CONNIE GETS UP IN THE MORNING
With the faintest grey of approaching dawn, the boy rolled his
blankets and, without stopping for breakfast, stole noiselessly
away--intent only upon placing distance between himself and the cabin
in the timber. He was fairly bursting with importance. Here was he,
Connie Morgan, the youngest and newest of all the officers of the
Royal North-west Mounted Police Force, in possession of the key to
the Cameron Creek mystery! He had listened to the talk of the
barracks, and knew that for years the men of the Mounted had been
trying to 'get something on' this gang of outlaws--and, always they
had failed. But the Mounted never "quits"--not a man in the Service
but knew that some day the gang would be bested--and not a man in the
Service but longed to be the means of its undoing.
For two hours the boy plodded onward and then sat down to a cold
breakfast. He got out his police map and searched for Henderson's
Creek. It was not there. Connie was in a dilemma--Should he summon
McKeever? Or, should he go it alone?
"I'll go it alone, anyway, for a while," he decided. "If I shoot
now, other ears besides Dan's would hear it, and it would be all off,
for this trip."
Folding his map, he shouldered his pack and struck off along the rock
wall. Suddenly he halted. So engrossed had he become with his
problem that he had failed to notice that his feet were following a
well-defined trail! He proceeded more cautiously, now, pausing
frequently to listen. Only silence. The trail bent sharply to the
wall and the boy found himself before a narrow crevice, or crack, in
the solid rock. The trail ended at the crevice whose floor slanted
upward at a gradient so steep as to be a veritable stairway. Only
for a second, Connie hesitated, and then plunged into the opening.
Up, up, he climbed, following the steep windings of the crack. The
click of his boot-heels sounded like thunder in his ears.
"If I meet one of 'em coming down, it will be Good Night, for one of
us," he panted; "and it won't be me, either," he added, as he glanced
toward the holster where the rubber-plated butt of his Service
revolver showed within easy reach of his hand. Without warning, his
head and shoulders emerged into bright sunlight, and before him, not
ten yards distant, was a cabin. Back into the crack he popped, and
held his breath. Silence. He removed his cap and cocked a
scrutinizing eye over the edge--the cabin looked tenantless, and he
saw that it was a very small cabin, and that it was cunningly built
upon the rim of the high cliff, but cleverly concealed from the
valley below by a thick growth of scraggy cedars, that extended out
over the edge. Toward the south and west the ground slanted abruptly
into the timber. The valley lay to the northward, and on the east, a
higher shoulder of rock cut off all view. Warily the boy drew
himself up and, after a reassuring survey, crossed noiselessly to the
door. It was of heavy whip-sawed timber, and instead of windows
there were narrow slits between the logs. "Loopholes," thought
Connie, and noticed that the slits commanded the head of the trail,
and of another trail that led into the timber to the southward.
"It's like a fort," he muttered, and placed his eye to a slit.
Inside were a bunk, a small stove, a rack containing a dozen rifles,
and along the farther side, several stout casks. "The _cache_!" he
breathed, and slipping the heavy iron hasp from its staple, pushed
open the door and entered. Crossing swiftly to the rack of rifles,
he removed the cartridges from magazines and chambers, replaced the
guns, carried the cartridges, together with twenty-five or thirty
unopened boxes of ammunition to the cliff, and tossed them over the
edge. Returning to the cabin, he closed the door, slipped the hasp
over the staple as he had found it, and retired to the shelter of the
timber to think. The boy had formulated no plan--the removal of the
cartridges had been done on the spur of the moment--they were guns of
the enemy, and therefore were safer empty,--he had drawn the fangs of
the serpent--that's all. But, for all that, he was in a serious
quandary--undecided as to his next move. Should he summon McKeever?
Or explore the trail that entered the timber--undoubtedly, the trail
to the mysterious Henderson's Creek? Connie gazed out across the
valley of Cameron Creek. Because of his forced march in the early
grey of the morning, he reasoned that the older officer would be
still above the mouth of the cleft and in all probability would
remain within sound of his shots for several hours to come. The
small jaw clamped shut, and the boy stepped into the trail that
slanted steeply toward the south.
[Illustration: "Crossing swiftly to the rack of rifles, he removed
the cartridges."]
Evidently, on this side of the divide the gang felt secure from
interference, for little precaution had been taken to blind the trail
which wound and zigzagged down the steep descent. At the end of a
quarter of an hour, Connie heard the sound of running water, and the
next moment, came abruptly upon the bank of a narrow stream. At the
foot of the trail was a broad, flat rock that evidently did service
as a wharf, for littered about were bits of rope, a broken boat-pole,
or two, and the staves and hoops of several casks, probably the
result of a mishap in landing. The boy's eyes sparkled with pride,
he had tracked the gang of whisky-runners to their lair, and now all
that remained was to summon McKeever and gather them in. He turned
to retrace his steps, then suddenly paused, tense as a
pointer--listening. Yes, there it was again, and apparently but a
short distance down stream--the unmistakable sound of voices! Like a
shadow the boy slipped into the underbrush beside the trail and
crawled beneath a low killikinick bush that had just burst into full
leaf. Small as he was, at that moment Connie Morgan wished himself
smaller, and watched with envy a thick black beetle burrow from sight
beneath a piece of bark. The voices were close beside him and,
peering through his screen of leaves, the boy made out the forms of
three men--and the foremost of them was Bill Cosgrieve.
"--prob'ly up Cameron Crick, now," the outlaw was saying. "Him an'
that kid they've took onto the force. I seen him in Dawson, an' he
slipped down river in a speed boat. When I come down river yeste'day
the speed boat was tied up in front of the police cabin--but the
cabin was empty. Crane'll keep an' eye on 'em though. He'd ort to
report today."
"Le's tote this here cargo to the _cache_, an' git shet of it,"
suggested one of the others. Cosgrieve turned on him fiercely:
"Who's runnin' this outfit--me, or you?" he rasped, and then, to the
other man: "Come on, High Light, me an' you's goin to the _cache_ an'
git breakfast. You stay an' make the boat fast, McCarty, an' when
she's ready, I'll fire three shots an' you come on up. Then you an'
High Light go back an' stay with the boat, an' I'll slip down on
Cameron an' see if them p'lice has got through nosin' around.
Doggone 'em! They can't leave a man turn an honest dollar! But
they've got to git up early in the mornin' to git Bill Cosgrieve--an'
you c'n bet your sweet life on that!" The man led the way up the
trail, followed by High Light Hank, and Connie grinned to himself as
he watched them disappear: "Early in the morning is right, old hand.
You sure know where yours is coming from--but you don't know when!"
With an eye upon McCarty who was busy with the boat, the boy removed
his boots and, stealthily as an Indian, followed Cosgrieve and High
Light Hank up the trail. "I'm in a pretty fix, now," he
soliloquized; "I can't signal Dan, and the chances are, I can't make
the trail to Cameron Creek without being seen from the _cache_." He
remembered the long rifle-slits that covered the heads of the two
trails. "Anyway they can't shoot--they didn't pack guns, and those
in the _cache_--Gee! Won't they be sore! Just the same, I wish they
hadn't happened along so soon." A half-hour later, the boy watched
from the edge of the timber while Bill Cosgrieve and High Light
crossed the short open space and entered the _cache_. And then, the
very smallness of the cabin made for the rum smugglers' undoing, for
when they entered, they closed the door behind them to make room.
Like a flash, a small figure shot from the timber, and, noiseless as
a shadow, darted across the open. There was a grating of iron as the
hasp slipped over the strong staple. The "King of Cameron Creek"
heard the sound and, with a loud cry, sprang to the door and wrenched
mightily. But the staple and hasp held--would have held to the pull
of forty men--and through the rifle-slits came the sound of a
laugh--a light, boyish laugh, as Connie Morgan drove a stout plug
into the eye of the staple.
High Light leaped to the gun rack, and the next instant the wicked
blue-black muzzle of a rifle protruded from a slit. Then, a small
hand covered the muzzle, and a small face appeared at the opening.
"You mustn't shoot folks," said a boyish voice. "It isn't nice, and
besides, you are under arrest----"
"Who in the name of Sam Hill are you?" roared the man behind the gun.
"Open that door, or I will shoot!"
"Oh, no, you won't!" laughed the boy, "I'm Constable Morgan, of the
Mounted, and you are my prisoners." There was a swift movement
within, and the voice of High Light rang loud:
"Don't shoot a kid, Bill! _Duck kid_!" And at the same instant,
Connie heard the futile snap of a hammer descending upon a
firing-pin, and, with the bellow of a wild beast, Bill Cosgrieve
slammed the rifle onto the floor and reached for another--and
another--and another--all the time yelling, and all but frothing with
an insane rage, from the noise of which, Connie caught fragments of
sentences: "Double-crossed--Imp o' Satan--stole them shells--trapped
like a rat!" The passion wore itself out, the man subsided into low,
vicious mutterings, and Connie peeked in at a rifle slit.
"Don't fuss, Willie. Eat your breakfast,--and don't bite the poker.
I'm going to call McCarty, now--he'll want some breakfast, too."
Then, suddenly dropping the note of mockery, the young voice sounded
dry, and hard: "And you _shut up_! You try to warn him and it will
go hard with _you_. In the Mounted we don't stand for fooling. One
yip out of you, and you'll get yours--_pronto_!"
The boy walked to the edge of the cliff so that the sound would carry
far out over the Cameron valley, and drew the revolver from its
holster: "Bang--bang!----Bang!" He fired three shots--the same signal
that would call McCarty would also bring big Dan McKeever--and bring
him on the run!
Connie walked to the edge of the timber and seated himself upon a log
close beside the trail. Ten minutes passed--twenty minutes--and then
the sound of footsteps brought the revolver again from its holster.
"Hands up!" McCarty whirled and looked into the muzzle of the
long-barrelled Service gun, behind which appeared the set face of a
small boy--and the man noted that the boy wore the uniform of the
Royal North-west Mounted Police. Swiftly, he elevated his hands.
"March!" And the man, with hands reaching high above his head walked
out into the clearing, followed closely by Connie.
"Well, I'll be _jiggered_!" he gasped, when his eyes took in the
situation, and in spite of himself, he snickered. The sound threw
Bill Cosgrieve into another fit of passion:
"Laff! You eediot! Laff, an' laff, an' laff! It means a long space
fer you as well as me--Ondly, personal, I don't see where the joke
comes in!"
"You can go sit on that rock, McCarty," said Connie, indicating a
boulder at the edge of the cliff. "You can't get away unless you
jump over--and it's a good two hundred feet to the nearest rocks
below."
"I ain't aimin' to git away, kid--leastwise, not that-a-way," he
grinned, and lapsed into silence.
An hour dragged by before the sound of footsteps on the rock floor of
the trail from Cameron Creek reached the ears of the boy. Beckoning
to McCarty, he motioned him to be seated close beside the head of the
steep rock trail, and took his own position close behind him.
"Hey!" objected the man, "you goin' to use me fer a fort?"
"You're a good little guesser," assented Connie. "You see, I'm
expecting my pardner, Sergeant McKeever, any minute. If that is he,
you needn't worry that he will shoot. But, if it should happen to be
one of _your_ friends--well, I won't worry if _he_ shoots, either."
Suddenly a man burst panting into the open: "Beat it!" he cried, "The
Mounted!"
"_Reach!_" commanded Connie, and with a gasp, the man saw the gun
behind McCarty's back. He "reached" extending his arms to full
length, and even standing on tiptoe, and the boy recognized him as
Crane. There was a noise at the mouth of the crevice, and another
man turned and whisked from sight, the clatter of loose rocks
proclaiming his frenzied haste to be elsewhere. But he did not get
far. A short, sharp word of command floated upward. Silence--and
once more, the sound of footsteps. The man appeared again at the
opening, only this time he, too, was "reaching." It was the shaggy
man, and behind him walked Sergeant Dan McKeever.
"Hello, Dan!" called Connie, rising to his feet, "we've got 'em dead
to rights! Three of 'em here--Cosgrieve and another in there, and
some kegs, too--and more kegs in the poling-boat, down on Henderson's
Creek! And evidence enough to include our friend Jap Kinkade along
with 'em!"
Sergeant Dan McKeever gazed open-mouthed at the youngest constable.
"For the love of Mike, kid! I'm dreamin'!
You--you--single-handed--rounded up the Cameron Creek gang! Got 'em
with the goods, at last--Bill Cosgrieve, too! It ain't so--but it
_is_! You little old sourdough, you! How'd you do it?"
Connie laughed; and affected an exaggerated yawn: "Oh, that's easy,
_son_--when you get up early in the morning!"