AN AMENDED REPORT
It was almost dark when Connie Morgan swung his outfit in toward the
little cabin on Coal Creek. As the dogs stopped at the sharp word of
command the door flew open and a man appeared on the threshold. The
man was Brek Wiley and Connie knew that his keen eyes had taken in at
a glance every detail of the outfit.
"Onharness an' come in," he invited surlily, "grub'll be ready when
my pardner gits back."
As Connie entered the room the man slipped a pan of baking-powder
bread into the oven.
"Prospecting?" asked the boy as he seated himself on a case of canned
goods, behind which he saw the butt of a service revolver protruding
from its holster.
"Uh-huh, that is, we was. We're a-waitin' fer water now to clean up
the dump with."
"You haven't done any digging lately, I see. Your dump is pretty
well snowed under."
The man shot him a sidewise glance: "Not fer quite a spell," he
answered. "The gravel kind o' run out an' we figgered on seein' how
she shows 'fore we go no deeper. Spring's so late, though, it looks
like it never would git here."
"That meat smells good"; Connie eyed the thick moose steak that
sizzled in the frying-pan. "I've been kind of low on fresh meat."
"Where ye headin', an' what might yer name be?" queried the man as he
turned the steak in the pan.
"Connie Morgan, and I'm----"
The fork clattered noisily upon the floor as the man regarded him
with out-popping eyes: "Connie Morgan--Sam Morgan's boy, that's with
the Mounted? That got the best of Bill Cosgrieve an' his Cameron
Crickers, an' fetched in Notorious Bishop, an'----"
Connie laughed: "That's me. And this time I'm after poachers. How's
the hunting?"
Brek Wiley was a man schooled to emergency. Stooping, he recovered
the fork from the floor and wiped it carefully upon the sleeve of his
shirt.
"I don't know how ye fellers does it," he said, looking squarely into
the eyes of the boy, "but ye sure come to the right place when ye
come to Coal Crick. They's be'n a sight o' moose kilt in this here
valley 'thin the last month or so. I hain't a informer, mind ye, an'
I don't b'lieve in makin' no trouble fer no man. But, a word to the
wise is foolish, as the feller says, an' if I was a-huntin' poachers,
when I hit the forks, 'bout six or eight mile above here, I'd foller
the north prong--that's all. It's a doggone shame a-killin' off all
the moose an' caribou, that-a-way, an' what they don't kill they run
out of the country. It's got so me an' my pardner's got to take a
hull week fer to kill us a moose fer meat, an' when we come here we
c'd step out the door an' git one most any time." The man slid the
frying-pan to the back of the stove. "An' that reminds me--it's grub
time an' he hain't showed up yet. Guess I'll jest step out an' see
what's a-keepin' him."
"You needn't mind, Brek. Shorty can find his way back." There was a
hard note in the boy's voice and at the words the man whirled midway
of the floor--whirled to stare into the muzzle of the service
revolver which the boy had slipped from its holster behind the canned
goods' case.
"What ye mean?" he snarled. "An' what's the meanin' o' the gun play?"
"It means that your game is up, Brek Wiley. It means that you are
under arrest for violating the game law of the Yukon Territory, and
that you are caught with the goods." As the boy spoke the door
opened and Shorty Peters stood staring open-mouthed at the grim
tableau.
"Come on in, Shorty, and shut the door. It's cold. I've just been
telling Mr. Brek Wiley that he is under arrest for poaching."
Mechanically Peters entered and closed the door still staring
uncomprehendingly from one to the other.
"As I was saying," continued the boy, once more addressing Wiley: "It
means that Constable Peters has taken his time and worked up an
iron-clad case against you. He's got all the evidence he needs, and
then some. It's about as pretty a piece of work as has been put over
in B Division in a long while."
Beside the door Shorty Peters listened incredulously to the boy's
words. Suddenly he stepped forward and cleared his throat gruffly:
"But----"
"That's all right, Shorty," interrupted Connie, speaking rapidly, "I
tell you the Superintendent will be tickled with this job. They'll
make you a Corporal for this."
At the words Brek Wiley turned upon the astounded Shorty and from his
lips poured a perfect tirade of vituperation and invective. And as
the man's words flowed his rage increased until in a very paroxysm of
fury he turned on Connie, who noted with satisfaction that the man's
abuse had angered Peters.
"But it's a lie!" he roared. "I tell ye it's a lie! Shorty's a
deserter! An' him an' me throw'd in together to sell meat. I kin
prove it by Swede Johnson, an' Tom Ashley, an' them contractors. I
hain't no fool! He's in as deep as me. He done his share of the
killin', an' the deliverin', too, an' he got his share of the money."
Connie laughed: "Of course he did, and that's the best evidence he's
got. And if he hadn't done his share of the killing he'd never have
got any evidence on you. And you fell for the 'deserter' game like
any _chechaka_! Dan McKeever could never have worked that--you know
him too well. But Shorty did, and you grabbed the bait like a hungry
salmon." The boy shot a glance toward Peters who was studying the
floor intently, and continued with scarcely a pause. "If you had
been really smart, Wiley, you would have known that no man in his
right senses would desert the Service and throw in with you. Why,
he'd know in a minute that it would be only a question of time before
we'd get him. But aside from all that there is something you don't
know anything about--something that you couldn't understand if I
should tell you: It's the Honour of the Mounted--but in the Service
we know what it means. We'd give our lives for it." He paused and
turned to Peters, "Wouldn't we, Shorty?" he asked suddenly.
The man jerked himself erect: "You bet we would, kid!" he exclaimed,
huskily. And Brek Wiley glancing into his face knew that he meant
what he said.
The journey down Coal Creek was made without incident except that the
usually loquacious and light-hearted Shorty maintained a tight-lipped
silence upon which Connie did not seek to intrude. At No Luck the
man disappeared to return an hour later wearing his service uniform,
and thereafter the boy noticed that Shorty's eyes gleamed balefully
whenever they rested for a moment upon the back of Brek Wiley who was
made to break trail ahead of the dogs.
The boy knew that his brother officer was thinking as he had never
thought before, and that the decision he arrived at by the time they
reached the big river would be the shaping decision of his life. And
neither by word nor look did Connie intimate that he entertained so
much as the slightest doubt of the other's sincerity.
Twenty miles above its mouth, they swung from Coal Creek and cutting
through the hills came out upon the Yukon at some distance above
Fortymile. And when the boy saw Shorty turn resolutely toward
Dawson, he knew that from that moment the Mounted could boast no
stauncher officer than Constable Peters. When they had camped for
dinner on the river trail Connie turned to the Constable: "Well,
Shorty, I'll be leaving you here," he said; "I'm going the other way."
Peters regarded him with amazement.
"Goin' the other way!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean? Wasn't you
detailed to patrol Coal Creek after poachers?"
Connie laughed: "No, I wasn't detailed for anything. I'm 'on my
own,' now. My time was up last week, and I'm heading for Eagle. I
just cut across to the head of Coal Creek on a hunch. I didn't have
any authority to arrest anybody. You'll have to take the prisoner
in--anyway, he's your prisoner. You've worked up the evidence."
"On your own!" muttered the Constable as if unable to grasp the idea.
"You mean that--that you ain't goin' to re-enlist? That you're
quittin' us fer good?"
Connie nodded: "Yes," he answered, "I've got to get back to Alaska.
You see I've got a mine there and I expect my pardner will be coming
inside again this year. You won't have any trouble taking Wiley in."
The boy thrust out his hand. "So long, Shorty. Your time's up this
spring, too--but I suppose you'll re-enlist!"
Shorty, who had been studying minutely the toes of his _mukluks_
raised his eyes to the boy's. "You bet, I'm goin' to re-enlist," he
answered gruffly. "That is, if--" he stopped abruptly and gripped
the outstretched hand of the boy. "I'll take him in, all right," he
said. "They might be some chanst that strawberries'll be ripe along
this here river tomorrow, but they ain't no chanst I won't take Brek
Wiley into Headquarters--an' don't you ferget it! So long, kid.
We'll sure miss you back here. You've done some big things over here
in the Yukon--things that'll be remembered an' talked about. But
they's other things--things that mebbe won't be talked about, that
you've done. An' mebbe them things is bigger than the ones that is.
An' say, kid," he added, as Connie swung his dogs toward Eagle,
"whenever you get one of them hunches--you play it--see!"
Finding the police station at Fortymile vacant, Connie took the
receiver from the hook, called Headquarters, and for an hour held
earnest conversation with the Superintendent.
Late the following evening Constable Peters turned Brek Wiley over to
the officer in charge of the guard room and proceeded to make out his
report. At its conclusion he noticed that a light still burned in
the office of the Superintendent. He opened the door and crossing to
the desk saluted and turned in his report. The grey-haired
Superintendent picked up the paper and read:
"The Officer Commanding
B Division, R.N.W.M. Police,
Dawson, Y.T."
SIR:
I have the honour to submit the following report. On March 1st, I
deserted the service and threw in with one Brek Wiley for the purpose
of killing moose and caribou out of season and selling same to Swede
Johnson, Tom Ashley, and Contractors Kirby and Jones. We went to the
head of Coal Creek and set up a camp. We killed nine moose and seven
caribou, part of which we delivered to above parties, and the rest is
_cached_ on Coal Creek.
Three days ago ex-special Constable C. Morgan arrested Brek Wiley in
the cabin on Coal Creek and supposing I was in the service and was
working on the case, turned him over to me.
I brought the prisoner in and can produce evidence that will convict
him of violation of the game law.
I am equally guilty, and I hereby surrender myself on charges of
desertion from the service of the R.N.W.M. Police, and violation of
the game law.
I have the honour to be, sir,
Your obedient servant,
J. H. PETERS, Constable.
Twice the Superintendent read the words from beginning to end, then
scowling darkly he placed the paper upon the desk and drew a blue
pencil through line after line. At length he looked squarely into
the eyes of the man who stood before him at attention.
[Illustration: "Your reports are too long, Peters," growled the
superintendent.]
"Your reports are too long, Peters," he growled, and extended the
paper toward the Constable who read:
"The Officer Commanding
B Division R.N.W.M. Police,
Dawson, Y.T."
SIR:
I have the honour to submit the following report.... Three days ago
ex-special Constable C. Morgan arrested Brek Wiley in the cabin on
Coal Creek and ... turned him over to me.
I brought the prisoner in and can produce evidence that will convict
him of violation of the game law....
I have the honour to be, sir,
Your obedient servant,
J. H. PETERS, Constable.
"But, sir," stammered the astonished Constable, "it's true--the
desertion. I don't know how I come to do it--an' I was mighty
ashamed of myself an' disgusted after I done it. But----"
The Superintendent interrupted him with a gesture--"Yes, yes! I know
all about it. Morgan reported unofficially by phone from Fortymile.
And I may as well tell you, Peters, that it is at his urgent request
that I have allowed you to amend your report--that, and the fact that
you were man enough to own up without a hint of excuse for your
conduct----"
"But, sir--the kid--he didn't know! He thought I was straight all
the time! It was that more than anything else that made me want to
come clean."
The Superintendent smiled grimly: "Don't you think for a minute he
didn't know all about you. You see he lay behind a rock and listened
to a little conversation you had with Brek Wiley while you were
quartering those last three moose."
"Now, what do you think of that!" gasped the astounded Peters, as the
full significance of the boy's course dawned upon him.
"He--he's a great kid," he added thoughtfully as he turned toward the
door.
"Yes," answered the officer commanding B Division, "he's a great kid,
and we're going to miss him around here--a great kid. And, by the
way, Peters, your enlistment papers are ready--if you want them."
THE END.
_by James B. Hendryx_
The Promise
Connie Morgan in Alaska
Connie Morgan with the Mounted
The Gun Brand
Connie Morgan in Alaska
By
James B. Hendryx
Author of "The Promise," "The Law of the Woods," etc.
_12°. Over twenty illustrations. $1.25 net.
By mail, $1.35_
Mr. Hendryx, as he has ably demonstrated in his many well-known
tales, knows his Northland thoroughly, but he has achieved a
reputation as a writer possibly "too strong" for the younger literary
digestion. It is a delight, therefore, to find that he can present
properly, in a capital story of a boy, full of action and adventure,
and one in whom boys delight, the same thorough knowledge of people
and customs of the North.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The White Blanket
By
Belmore Brown
Author of "The Quest of the Golden Valley," etc.
_12°, Illustrated. $1.25 net. By mail $1.35_
A sequel to _The Quest of the Golden Valley_, this time taking the
chums through the vicissitudes of an Alaskan winter. They trap the
many fur-bearing animals, hunt the big game, camp with the Indians,
do dog-driving, snowshoeing, etc. With the coming of spring they
descend one of the wilderness rivers on a raft and at the eleventh
hour, after being wrecked in a dangerous canyon, they discover a
fabulous quartz lode, and succeed in reaching the sea coast.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
Sheridan's Twins
By
Sidford F. Hamp
_12°. Illustrated by Belmore Browne_
_Price, $1.25; by mail, $1.35_
The "twins," though not brothers, are of one age and have been
brought up together. They are partners, in fact, in spirit, in the
stirring adventures of frontier life that the story records. It
tells how they get their start in life by an act of service, and how
clean in thought, clear in head, with courage and brawn, they win
their way, starting as market gardeners and ending as owners of a
valuable mine.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The Treasure of Mushroom Rock
A Story of Prospecting in the Rocky Mountains
By
Sidford F. Hamp
_12°. Illustrated. $1.25 net. By mail, $1.35_
This story concerns the adventure of two boys, one American and one
English, who find themselves by mistake on a vessel bound for New
Orleans. Fearing to return to England, they journey to the mining
town of Golconda in Utah, which they reach after an adventure with
train robbers. In company with a relative of one of the boys they
proceed upon a hunting and prospecting expedition, during which they
meet with many exciting adventures, but finally succeed in securing
the treasure of Mushroom Rock. The story is bound to be of great
interest to every boy.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London