“RAT” MACGREGOR’S WIFE
Before the lunch hour on the following day, Corporal Rand and his two
prisoners returned to Frischette’s road-house, only to discover that
Creel and the three boys were gone. However, Fontaine had a letter,
which he pressed into the policeman’s hands. It was from Dick, a short
note, scrawled hastily over the discolored surface of a torn piece of
wrapping paper:
“Dear Corporal:
“Creel disappeared yesterday and we have set out this morning in an
effort to find him. If our search is not successful, it is doubtful
whether we will return to the road-house before tonight—and it may
possibly be sometime tomorrow. Very sorry this had to happen.
“Sincerely,
“Dick.”
Rand looked up, after perusing the short missive, and pursed his lips.
Then he made a swift calculation. If Dick and his two chums had
contrived to pick up Creel’s trail, and had travelled steadily in one
direction, they were not more than twenty or thirty miles away at that
precise moment. They were on foot, while he had the choice of three
tough, sturdy horses. It would be possible to overtake them and assist
in the search. He wondered if it would be advisable to leave Burnnel and
Emery locked up in a room at the road-house, awaiting his return.
He thought the matter over carefully. He hated to risk the chance of
losing his prisoners, yet it was very important that Creel should not
escape. The recluse, as the boys had ascertained a few days before, had
been associated with Frischette in a number of robberies, including that
of Dewberry.
Dewberry’s poke had been in the possession of Creel until the coming of
Burnnel and Emery. No doubt, Creel knew all about the murder as well. In
any case, he was too dangerous a character to be permitted to run at
large. The policeman roundly upbraided himself for his negligence in
failing to instruct the boys about keeping close watch over the man
during his own recent absence.
After much thinking, pro and con, the corporal came to a decision. He
would go. Fontaine would watch over the prisoners. Just as soon as he,
Rand, could feed and water his horse and get something to eat himself,
he would immediately take the trail south—for that undoubtedly was the
direction in which the wily old recluse had gone.
Having made his plans, the policeman proceeded to put them into
execution. He cared for his horse, had lunch, gave Fontaine final
instructions, and, just before starting out, locked Burnnel and Emery in
the room, which formerly had been the private chamber of the road-house
keeper himself. He led out his horse, saddled and bridled, and was in
the very act of mounting, when a sound came from the opposite side of
the road-house. It caused him to hesitate, one foot already in the
stirrup, then presently, with an exclamation of surprise, to withdraw
that foot and place it firmly on the ground again.
A half-breed woman, quite young, sitting gracefully on a pinto pony,
guided by a rope bridle, came around the corner of the house and drew
up, less than twenty feet from the spot where the corporal stood.
Seeing a woman there, was not what had interested Rand so much as the
fact that he had immediately recognized her. It was “Rat” MacGregor’s
wife!
If he had suddenly been brought face to face with her like this at any
other place except here, at Frischette’s road-house, he would have
thought nothing of it, would have continued about his business,
untroubled by a single suspicion.
But here it was different. What was the woman doing here? Surely it was
for no good purpose. Her coming had induced a perplexing train of
thought in the corporal’s mind, and had made necessary a complete
revision of his plans.
Shaking his head, he led his horse back into the stable and advanced to
question the woman. Removing his hat, he bowed politely.
“Madam is a long way from home,” he remarked. “May I ask which way you
are going?”
“Rat” MacGregor’s wife threw back her head haughtily.
“Police! Bah!” she sniffed.
“You have been released on probation,” the policeman reminded her, not
unkindly. “Inspector Cameron has asked you to remain at home. What are
you doing here?”
The woman sniffed again, but did not answer. She turned her back and
began fumbling with the cinches of the saddle.
“You will return home at once,” Rand instructed her, endeavoring to keep
his temper.
She turned her head and looked over her shoulder, her face set and
determined.
“Why you say where I go?” she broke forth passionately. “What business
you have tell me go home? I go, I stay where I like. First, you keel my
man, then you put me in jail, then you say I no go where I wish. Police
pretty big fool, eh?”
“Mrs. MacGregor,” declared the corporal patiently, “we have been more
than kind to you. We released you from jail and placed you on probation.
All that we have asked is that you remain at home and be good, attend to
your own affairs. If you will do that, we will not put you back in jail
again.”
“Bah!” snorted MacGregor’s wife, sticking out her tongue and defying
him.
“You must promise to go back,” said Rand. “You must be good. You must
not try to anger the police. If you will go back this afternoon, I will
not mention this matter to the inspector. He shall know nothing about it
and will not ask me to put you back in jail.”
For a moment the policeman believed that he had won his point. Her
manner changed suddenly.
“My horse he is very tired.”
“I will take him in the stable for you and give him something to eat. He
can rest there for a few hours and then you can start back.”
The corporal advanced, pushed her gently aside, loosened the cinches and
swung the saddle from the back of the pinto mare. As he did so,
MacGregor’s wife withdrew a few paces. The policeman had his back to
her, and, therefore, did not see the swift movement of her right hand
toward her blouse. But he did see, when next he chanced to turn his
head, the small revolver nestling in her hand—pointed straight at his
head.
“I didn’t think you’d do a thing like that,” declared Rand,
reproachfully. “You’ll only get yourself in more trouble. Put it down.”
“You keel my man,” the young barbarian declared spitefully. “Now I keel
you.”
“That’s your privilege,” answered the policeman, quite unmoved. “But if
you do, you’ll hang for it. Be reasonable, and put down that gun.”
“Rat” MacGregor’s wife possessed the black, beady eyes of a snake. They
were unrelenting, wicked, revengeful. Her staring gaze never left the
policeman’s face. Eight feet away—it would not be possible to leap
suddenly forward and disarm her. His best chance was to endeavor to get
his own gun.
But how could he get his gun, when she was watching him like that? He
knew that if he moved his hand a single inch, her weapon would explode
in his face. Hers was no idle threat. She really intended to kill him!
There was a chance, very remote, of course, that Fontaine or Le Sueur
might come to his assistance. Look out of the window. See him and the
woman there.
“Look here,” said Rand, fighting for time, “I think you are making a
very serious mistake. You’ll have to answer for it in the end. Inspector
Cameron will be sure to get you. You can’t possibly escape. While there
is still time, you’d better put down that gun.”
“If I do,” her eyes glinted, “will you promise not put me in jail?”
The corporal did not hesitate.
“A while ago I could have given you my promise. But not now. It is too
late, madam.”
The policeman was afraid that he had sounded his own death-knell. Well,
he had told the truth, anyway. He had not lied to her. He had not
stained his honor or violated the code. He wondered why he could feel so
calm with those eyes blazing at him and the knowledge that he was about
to die. Calm!—when he could see that the index finger of her right hand
was beginning to press slowly but determinedly against the trigger.
“Time’s up!” thought Corporal Rand.
And then—like the sound that comes out of a dream—the opening of a door.