III

All day long the snow had been falling steadily in big, fluffy flakes.

The heavy train ploughed through dense pine-clad ravines, beside

torrents buried far below the snow, under sheds into whose inky

blackness the engine plunged as into the bowels of the earth, across

vibrating trestles, and up grades that seemed never-ending, where the

driving-wheels slipped and ground ineffectually, then clutched the

sanded rails and slowly forged onward. For two days it had been thus,

and from the windows only the gently falling, ever-falling snow met the

eye. Heavy clouds shrouded the shoulders of the mountains, and the

gorges between them were choked with mist. And onward, upward, always

upward groaned the train.

Inside Jack's compartment in the first Pullman sat the four members of

our party playing cards, now on the best of terms. They had long since

given up condoling upon the weather, and had settled down to making the

best of it with cards, chess-board, and books. Between McGinnis and the

prisoner flowed an unending stream of anecdotes and adventures. It could

not be denied that the erstwhile bank president was a man of much

culture and wide reading. He had studied for the bar, and from time to

time astounded Dockbridge by the acuteness of his mental processes. This

was the afternoon of the second day, and they were just completing their

thirteenth rubber of whist.

The snow fell thicker as the light waned; soon the lamps were lighted

and the shades were drawn. The through passengers on the train were few,

and the good-natured conductor had adopted the party for the trip.

"We're 'most at the top o' the pass," he remarked, as he paused to

inspect Jack's hand over his shoulder. "Should ha' made it an hour ago

but for this blank snow. I never saw it so thick. Too bad you've missed

the whole range, and to-morrow morning we'll be at Souris, and then

nothin' but prairie all across Dakota. When you wake up, the

mountains'll be two hundred miles west of you. Hard luck!"

"My trick," said Andrews. "What's that, conductor? Souris to-morrow

morning? Any stops to-night?"

"Nope; clear down-hill track all the way. There's a flag station an hour

beyond the divide--Ferguson's Gulch, and sometimes we stop for water at

Red River. There's no regular station there, and Jim wants to make up

time, so I reckon we'll make the run without stoppin'. Are you folks

ready for dinner?"

The strain on the wheels suddenly relaxed, and it seemed as though the

whole train sighed with relief. Ahead, the engine gave a succession of

quick snorts, as if rejoicing at once more reaching a level. The train

gathered head-way.

"She's over the divide," announced the conductor, taking a bite from the

plug of tobacco carefully wrapped in his red silk handkerchief. "Now Jim

can let her run."

"What do you call the divide?" asked Peggy.

"The Lower Kootenay," he answered. "Oh, it's great here in summer!

Finest thing in Canada, in my opinion."

"In Canada!" exclaimed Dockbridge, with a start. "What do you mean? Are

we in Canada?"

"You've been in Canada since three o'clock," was the reply. "We cross

the lower left-hand corner of Alberta--look on the map there in the

folder. After makin' the divide we drop right back into Montana. They

couldn't cross the Rockies at this point without leavin' the States for

a few miles."

The conductor arose and unfolded the map.

"Ye see, here's where we leave Clarke Fork, then we skirt this range,

turn north, followin' that river there, the north branch of the

Flathead, and so over the line; then we turn and jam right through the

range. Two hours from now you'll be back in the old U.S."

Dockbridge had started to his feet and was staring intently at the map.

It was only too true. They were in Canada. _In Canada!_ And they were

holding their prisoner without due process of law! The warrant of the

Governors of New York and Washington were valueless in his Majesty's

Dominion. Did Andrews know? Jack pretended to study the map before him

and glanced furtively across the table. Pat was scowling ferociously at

the cards before him, and Andrews was lighting a cigarette. Apparently

he had heard nothing--or had paid no attention to what the conductor was

saying. With his brain in a whirl Dockbridge folded up the time-table

and handed it back.

"Well, I'm getting ravenous," he remarked.

Just then the porter appeared from the direction of the buffet carrying

their evening meal.

"Same here," echoed Andrews.

For an hour or more they lingered over the table, Andrews seeming in

unusually good spirits. Dockbridge ceased to feel any uneasiness. He

realized how easily he might have been trapped, but no harm was done in

the present instance, for the minute section of Alberta which they

traversed offered no opportunities for the securing of any legal process

by which their prisoner could be released. Again, Andrews had not urged

the route upon them; that had been Peggy's doing. And, moreover, was he

not returning with them of his own free-will? No, it was absurd to have

been so upset at such a trifling matter.

"What do you say to some more whist? You and I'll be partners this time,

Andrews."

The things were cleared from the table and they began again. The speed

of the train seemed to have increased, and the cars swayed from side to

side as they sped down the grade. Peggy raised the shade and looked out.

The pane was plastered with an ever-changing, kaleidoscopic crust of

flakes that spat against it, dropped, clogged against the others, and

sagged downward in a dense mass toward the sash. At the top of the glass

the storm could be seen whirling down its myriads outside.

"What a night!" she ejaculated, as she pulled down the shade.

At that moment came a prolonged wail from the engine, followed by the

quick clutch of the brakes. The wheels groaned and creaked, and the

passengers tossed forward in their seats. Again the whistle shrieked.

The train, carried onward by its momentum, ground its wheels against the

brakes which strove to hold them back. Gradually they came to a

stand-still.

The conductor rushed toward the door, and a brakeman hurried through

with a lantern.

"Ferguson's Gulch!" he shouted as he ran by. "Must ha' signalled us!"

Dockbridge's heart dropped a beat, and he glanced apprehensively toward

Andrews. The latter was smiling, but the hand that held his cigar

trembled a very little.

"You're young yet, Dockbridge," he remarked, with slightly tremulous

sarcasm. "There are one or two things still for you to learn. One of

them is that a United States warrant is useless in Canada. You hadn't

thought of that, eh?"

"_Warrant_ is it? Shure this is all the warrant _I_ want," replied Pat,

snapping a shining Colt from his pocket. "Plaze don't git excited, me

frind. P'r'aps ye don't know it all, yerself. Wan move, an' I'll put six

holes in yer carcus!"

Dockbridge grasped Peggy by the arm and drew her breathless to her feet.

"What is it? What is it?" she gasped, clinging to him in the aisle. Jack

reached over and released the shade. Outside in the darkness red lights

swung to and fro. A blast of icy air poured into the car from the open

door. He hurried out into the vestibule. The storm was sweeping by

swiftly and silently, and absurdly the motto of his old bicycle club

flashed into his mind, "Volociter et silenter." The lamp above his head

threw a yellow circle against the vast night. He stumbled down the steps

and clung to the rail, putting his head into the sleet. It stung his

face like the tentacles of a sea-monster. In the foreground stood the

conductor, already white with the snow, his lantern swinging to leeward

in the wind, shouting to a man on horseback. Four other mounted figures,

their steeds facing the blast, marked the point where the light ended

and the night began again. Three train hands, each with a lantern, paced

to and fro beside the car. Ahead could be heard the coughing of the

engine. The man on horseback waved his hand in the direction of the

train, flung himself heavily to the ground, tossed the reins to one of

the others, and strode toward the car.

"Jones and Wilkes, hold the horses; Frazer and White, come along with

me," he directed over his shoulder. He pushed by Dockbridge and climbed

into the car. The conductor followed.

"Where is the officer and his prisoner?" he demanded in a harsh voice.

"Inside, your Honor," answered the conductor, shaking the snow from his

coat. "This is Mr. Dockbridge, the District Attorney from New York."

"Umph!" grunted the stranger. He was an immense man with a heavy

jet-black beard and hair in thick curls all over his head. A

broad-brimmed sombrero cast a deep shadow over his features, heightening

their natural unpleasantness. Two of the others now jumped upon the

platform and entered the car, and Dockbridge saw that they wore some

kind of uniform and that the lining of their overcoats was red. Peggy

cowered to one side as the three strangers forced their way by her and

paused at the door of the compartment.

"Is Mr. Andrews here?" inquired the one whom the others addressed as

Judge.

"I am Mr. Andrews. This is the officer who holds me in custody."

The Judge turned to one of his followers.

"Serve him!" he growled.

The one addressed took from beneath his coat a bundle of papers, and

selecting one, handed it to McGinnis, who let it fall to the floor

without a word.

"Put up that pistol!" continued the Judge.

At this moment Dockbridge, who had listened as if dazed to the colloquy,

now mastered sufficient courage to assert himself.

"Here! what's all this?" he exclaimed in as determined a manner as he

could manage to assume. "What are you doing in my compartment with your

wet feet? Who the devil are you, anyway?" He squeezed by his huge

antagonist and took his stand by McGinnis.

The conductor and the majority of the train hands had crowded into the

passageway and filled the door with their dripping and astonished faces.

The officer handed another paper to Dockbridge.

"This is Judge Peters, sir; and this paper is a writ of _habeas corpus_

returnable forthwith, sir," said the man.

Dockbridge glanced at the paper and saw that the officer's statement was

correct. The paper was a writ ordering him to produce the body of Samuel

Andrews before the Honorable Elijah Peters, Judge of the Supreme Court

of Alberta, _forthwith_, and show cause why said Andrews should not be

set at liberty. He was trapped. It could not be denied.

"Is this Judge Peters?" he inquired politely of the man with the black

beard, who had taken off his hat and seated himself upon the sofa.

"I am," returned the other curtly. "And I now pronounce this car a

court, and direct you to release your prisoner as detained by you

without lawful authority."

He leaned forward and shook his finger threateningly at McGinnis. "Put

up that pistol!"

McGinnis looked at Dockbridge.

"Put it up, Pat," directed the latter. "There's no occasion for

pistols." He winked at Peggy. "Pardon my lack of courtesy in addressing

you, Judge Peters, when you first entered. I was unaware, of course, to

whom it was that I spoke."

The Judge shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.

"I'm naturally taken somewhat by surprise, and hardly feel that I can do

justice to my own position in the matter at such short notice. However,

as the court is now in session, I can only ask the privilege of arguing

the matter before your Honor. If I might be permitted to do so, I would

suggest that the hearing take place in some larger space than this

compartment, in which my wife desires speedily to retire." He looked

inquiringly toward the Court.

"That's right, Jedge," spoke up the conductor. "Don't keep the lady out

of her room. You can hold court in the baggage-car."

The black-bearded man grumblingly arose to his feet, leaving a large

pool of water in the middle of the floor.

"As you choose. Bring along the prisoner, and be quick about it. I've

got to ride fifteen miles to-night."

The crowd streamed down the aisle and into the baggage-car in front.

McGinnis followed with Andrews.

"Shall I come along, Jack?" whispered his wife.

"No, stay here. I'm afraid we're beaten. I shall only spar for time, and

try to invent some way out of it."

Peggy sadly watched his disappearing form. What a disgusting anticlimax!

She reviled herself for being the one who had forced the selection of

the Montana route. It was all her fault. When a man's married his

troubles begin! Jack would lose his job, and then where would they be?

She had gotten him into the fix, and now she would do her best to get

him out of it. She threw on his fur coat and cap and followed into the

baggage-car. The Judge had seated himself on a trunk. Jack stood at his

right with the warrant in his hand. A single lantern cast a fitful glare

over the two, around whom crowded the passengers and train hands. Peggy

heard her husband's somewhat immature voice stating the circumstances of

the wreck of the Boodle Bank. The Judge seemed not uninterested. The

crowd was getting larger every moment. Passengers kept coming in in

every kind of dishabille, and last of all the engineer and fireman

entered by the forward door. Outside, the huge engine hissed and

throbbed as if impatient of the delay. Peggy slipped unseen behind a

pile of trunks, snapped the big padlock through the staples of the

door, then, hurrying back to the compartment, rummaged until she found

Jack's box of cigars. Arming herself with these and with her copy of

"Moore on Extradition," she made her way back to the baggage-car.

"Yes, yes, I know all that!" the Judge was saying. "But that's all

immaterial. It ain't what he did. It's what right you've got to hold him

in the Dominion of Canada on a warrant from a governor of one of the

United States. Show me that, or I'll discharge the prisoner here and

now."

"Excuse me, please," exclaimed Peggy, forcing her way through the throng

into the open space under the lamp, "I thought you might like to smoke.

Lawyers all like to smoke."

There was an immediate response from the Court.

"Well, I don't care if I do," remarked the Judge more genially.

"Confounded cold out there in the snow waiting for the train. Thank y'."

He handed back the box, and Peggy passed it to the engineer and told him

to "send it along." Then she whispered in her husband's ear:

"Read him that chapter on 'International Relations.' Keep it going for

ten minutes, and we'll win out, yet. I've got a scheme."

Dockbridge took the book, opened it deliberately, and lighted a cigar

for himself. Peggy pushed back through the spectators to the

sleeping-car. Only a solitary brakeman remained outside in the snow,

stamping and swinging his arms.

"Halloo, Mr. Sanders," said Peggy, "you ought to go in and hear the

argument. They're having a regular smoke talk. It's so thick I can't

breathe. They're giving away cigars. I should think you would freeze."

"Well, I'm froze already," answered Sanders. "I reckon I'll go in and

hear the fun. Is that straight about the cigars?"

"Of course it is," laughed Peggy, while Sanders climbed on board. The

snow swept by in clouds as Peggy gave one glance at the retreating form

of the brakeman, and jumped down into the night.