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THE
LAW-BREAKERS
By RIDGWELL CULLUM
AUTHOR OF
"The Story of the Foss River Ranch," "In the Brooding
Wild," "The Way of the Strong," Etc.
With Frontispiece in Colors
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangement with GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE WAY OF THE STRONG
THE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK
THE NIGHT-RIDERS
THE ONE-WAY TRAIL
THE TRAIL OF THE AXE
THE SHERIFF OF DYKE HOLE
THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS
[Illustration: "WHAT IS THIS MAN TO YOU?" HE DEMANDED
_The Law-Breakers._ _Frontispiece._]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I WATCHING THE LINE 1
II WHITE POINT 5
III THE HOLD-UP 11
IV AT THE FOOT OF AN AGED PINE 18
V BOUND FOR THE SOUTHERN TRAIL 25
VI THE MAN-HUNTERS 35
VII CHARLIE BRYANT 43
VIII THE SOUL-SAVERS 53
IX THE "STRAY"-HUNTER 64
X THE BROTHERS 73
XI THE UNREGENERATE 79
XII THE DISCOMFITURE OF HELEN 91
XIII LIGHT-HEARTED SOULS 100
XIV THE HOUSE OF DIRTY O'BRIEN 110
XV ADVENTURES IN THE NIGHT 120
XVI FURTHER ADVENTURES 128
XVII BILL PEEPS UNDER THE SURFACE 137
XVIII THE ARM OUTREACHING 142
XIX BILL MAKES THREE DISCOVERIES 155
XX IN THE FAR REACHES 166
XXI WORD FROM HEADQUARTERS 176
XXII MOVES IN THE GAME OF LOVE 184
XXIII STORM CLOUDS 195
XXIV THE SOUL OF A MAN 206
XXV THE BROKEN CHAIN 215
XXVI ROCKY SPRINGS HEARS THE NEWS 221
XXVII AT THE HIDDEN CORRAL 235
XXVIII A WAGER 241
XXIX BILL'S FRESH BLUNDERING 256
XXX THE COMMITTEE DECIDE 261
XXXI ANTAGONISTS 265
XXXII TREACHERY 272
XXXIII PLAYING THE GAME 278
XXXIV AN ENCOUNTER 286
XXXV ON MONDAY NIGHT 296
XXXVI STILL MONDAY NIGHT 299
XXXVII THE NIGHT TRAIL 307
XXXVIII THE FALL OF THE OLD PINE 315
XXXIX FROM THE ASHES 327
XL THE DAWN 335
THE LAW-BREAKERS
CHAPTER I
WATCHING THE LINE
There was no shade anywhere. The terrible glare of the summer sun beat
down upon the whole length of the wooden platform at Amberley. Hot as
was the dry, bracing air, it was incomparable with the blistering
intensity of heat reflected from the planking, which burned through
to the soles of the feet of the uniformed man who paced its length,
slowly, patiently.
This sunburnt, gray-eyed man, with his loose, broad shoulders,
his powerful, easy-moving limbs, seemed quite indifferent to the
irritating climatic conditions of the moment. Even the droning of the
worrying mosquitoes had no power to disturb him. Like everything else
unpleasant in this distant northwestern land, he accepted these things
as they came, and brushed them aside for the more important affairs he
was engaged upon.
He gazed out across the wide monotony of prairie with its undulating
wavelets, a tawny green beneath the scorching summer sun. He was
thinking deeply; perhaps dreaming, although dreaming had small enough
place in his busy life. His lot was a stern fight against crime, and,
in a land so vast, so new, where crime flourished upon virgin soil, it
left him little time for the more pleasant avenues of thought.
Inspector Stanley Fyles came to a halt at the eastern end of the long
platform. Miles of railroad track stretched away in a dead straight
line toward the distant, shimmering horizon. For miles ahead the road
was unbroken by a single moving object, and, after a long, keen
survey, the man abruptly turned his back upon it.
In a moment he became aware of a hollow-chested man hurrying toward
him. He was coming from the direction of the only building upon the
platform--the railroad office, or, as it was grandiloquently called,
the "booking hall."
Fyles recognized the man as the railroad agent, Huntly, who controlled
the affairs of his company in this half-fledged prairie town.
He came up in a flurry of unusual excitement.
"She's past New Camp, inspector," he cried. "Guess she's in the Broken
Hills, an' gettin' near White Point. I'd say she'd be along in an
hour--sure."
"Damn!"
For once in his life Stanley Fyles's patience gave way.
The man grinned.
"It ain't no use cussin'," he protested, with a suggestion of
malicious delight. "Y'see, she's just a bum freight. Ain't even a
'through.' I tell you, these sort have emptied a pepper box of gray
around my head. Yes, sir, there's more gray to my head by reason of
their sort than a hired man could hoe out in half a year."
"Twenty minutes ago you told me she'd be in in half an hour."
There was resentment as well as distrust in the officer's protest.
"Sure," the man responded glibly. "That was accordin' to schedule.
Guess Ananias must have been the fellow who invented schedules for
local freights."
The toe of Fyles's well-polished riding-boot tapped the superheated
platform.
His gray eyes suddenly fixed and held the ironical eyes of the other.
"See here, Huntly," he said at last, in that tone of quiet authority
which never deserted him for long. "I can rely on that? There's
nothing to stop her by the way--now? Nothing at all?"
But the agent shook his head, and his eyes still shone with their
ironical light.
"I'd say the prophet business petered out miser'bly nigh two thousand
years ago. I wouldn't say this dogone prairie 'ud be the best place
to start resurrectin' it. No, sir! There's too many chances for
that--seein' we're on a branch line. There's the track--it might give
way. You never can tell on a branch line. The locomotive might drop
dead of senile decay. Maybe the train crew's got drunk, and is
raisin' hell at some wayside city. You never can tell on a branch
line. Then there's that cargo of liquor you're yearnin' to----"
"Cut it out, man," broke in the officer sharply. "You are sure about
the train? You know what you're talking about?"
The agent grinned harder than ever.
"This is a prohibition territory----" he began.
But again Fyles cut him short. The man's irrepressible love of
fooling, half good-humored, half malicious, had gone far enough.
"Anyway you don't usually get drunk before sundown, so I guess I'll
have to take your word for it."
Then Inspector Fyles smiled back into the other's face, which had
abruptly taken on a look of resentment at the charge.
"I tell you what it is," he went on. "You boys get mighty close to
the wind swilling prohibited liquor. It's against the spirit of the
law--anyway."
But the agent's good humor warmed again under the officer's admission
of his difficulties. He was an irrepressible fellow when opportunity
offered. Usually he lived in a condition of utter boredom. In fact,
there were only two things that made life tolerable for him in
Amberley. These were the doings of the Mounted Police, and the doings
of those who made their existence a necessity in the country.
Even while weighted down with the oppressive routine of his work, it
was an inspiriting thing to watch the war between law and lawlessness.
Here in Amberley, situated in the heart of the Canadian prairie lands,
was a handful of highly trained men pitted against almost a world of
crime. Perhaps the lightest of their duties was the enforcing of the
prohibition laws, formulated by a dear, grandmotherly government in an
excess of senile zeal for the welfare of the health and morals of
those far better able to think for themselves.
The laws of prohibition! The words stuck with Mr. Huntly as they stuck
with every full-grown man and woman in the country outside the narrow
circle of temperance advocates. The law was anathema to him. Under its
influence the bettering, the purification of life in the Northwestern
Territories had received a setback, which optimistic antagonists
of the law declared was little less than a quarter of a century.
Drunkenness had increased about one hundred per cent, since human
nature had been forbidden the importation and consumption of alcohol
in any form stronger than four per cent. beer.
Huntly knew that Inspector Fyles was almost solely at work upon the
capture of contraband liquor. Also he knew, and hated the fact, that
his own duty required that he must give any information concerning
this traffic upon his railroad which the police might require.
Therefore there was an added vehemence in his reply to the officer's
warning.
"Sakes, man! What 'ud you have us do?" he cried, with a laugh that was
more than half angry. "Do you think we're goin' to sit around this
darned diagram of a town readin' temperance tracts, just because
somebody guesses we haven't the right to souse liquor? Think we're
goin' to suck milk out of a kid's feeder, just because you boys in red
coats figure that way? No, sir. Guess that ain't doin'--anyway. I'm
sousing all the liquor I can get my hooks on, an' it's all the sweeter
because of you boys. Outside my duty to the railroad company I
wouldn't raise a finger to stop a gallon of good rye comin' into town,
no, not if the penitentiary was yearnin' to swallow me right up."
Fyles's purposeful eyes surveyed the man with a thoughtful smile.
"Just so," he said coolly. "That clause about 'duty' squares the rest.
You'll need to do your duty about these things. That's all we want.
That's all we intend to have. Do you get me? I'm right here to see
that duty done. The first trip, my friend, and you won't talk of
penitentiary so--easily." The quietness with which he spoke did not
rob his words of their significance. Then he went on, just a shade
more sharply. "Now, see here. When that freight gets in I hold you
responsible that the hindmost car--next the caboose--is dropped here,
and the seals are intact. It's billed loaded with barrels of cube
sugar, for Calford. Get me? That's your duty just now. See you do it."
Huntly understood Fyles. Everybody in Amberley understood him. And the
majority recognized the deliberate purpose lying behind his calmest
assurance. The agent knew that his protest had touched the limit,
consequently there was nothing left him but to carry out instructions
to the letter. He hated the position.
His face twisted into a wry grin.
"Guess you don't leave much to the imagination, inspector," he said
sourly.
Fyles was moving away. He replied over his shoulder.
"No. Just the local color of the particular penitentiary," he said,
with a laugh.