last speech. But, strangely enough, Curious Jim smiled serenely.
Harrigan saw, and understood.
They drove slowly down the trail in the cold, dreary afternoon, jolting
the muffled shape beneath the blanket as they lumbered over the corduroy
crossing the swamp. Pete the Indian meant little enough to Cameron,
but--
He pulled up his horses and stared at Harrigan's feet. The Irishman
glanced at him, then down. A lean, scarred brown hand lay across his
foot. "Christ!" he shrieked, as he jumped to the ground. The horses
bounded forward, but Cameron pulled them up, talking to them gently.
"I was goin' to ask you to get down and pull it back a piece," he called
to Harrigan, who came up, cursing at his loss of nerve. "The dum'
thing's been pokin' at my legs for a half an hour, but I guess you
didn't notice it. The old wagon shakes things up when she ain't loaded
down good."
Again Harrigan felt that Jim Cameron was playing with him. He, Fisty
Harrigan, the bulldog of the Great Western, chafed at his inability to
use his hands. He set his heavy jaw, determined to hold himself
together. What had he done? Why, nothing. Let them prove to the contrary
if they could.
They found the sheriff at the hotel. In the privacy of his upstairs room
he questioned them with easy familiarity. As yet no one knew nor
suspected what brought them there, save the thick-set, ruddy, gray-eyed
man, who listened quietly and smiled.
"Got his rifle?" he said suddenly, still smiling.
"It's in the wagon. I brung it along," replied Cameron.
"Denny, will you step down and get it?" The sheriff's tone was bland,
persuasive.
Harrigan mistrusted Cameron, yet he dared not refuse. As the door closed
behind him the sheriff swung toward Cameron.
"Now, out with it!" The tone was like the snapping of pine in the
flames.
"How in--" began Cameron, but the sheriff's quick gesture silenced him.
"Here they be," said Jim. "Three shells I picked up 'bout two rods from
the trail. Injun Pete might 'a' took young Ross for a deer _onct_, but
three times--"
Harrigan's hand was on the door-knob. The sheriff swept the shells into
his pocket.
"Thanks, Denny," he said, as he emptied the magazine and laid the rifle
on the table. "A 30-30 is a good deer gun, but it's liable to over-shoot
an inch or two at short range."