THE "STRAY"-HUNTER
The real man is nearest the surface after a long period of idle
solitude.
So it was with Stanley Fyles, riding over the even, sandy trail of the
prairies which stretched away south of the Assiniboine River. His
sunburnt face was sternly reposeful, and in his usually keen gray eyes
was that open staring light which belongs to the man who gropes his
way over Nature's trackless wastes, and whose mind is ever asking the
question of direction. But there was no question of such a nature in
his mind now. His look was the look of habit, when the call of the
trail is heard.
He sat his horse with the easy grace of a man whose life is mostly
spent in the saddle. His loose shoulders and powerful frame swayed
with that magical rhythm which gives most ease to both horse and
rider. His was the seat of a horseman whose poise is the poise of
perfect balance rather than the set attitude of the riding school.
The bit hung lightly in the horse's mouth, but lightly as the reins
were held in the man's hand there was a firmness and decision in the
feeling of them that communicated the necessary confidence between
horse and rider.
Stanley Fyles was as nearly a perfect horseman as the prairie could
produce.
Just now the man beneath the officer's habit was revealed. His
military training was set aside, perhaps all thought of it had been
left behind with his uniform, and just the "man" was reassumed with
the simple prairie kit he had adopted for the work in hand.
To look at him now he might have been a ranch hand out on the work of
the spring round-up. He was dressed in plain leather chapps over his
black cloth riding breeches, and, from his waist up, his clothing was
a gray flannel shirt, over which he wore an open waistcoat of ordinary
civilian make. About his neck was tied a silk handkerchief of modest
hue, and about his waist was strapped a revolver belt. The only
visible detail that could have marked him as a police officer was the
glimpse of military spurs beneath his chapps.
His thoughts and feelings as he covered the dreary miles of grass were
of a conflicting nature, and, roaming at will, they centered, as
thoughts so roaming will center, chiefly upon those things which
concerned his most cherished ambitions.
At first a feeling of something bordering on anxious resentment pretty
fully occupied him. There was still in his mind the memory of an
interview he had had with his immediate superior, Superintendent
Jason, just before the time of his setting out. It had been an
uncomfortable half-hour spent listening to the sharp criticisms of his
chief, whose mind was saturated with the spirit of his official
capacity, almost to the exclusion of common sense.
Superintendent Jason was still angry at the manner in which the great
whisky-running coup had been effected, and of the manner in which the
perpetrators of it had slipped through the official fingers. He blamed
everybody, and particularly Inspector Fyles, in whose hands the case
had been placed.
Nor had he been wholly appeased by the inspector's final offer. Goaded
by the merciless pin-prick of his superior's tongue, Fyles had finally
offered to set out for Rocky Springs, the place, both were fully
agreed, whence the trouble emanated, and bring all those concerned in
the smuggling to book.
At first Jason had been inclined to sneer, nor was it until Fyles
unfolded something of his scheme that he began to take it seriously.
Finally, however, the younger man had had his way, and the necessary
permission was granted. Then the superintendent dealt with the matter
as the cold discipline of police methods demanded.
Fyles remembered his words well. They meant far more to him than they
expressed. They were full of a cold threat, which, to a man of his
experience, could not be mistaken.
The picture remained in his mind for many a long day. It was doubtful
if he would ever forget it. It was a moment of crisis in his official
life, a crisis when it became necessary to back himself against all
odds--or ultimately sacrifice his position.
He was standing beside the superintendent, and both men were bending
over one of those secret official charts of the district surrounding
Rocky Springs. They were alone in Jason's bare, even mean office.
Fyles's long, firm forefinger was pointing along a trail, and his
sharp, incisive words were explaining something of his convictions as
his finger moved. The other was listening without interruption. At
last, as the quiet, confident tones ceased, the superintendent
straightened himself up, and his small, quick-moving, dark eyes shot
their gleam of cold authority into his companion's.
"It's up to you," he said, with a callous upraising of his shoulders.
"You've talked a good deal to me here, and you've made your talk sound
right. But talk doesn't put these men in the penitentiary. You've made
a mess of this job so far. Guess it's up to you to make good. You've
got your chance now. See you don't miss it. The authorities don't
stand for two mistakes on one job, not even when they're made by
Inspector Fyles. You get me? You've _got_ to make good."
Fyles left the office fully aware that sentence had been passed on
him, just as surely as though he had stood before the Commissioner, a
prisoner.
Thus, at the outset of his journey, his feelings had been scarcely
pleasant, but, as the distance between him and headquarters increased,
his confidence and sense of responsibility returned, and the shadow of
threat retreated into the background. His plans were carefully laid,
and all the support he could need was arranged for. This time the work
before him was no mere capture of whisky-runners, but to make all
whisky-running, as associated with Rocky Springs, impossible, and to
break up the gang who had for so long defied the law. Yes, he felt
confident in the result, and, as the long miles were put behind him,
his thoughts wandered into more pleasant channels.
Rocky Springs certainly offered him inducement. And curiously enough
he found himself wondering how much he was influenced by that
inducement in accepting the odds against him in cleaning up the place,
and dusting the cobwebs of crime from its corners.
Kate Seton. He had not seen her for something running into weeks. The
thought that he was to renew an acquaintance, which, though almost
slight, still had extraordinary power to hold him, was a delightful
one. Sometimes he had found himself wondering at the phenomenon of her
attraction for him. But he was incapable of analyzing his feelings
closely. His life had been spent on these fringes of civilization so
long, and the generality of the women he had come into contact with
had been so much a part of the life of the country, that their appeal
had been weakened almost to the vanishing point.
Then here, in Rocky Springs, where he might reasonably expect to find
only the dregs of society, he suddenly discovered a woman obviously
belonging to an utterly different and more cultured life. A woman of
uncommon beauty and distinction; a woman, who, to his mind, fulfilled
some essentially mannish ideal, an ideal that, in idle moments, had
stolen in upon a wholly reposeful mind. A woman who----
But the thread of his pleasant reflections was suddenly broken, and
his mechanically watchful eyes warned him that a horseman was riding
along the trail ahead of him, and that he was rapidly overtaking this
stranger.
In a moment all other interests were forgotten. To the solitary rider
of the plains a fellow-creature ever becomes a matter of considerable
moment. In Fyles's case he possessed the added interest of a possible
giver of information.
As he gently urged his horse to lengthen its stride, his keen eyes
took in the details of the man's figure, and the points of the horse
he was riding. The man was of unusual stature, so unusual, in fact,
that his horse, although a big raking creature, became dwarfed under
him. Even from that distance the officer obtained a suggestion of fair
hair beneath the brim of the prairie hat, which was tilted forward at
an unusual angle. The great square shoulders of the stranger were clad
in a tweed jacket, and, from what he could make out, he wore no
chapps.
Just for a moment Fyles guessed he might be some farmer, and the tweed
jacket suggested he was out to pay a visit to friends. Then, quite
abruptly, he changed his mind, and further increased his pace. He had
detected the city-fashioned top-boots the man was wearing.
Without further speculation he pressed on to overtake the stranger,
whom, presently, he saw turn round and look back. Evidently he had
become aware of the approach. Equally evidently he either welcomed or
resented the intrusion upon his solitude. For he reined in his horse,
and waited for the officer to come up.
The greeting between the men was widely different. The stranger's face
was abeam with smiling good nature. His big blue eyes were wide with
frank welcome.
"I've been just bursting with a painful longing for the sight of a
living man with two arms and two legs, and anything else that goes to
make up a human companion," he said delightedly. "Say, how far do you
guess a fellow could ride by himself without needing to be sent into a
home to be looked after?"
Fyles's manner was more guarded. The police officer was uppermost in
him now, but he smiled a certain cordiality at the other's frankly
unconventional greeting.
"That mostly depends on how many things there are chasing around in
his brain-box to keep the works busy," he said gently.
The stranger's smile broadened into a laugh.
"That don't offer much hope," he replied dryly. "I've been riding
around this eternal grass for nigh a week. God knows where I haven't
been during that time. Nobody ever did brag about the ideas I've got
in my head, not even my mother, and any I have got have just been
chewed right up to death till there isn't a blamed thing left to chew.
For the past ten miles I've been reviewing the attractions of every
nursing home I've ever heard of, with a view to becoming an inmate. I
think I've almost decided on one I know of in Toronto. You see there
are a few human beings there."
Fyles's eyes had taken in the stranger from head to foot. Even the
horse did not escape his closest attention. He recognized this man as
being a stranger in the country. He was obviously direct from some
eastern city, though not aggressively so. Furthermore, the beautiful
chestnut horse he was riding was no prairie-bred animal, and
suggested, in combination with the man's general get-up, the
possession of ample means.
"A week riding about--trying to find yourself?"
Fyles's question was one of amused speculation.
"Sure," the man nodded, with a buoyant amusement in his eyes. "That,
and finding some forgotten hole of a place called Rocky Springs."
Fyles lifted his reins and his horse moved on.
"We'd best ride together. I'm going to Rocky Springs, and--you've
certainly hit the trail at last."
The fair-haired giant jumped at the suggestion, and even his horse
seemed to welcome the companionship, for it ambled on in the
friendliest manner by the side of the police horse.
"How did you manage to--lose yourself?" Fyles inquired presently. "Did
you start out from Amberley?"
The stranger's look of chagrin was almost comical. He shook his head.
"That's where I ought to've started from," he said. Then he shrugged
his great shoulders. "Here, I'll tell you. I come from down East, and
I'm on my way to join a brother of mine at Rocky Springs. He's a
rancher. Sort of artist, too. His name's Charlie Bryant. My name's
Bill--Bill Bryant. Well, I ought to have got off at Black Cross, and
changed trains for the Amberley branch. Instead of that I was sleeping
peacefully in the car and went right on to a place called Moosemin.
Well, some torn fool told me if I got off at Moosemin I would get
across country to Amberley, and thus get on to the Rocky Springs road.
Maybe he was right enough, if the feller getting off had got any horse
sense. But I guess they forgot to hand any out my way. Anyhow, I kind
of took to the idea. Guessed I'd make a break that way and get used to
the country. So I just bought the best horse I could find in the town
from the worst thief that ever dodged penitentiary, and since then
have spent seven whole days getting on intimate terms with every blade
of grass in the country, and trying to convince various settlers that
I wasn't a murderer or horse thief, and didn't want to shoot 'em in
their beds, but just needed food and sleep, all of which I was ready
to pay for at any fancy prices they liked to ask. How I eventually got
here I don't know, and haven't a desire to know, and I'll stake my
oath you won't find any two people in the country with the same ideas
of direction. And I want to say that I hate grass worse than poison,
and as for sun it's an abomination. Horse riding's overrated, and
tailors don't know a thing about making pants that are comfortable
riding. I could write a book on the subject of boils and saddle
chafes, and when I get off this blamed saddle I don't intend to sit
down for a week. I think a rancher's life is just the dandiest thing
to read about I ever knew, and beans--those things the shape of an
immature egg and as hard as rocks--are most nourishing; and I don't
think I shall need nourishing ever again. Also the West is the
greatest country ever forgotten by God or men, but the remark applies
only to its size. The best thing I know of, just now, is a full-sized
human being going the same way I am."
Bill Bryant finished up with a great laugh of the happiest good
nature, which quite robbed Fyles of his last shadow of aloofness. No
one could have looked into the man's humorously smiling eyes, or
listened to the frank admissions of his own blundering, and felt it
necessary to entertain the least question as to his perfect honesty.
Fyles accepted the introduction in the spirit in which it was made.
"My name's Fyles--Stanley Fyles," he said cordially. "Glad to meet
you, Mr. Bryant."
"Bill Bryant," corrected the other, grasping and wringing the
policeman's proffered hand with painful cordiality. "That's a good
name--Fyles," he went on, releasing the other's hand. "Suggests all
sorts of things--nails, chisels--something in the hardware line. Good
name for this country, too." Then his big blue eyes scanned the
officer's outfit. "Rancher?" he suggested.
Fyles smiled, shaking his head.
"Hardly a--rancher," he deprecated.
"Ah. I know. Cowpuncher. You're dressed that way. I've read about 'em.
Chasing cattle. Rounding 'em up. Branding, and all that sort of thing.
Fine. Exciting."
Fyles shook his head again.
"My job's not just that, either," he said, his smile broadening. "You
see, I just round up 'strays,' and send 'em to their right homes. I'm
out after 'strays' now."
Bill nodded with ready understanding.
"I get it," he cried. "They just break out in spring, and go chasing
after fancy grass. Then they get lost, or mussed up with ether cattle,
and--and need sorting out. Must be a mighty lonesome job--always
hunting 'strays.'"
Inspector Fyles's eyes twinkled, but his sunburned face remained
serious.
"Yes, I'd say it's lonesome--at times. You see, it isn't easy locating
their tracks. And when you do locate 'em maybe you've got a long piece
to travel before you come up with 'em. They get mighty wild running
loose that way, and, hate being rounded up. Some of 'em show fight,
and things get busy. No, it's not dead easy--and it doesn't do making
mistakes. Guess a mistake is liable to snuff your light out when
you're up against 'strays.'"
A sudden enthusiasm lit Bill Bryant's interested eyes.
"That sounds better than ranching," he said quickly. "You see, I've
lived a soft sort of life, and it kind of seems good to get upsides
with things. I've got a notion that it's better to hand a feller a
nasty bunch of knuckles, square on the most prominent part of his
face, than taking dollars out of him to pay legal chin waggers. That's
how I've always felt, but living in luxury in a city makes you act
otherwise. I've quit it though, now, and, in consequence, I'm just
busting to hand some fellow that bunch of knuckles." He raised one
great clenched fist and examined it with a sort of mild enthusiasm.
"I'm going to ranch," he went on simply, while the police officer
surveyed him as he might some big, boisterous child. "My brother's got
a ranch at Rocky Springs. He's done pretty well, I guess--for an
artist fellow. He's making money--oh, yes, he's making good money, and
seems to like the life.
"The fact is," he went on eagerly, "Charlie was a bit of a bad
boy--he's a dandy good fellow, really he is; but I guess he got gay
when he was an art student, and the old man got rattled over it and
sent him along out here to raise cattle and wheat. Well, when dad died
he left me most of his dollars. There were plenty, and it's made me
feel sick he forgot Charlie's existence. So I took a big think over
things. You see it makes a fellow think, when he finds himself with a
lot of dollars that ought to be shared with another fellow.
"Well, I don't often think hard," he went on ingenuously. "But I did
that time, and it's queer how easy it is to think right when you
really try--hard. Guess you don't need to think much in your work--but
maybe sometimes you'll have to, and then you'll find how easy it
comes."
He turned abruptly in the saddle and looked straight into the
officer's interested face. His eyes were alight, and he emitted a
deep-throated guffaw.
"Say," he went on, "it came to me all of a sudden. It was in the
middle of the night. I woke up thinking it. I was saying it to myself.
Why not go out West? Join Charlie. Put all your money into his ranch.
Turn it into a swell affair, and run it together. That way it'll seem
as if you were doing it for yourself. That way Charlie'll never know
you're handing him a fortune. Can you beat it?" he finished up
triumphantly.
Stanley Fyles had not often met men in the course of his sordid work
with whom he really wanted to shake hands. But somehow this great,
soft-hearted, simple giant made him feel as he had never felt before.
He abruptly thrust out a hand, forgetful of the previous handshakes he
had endured, and, in a moment, it was seized in a second vice-like
grip.
"It's fine," he said. Then as an afterthought: "No, you can't beat
it."
The unconscious Bill beamed his satisfaction.
"That's how I thought," he said enthusiastically. "And I'll be mighty
useful to him, myself, too--in a way. Don't guess I know much about
wheat or cattle, but I can ride anything with hair on it, and I've
never seen the feller I couldn't pound to a mush with the gloves on.
That's useful, seeing Charlie's sort of small, and--and mild."
Suddenly he pointed out ahead. "What's that standing right up there?
See, over there. A tree--or--something."
Fyles abruptly awoke to their whereabouts. Bill Bryant was pointing at
the great pine marking Rocky Springs.
"That's the landmark of Rocky Springs," he told him. This stranger had
so interested and amused him that he had quite lost reckoning of the
distance they had ridden together.
"I don't see any town," complained his companion.
"It's in the valley. You see, that tree is on the shoulder of the
valley of Leaping Creek."
Bill's eyes widened.
"Oh, that's a valley, eh? And Charlie's ranch is down below. I see."
The man's eyes became thoughtful, and he relapsed into silence as they
drew on toward the aged signpost. He was thinking--perhaps hard--of
that brother whom he had not seen for years. Maybe, now that the time
had come for the meeting, some feeling of nervousness was growing.
Perhaps he was wondering if he would be as welcome as he hoped. Had
Charlie changed much? Would his coming be deemed an impertinence?
Charlie had not answered his letter. He forgot his brother had not had
time to answer his impulsive epistle.
As they drew near the valley his eyes lost their enthusiastic light.
His great, honest face was grave, almost to the point of anxiety.
Fyles, watching him furtively, observed every change of expression,
and the meaning of each was plain enough to him. He, too, was
wondering about that meeting. It would have interested him to have
witnessed it. He was thinking about that brother in Rocky Springs. He
knew him slightly, and knew his reputation better, and, in
consequence, the two words "drunkard" and "crook" drifted through his
mind, and left him regretfully wondering. Somehow he felt sorry,
inexpressibly sorry, for this great big babe of a man whom he found
himself unusually glad to have met.