"He's Douglas, the game-warden. Looks as if you'd killed him."
"He's not dead yet," Deering rejoined, and pulled out some cigarettes.
"He may die. I don't know, but we'll give him all the chances we can. In
the meantime, take a smoke and tell us what you were doing at the
clearing."
The trooper lighted a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Somebody
had fixed two candles on the logs and the light touched the faces of the
group. All were quiet but Deering, and Jimmy noted with surprise that
Stannard let him take control. Stannard's look was very thoughtful;
Bob's was keen and grim. The trooper had obviously got a nasty knock. At
the door the packers were half seen in the gloom, but Jimmy felt the
unconscious man on the boards, so to speak, dominated the picture.
Although Jimmy himself was highly strung he was cool.
"My officer sent me to help the warden round you up for poaching on the
reserve," said the trooper. "When we hit the clearing we saw you were
out with the pit-light and Douglas reckoned we'd get Okanagan first; the
rest of you were tourists and wouldn't bother us. Douglas calculated
Okanagan knew the best stand for a shot and would go right there. His
plan was to steal up and get him. I was to watch out and butt in when I
was wanted."
"It didn't go like that!" Bob remarked. "When you saw me by the ditch
had I a gun?"
"So far as I could see you had not. You began to pull your knife."
Stannard motioned Bob to be quiet and the other resumed: "I heard
Douglas shout and I got on a move. In the dark, I ran up against a
stump, pitched over, and went into the ditch. I heard a shot--"
"You heard _one_ shot?" said Deering.
"I don't know--I'd hit my head and was trying to find my rifle. Well, I
guess that's all!"
"I shot twice," said Jimmy, in a quiet voice. "I don't think Bob used a
gun. All the same, when I pulled the trigger I imagined I heard another
report; but perhaps it was my rifle. I really don't know."
"The number of shots is important," Stannard observed.
Deering looked up sharply. "To find out is the police's job. Ours is not
to help."
"We ought to help," Jimmy rejoined. "I thought a deer was coming; I had
no object for shooting the warden, but if my bullet hit him, the police
must not blame Bob." He turned to the others. "How many shots did you
hear?"
Perhaps it was strange, but nobody knew. A packer thought he heard three
shots, although he admitted he might have been cheated because the
reports echoed in the woods. After a few moments they let it go and
Deering glanced at the man on the floor.
"Maybe he knows. I doubt if he will tell!"
The trooper advanced awkwardly. "Give me a light. I'm going across the
clearing; I want to see your stands."
For the most part, the others went with him. Their curiosity was keen
and it looked as if nobody reflected that the lad was their antagonist.
In fact, since they carried in the warden, all antagonism had vanished.
Jimmy, however, remained behind. He was on the floor and did not want to
get up. After the strain, he was bothered by a dull reaction and felt
slack. By and by Stannard returned and sat down on the boards.
"Well?" said Jimmy. "Have you found out much?"
"The trooper found your two cartridges and the posts Bob gave us. You
were at a big stump, Bob a short distance on your left, although he
declares he had not a gun. My stand was on your other side. The warden's
track across the brush was plain. He was going nearly straight for the
stump and the bullet mark is at the middle of his chest."
"It looks as if I shot him," Jimmy said and shivered.
"Then you must brace up and think about the consequences!"
"Somehow I don't want to bother about this yet. Besides, it's plain I
thought I aimed at a deer."
"I doubt," Stannard remarked, with some dryness. "For one thing, the
police know we killed the big-horn on the reserve, and since we took Bob
again, to state he cheated us would not help. The fellow's a notorious
poacher, and when the warden arrived he found us using the pit-light,
which the game laws don't allow. On the whole, I think the police have
grounds to claim Douglas was not shot by accident."
"But he may get better."
"It's possible; I think that's all. But suppose he does get better? Do
you imagine his narrative would clear you?"
Jimmy pondered. Until Stannard began to argue, all he had thought about
was that he had shot the warden, but now he weighed the consequences. He
was young and freedom was good. Moreover, he had seen men, chained by
the leg to a heavy iron ball, engaged making a road. A warden with a
shot-gun superintended their labor, and Jimmy had thought the indignity
horrible. He could not see himself grading roads, perhaps for all his
life, with a gang like that.
"What must I do about it?" he asked.
"I'd put up some food and start for the rocks. Take a rifle and the
Indian packer, and try to get down the east side of the range by the
neck below the buttress. Then you might perhaps push across to the
foothills and the plains. The police will, no doubt, reckon on your
going west for the Pacific coast, and, if you tried, would stop you. As
far as Revelstoke, the railroad follows the only break in the mountains,
and orders will be telegraphed to watch the stations. No; I think you
must steer for the Alberta plains."
Jimmy knitted his brows. If he could reach the coast, he might get into
the United States or on board a ship, but he must cross British
Columbia and, for the most part, the province was a rugged, mountainous
wilderness. The northern railroads were not yet built; the settlements
were along the C. P. R. track and the lake steamboat routes. He dared
not use the railroad; but when he thought about the rocks and broken
mountains he must cross to reach the plains he shrank.
"I could not carry the food I'd need," he said.
"You have a rifle, and must take the packer. So long as deer and grouse
are in the woods, an Indian will not starve," Stannard replied and gave
Jimmy his wallet. "Offer the fellow a large sum and he'll see you out.
But you must start!"
"Thank you; I'll risk it," said Jimmy, and giving Stannard his hand,
went off.
Not long afterwards the others returned and Deering looked about the
room.
"Where's Jimmy?" he asked.
"He went out a few minutes since," Stannard replied in a careless voice
and Deering turned to the trooper.
"Somebody must watch Douglas, but you're knocked out and Mr. Stannard
and I will undertake the job until sun-up. It's obvious our interest is
to keep him alive."
The lad agreed. His head was cut and he had not found his rifle. To
imagine he could control a party of athletic men was ridiculous, and
since they were friendly he must be resigned.
Not long before daybreak Deering woke up and looked about. Bob's
pit-lamp, hanging from a beam, gave a dim light.
"Hello! Jimmy's not back!"
Stannard looked at the others and thought them asleep. Motioning to
Deering to follow, he went to the door. He had pulled off his boots and
Deering trod like a cat.
"Jimmy will not come back. He started for the plains, across the neck."
"You sent the kid across the hardest country in Alberta?"
"I don't know that I did send him; but we'll let it go. Jimmy's a
mountaineer and he took the Indian."
"Shucks!" said Deering. "The Indian's a coast Siwash and not much use on
the rocks. Jimmy's an English tenderfoot and has no _Chinook_. He can't
talk to the Indian. I doubt if he's got a compass or a map."
"He has my map and I imagine an Indian does not need a compass,"
Stannard rejoined. "At all events, I didn't see another plan."
Deering looked at him hard. "Well, perhaps Jimmy's lucky because I was
born and raised in the bush. Fix up a plausible tale for the policeman.
When he wakes I'll be hitting Jimmy's trail."
He turned and his bulky figure melted in the dark. Stannard knew he was
going to the barn to get food, and for a few moments knitted his brows.
Then he shrugged philosophically and went back to the house.