AT THE FOOT OF AN AGED PINE
Waiting for word from the agent, Huntly, Inspector Fyles had retreated
to the insignificant wooden shack which served the police as a Town
Station in Amberley. It consisted of two rooms and a loft in the pitch
of the roof. Its furniture was reduced to a minimum, and everything,
except the loft above where the two troopers and the corporal in
charge slept, was a matter of bare boards and bare wooden chairs.
The officer sat in the smaller inner room where the telephone was
close to his hand, while the non-commissioned officer and his men
occupied the outer room.
Fyles faced the window with his hard Windsor chair close beside the
office table. His elbow rested upon its chipped and discolored
surface, and his chin was supported on the palm of his hand. Just now
his busy thoughts were free to wander whithersoever they listed. This
was an interim of waiting, when all preparations were made for the
work in hand, and there was nothing to do but await developments. So
used was he to this work of seizing contraband spirits that its
contemplation had not power enough to quicken one single beat of his
pulse. And in this, too, he displayed that wondrous patience which was
so much a part of his nature.
Stanley Fyles's reputation in these wild regions was decidedly unique.
Scarcely a day passed but what some strenuous emergency arose
demanding quick thought and quicker action, where life, frequently his
own, hung in the balance. Yet the most strenuous of them found him
always easy, always deliberate, and, as his subordinates loved to
declare, he always managed to "beat the game by a second."
There were people outside, civilians, who confidently and
contemptuously declared him to be a bungler; a patient, hard-working
bungler. These were the men who saw few of his successes, and always
contrived to smell out his failures. These people were those who had
no understanding of the difficulties of a handful of men pitted
against a country eaten up with every form of criminal disease. There
were others, again, who insisted that far more crime slipped through
his well "oiled" hands than ever was held by them. These were the
people who sneered at his reputation for stern discipline, and
declared it to be a mere pose to cover his tracks, while he patiently
piled up a fortune through the shady channels of "graft." A small
minority admitted his ability, but averred that his patience erred on
the side of slackness, which was one of the causes that the flood of
prohibited liquor in the country showed no abatement.
Nevertheless, one and all admitted his patience, whether it was in
bungling, in harvesting his graft, or whether it was a form of
slackness. Nor could they help doing so, for patience, a wonderful
purposeful patience, was his greatest characteristic. Every other
feature of his personality was subservient to it, and so it was that
the most hardened criminals began at once a nervous scrutiny of their
tracks the moment the news reached them that the lean nose of Stanley
Fyles had caught their scent.
Those who knew Fyles best ignored the patience which caught the public
mind so readily. They saw something more beneath it, something much
more to their liking. His patience only masked a keen, swift-moving,
scheming brain, packed to the uttermost with a wonderful instinct for
detection. He worked on no rule-of-thumb method as so many of his
comrades did. He was the fortunate possessor of an imagination, and,
long since, he had learned its value in his crusade against crime.
But this man was by no means a mere detection machine. He was full of
ambition. Police work was merely serving its purpose in his scheme of
things. He saw advancement in it--advancement in the right direction.
In five years he had raised himself from the lowest rung of the police
ladder to a commissioned rank, and from this rank he knew he could
reach out in any of the directions in which he required to proceed.
There were several directions in which his ambitious eyes gazed. There
were politics, with their multifarious opportunities for fortune and
place. There was the land, crying aloud of the fortunes lying hidden
within its bosom. There was official service upon higher planes, from
which so many names were drawn to fill the roll of fame to be handed
down to an adoring posterity. He was not yet thirty years of age, and
he felt that any one of these things lay well within the focus his
present position presented.
But the time for his next move was not yet; and herein was the real
man. In his mind there were still purposes which required complete
fulfilment before that further upward movement began. It was the more
human side of the man dictating its will upon him, that will which can
never be denied when once it rouses from its slumbers amid the living
fires which course through the veins of healthy manhood.
Just now, as he leaned back in his unyielding chair, luxuriating in a
comfort which only a man as hard as he could have extracted from it,
the hot, living fires were stirring in his veins. His mind had gone
back to a picture, one of the many pictures which so often held him in
his scant leisure, that represented the first waking of those dormant
fires of manhood.
The scene was a memory forming the starting point of a long series of
other pictures, which aways came with a rush, changing and changing
with kaleidoscopic rapidity till they developed into a stream of
swiftly flowing thought.
It was the picture of a quaint, straggling prairie village, half
hidden in the multi-hued foliage of a deep valley, as viewed from his
saddle where his horse stood upon the shoulder of land which dropped
away at his feet. It was one of those wondrous fairy scenes with which
the prairie, in her friendlier moods, delights to charm the eye.
Perhaps "mock" would better express her whim, for many of these fair
settlements in the days of the Prohibition Laws were veritable
sepulchers of crime, only whitewashed by the humorous mood of nature.
Ten yards below him an aged pine reared its hoary, time-worn head
toward the gleaming azure of a noonday summer sky. It was a landmark
known throughout the land; it was the landmark which had guided him to
this obscure village of Rocky Springs. It had been in his eye all the
morning as he rode toward it, and as he drew near curiosity had
impelled him to leave the trail he was on and examine more closely
this wonderful specimen of a far, far distant age.
But his inspection was never fully made. Instead, his interest was
abruptly diverted to that which he beheld reposing beneath its
shadow. A girl was sitting, half reclining, against the dark old
trunk, with a sewing basket at her side, and a perfect maze of white
needlework in her lap.
She was not sewing, however, as he drew near. She was gazing out over
the village below, with a pair of eyes so deep and darkly beautiful
that the man caught his breath. Just for one unconscious moment
Stanley Fyles had followed the direction of her gaze, then his own
eyes came back to her face and riveted themselves upon it.
She was very, very beautiful. Her hair was abundant and dark. Yet it
was quite devoid of that suggestion of great weight so often found in
very dark hair. There was a melting luster in the velvet softness of
her deeply fringed eyes. Her features were sufficiently irregular to
escape the accusation of classic form, and possessed a firmness and
decision quite remarkable. At that moment the solitary horseman
decided in his mind that here was the most beautiful creature he had
ever looked upon.
She was dressed in a light summer frock, through the delicate texture
of which peeped the warm tint of beautifully rounded arms and
shoulders. She was hatless, too, in spite of the summer blaze. To his
fired imagination she belonged to a canvas painted by some old master
whose portrayals suggested a strength and depth of character rarely
seen in life. Even the beautiful olive of her complexion suggested
those southern climes whence alone, he had always been led to believe,
old masters hailed.
To him it was the face of a woman whose heart and mind were crowding
with a yearning for something--something unattainable. Such was her
look of strength and virility that he almost regretted them, fearing
that her character might belie her wondrous femininity.
But in a moment he had denial forced upon him. The girl turned slowly,
and gazed up into his face with smiling frankness. Her eyes took him
in from his prairie hat to his well-booted feet. They passed swiftly
over his dark patrol jacket, with its star upon its shoulder, and down
the yellow stripe of his riding breeches. There was nothing left him
but to salute, which he did as her voice broke the silence.
"You're Inspector Stanley Fyles?" she said, with a rising inflection
in her deep musical voice.
The man answered bluntly. He was taken aback at the unconventional
greeting.
"Yes----" He cleared his throat in his momentary confusion. Then he
responded to her still smiling eyes. "And--that's Rocky Springs?" he
inquired, pointing down the valley. The information was quite
unnecessary.
The girl nodded.
"Yes," she said, "a prairie village that's full of everything
interesting--except, perhaps, honesty."
The man smiled broadly.
"That's why I'm here."
The girl laughed a merry, rippling laugh.
"Sure," she nodded. "We heard you were coming. You're going to fix a
police station here, aren't you?" Then, as he nodded, her smile died
out and her eyes became almost earnest. "It's surely time," she
declared. "I've heard of bad places, I've read of them, I guess. But
all I've heard of, or read of, are heavens of righteousness compared
with this place. Look," she cried, rising from the ground and reaching
out one beautifully rounded arm in the direction of the nestling
houses, amid their setting of green woods, with the silvery gleam of
the river peeping up as it wound its sluggish summer way through the
heart of the valley. "Was there ever such a mockery? The sweetest
picture human eyes could rest on. Fair--far, far fairer than any
artist's fancy could paint it. It's a fit resting place for everything
that's good, and true, and beautiful in life, and--and yet--I'd say
that Rocky Springs, very nearly to a man, is--against the law."
For a moment Fyles had no reply. He was thinking of the charm of the
picture she made standing there silhouetted against the green slope of
the far side of the valley. Then, as she suddenly dropped her arm, and
began to gather up the sewing she had tumbled upon the ground when she
stood up, he pulled himself together. He beamed an unusually genial
smile.
"Guess there are things we police need to be thankful for, and places
like Rocky Springs are among 'em," he said, cheerfully. "I'd say if it
wasn't for your Rocky Springs, and its like, we should be chasing
around as uselessly as hungry coyotes in winter. The Government
wouldn't fancy paying us for nothing."
By the time he had finished speaking the girl's work was gathered in
her arms.
"That's the trail," she said abruptly, pointing at the path which
Fyles had left for his inspection of the tree. "It goes right on down
to the saloon. You see," she added slyly, "the saloon's about the most
important building in the town. Good-bye."
Without another word she walked off down the slope, and, in a moment,
was lost among the generous growth of shrubs.
This was the scene to which his mind always reverted. But there were
others, many of them, and in each this beautiful girl's presence was
always the center of his focus. He had seen and spoken to her many
times since then, for his duty frequently took him into the
neighborhood of that aged pine. But in spite of her frankness at their
first meeting she quickly proved far more elusive than he would have
believed possible, and consequently his intimacy with her had
progressed very little.
The result was a natural one. The man's interest in her was still
further whetted, till, in time, he finally realized that the long
anticipated move upwards, which he was preparing for, could no longer
be made--alone.
These were the thoughts occupying him now as he stared out through the
dusty window at the scattered houses which lined Amberley's main
street. These were the thoughts which conjured on his bronzed, strong
features, that pleasant half-smile of satisfaction. He wanted her very
much. He wanted her so much that all impulse to rush headlong and make
her his was thrust aside. He must wait--wait with the same patience
which he applied to all that which was important in his life, and,
when opportunity offered, when the moment was ripe, he would make the
great effort upon which he knew so much of his future happiness
depended.
Thus he was dreaming on pleasantly, hopefully, and yet not without
doubts, when a sharp knock at his door banished the last vestige of
romance from his mind. In an instant he was on his feet, alert and
waiting.
"Come!"
His summons was promptly answered, and the tall figure of the corporal
stood framed in the doorway.
"Well?"
The question came with the sharp ring of authority.
"It's Huntly, sir," the man explained briefly. "He's got a message.
There's been a 'hold-up' of the freight, just beyond White Point. The
'jumpers' have dropped off the two hindermost cars and held the crew
prisoners. Seems the train was flagged on the bend out of the hills
and then allowed to pass. While it was standing the cars were cut
loose. Then the train came on without them. She's in sight now.
Huntly's outside."
The Inspector gave no sign while his subordinate talked. His eyes were
lowered at a point of interest on the floor. At the conclusion of the
man's brief outline he glanced up.
"Has Huntly got the message with him?"
"Yes, sir."
Fyles made a move, and the other stepped back to let him pass out.
The agent was waiting in the outer office. His eyes were wide with
excitement.
"Well? Where's the message?" the officer demanded.
Huntly thrust a paper into his hand.
"It just came through."
Fyles took it, and his strong brows drew together as he read the long
story of the "hold-up" which the man had taken down from his
instrument.
A deep silence prevailed while the officer read the news which so
completely frustrated all his plans.
At last he looked up. Favoring the man Huntly with one inquiring
glance, he turned to the corporal.
"It says here the brakeman heard the leader tell his men to make for
the south trail. That was either bluff--or a mistake. They sometimes
make mistakes, and that's how we get our chances. The south trail is
the road into Rocky Springs. Rocky Springs is twenty-two miles from
White Point. They've probably had an hour's start with a heavily
loaded wagon. Rocky Springs is twenty-six from here by trail. Good.
Say, tell the boys to get on the move quick. They'll strike the south
trail about seven miles northeast of Rocky Springs. If they ride hard
they should cut them off, or, any way, hit their trail close behind
them."
"Yes, sir."
As Fyles turned back to the inner room and picked up the telephone,
ignoring the still waiting agent, the corporal hurried away.
In a moment the telephone bell rang out and the officer was speaking.
"Yes, sir, Fyles. Yes, at the Town Station. I'm coming up to barracks
right away. It's most important. I must see you. The whisky-runners
have--doubled on us."